Carl's Off The Table And Recovery Ensues

Carl is home from the hospital at last.  

He has never really had quite the assault upon his person that he has had the last five days in his whole life.  

He had stents put in his heart arteries -- a couple in the early nineties and three last July, but his insides were never quite so abused as this.  

I feel, though, that he was so blessed to have his kidney stones a couple of months ago so that Dr. Daniel Hibbert, a 6 ft. 9 in. giant could check out his prostate and PSA count and find that Carl indeed did have prostate cancer.  It’s just a little like my brother, Brent having kidney stones about this time last year and finding he had kidney cancer.  I think it’s God’s way of putting on a little sticky note to say “I don’t want you home quite yet.  Do something now right about right here.”  

Thank you, God, for both of them.

But there are some inconveniences.  

As I said in a previous blog, Carl doesn’t swear, but he does get to wear a little catheter bag for a couple of weeks and he almost cussed out the length of tubing, clamps and bag as he tried to figure the whole mess out his first day with it at home.  I wasn’t laughing to be sure as he commented that anyone who thinks catheters are funny doesn’t know what funny is.  It’s not that we think they’re funny.  We just are mighty glad it’s not us.  He's more used to it now, but he still doesn't like it.  

He hurts pretty bad still.  Not as bad as he did yesterday and not as bad as he did the days before.  I presume tomorrow will be even better.  

His surgery was the robotic laproscopic prostectomy which is much less common than the usual wide open hands-on job, but has far less hacking and hewing on the outside and is far more precise on the inside, but it still requires lots of cutting through the muscles of the stomach and still hurts like a son-of-a-gun.  

He will have a total of two weeks with the catheter and some recovery besides, including another four weeks of getting better and better, according to the good Dr. Hibbert and then after that he should feel pretty good.  Who knows how long before he's "back to normal" whatever that is.

I did mention to Dr. Hibbert that a "Dr. Hibbert" is also on the Simpsons and wondered if he gets teased a lot.  He said that those in the circles he travels in don’t watch the Simpsons much.  What?  You’d think patients of Urologists would gravitate right to the Simpsons.  I’ll let you provide the punchline yourselves.  

It's Still Good To Be You

I've decided something this week, this week of fire and rain. 


It's that you don't have to be afraid of growing old.  And I'm talking to all of you.  Denying it doesn't change the fact that you're a little scared.


Growing old does have its downsides, its true.  You get infirm, you get wrinkly and sick and not quite so hot, maybe.  But that's not it.


During this week, Carl and I have shared  four hospital emergency room visits, three hospital admissions and I've had two ambulance rides.  


Carl had an obstructive 6 x 3-1/2 mm kidney stone.  It was his 4th. It was horribly painful and he was panicky for pain medicine.  Carl has drunk little carbonation,  little ice cream which he was told caused them. His doctor, Dr. Hibbert, says he's just a "producer" trying not to chuckle in the face of Carl's pain.


I had a little "chest discomfort", went to my heart doctor for some comfort and was slam-dunked into the hospital for a battery of tests, maybe six.  I was released but then had a pseudoaneurysm from one of the tests which returned me to the hospital a second time for pressure against my femoral artery which felt like a bowling ball pressed against me by a means of a gorilla for about six hours.  


All this, I think, because a small cadre of bozos insist on suing doctors for who aren't thorough to the nth degree.  But who's complaining about the system here?


I learn the results of the tests Friday.  


But back to the point!  Here it is:


You know how you like to be you most of the time?  That feeling persists at least until you are sixty-eight!  Isn't that good news?  


I went job-hunting on the day after my birthday!  (I'm sick of retirement.)  I'm not kidding.  I got out of the hospital on Wednesday night, got up bright-eyed and ready for action on Thursday and went off to the Job Corps, (or whatever it's called) and filled out an application listing my accomplishments for the past 100 years and had a blast.  I also qualified for "Mayor of The District" on Foursquare in the meantime.  I felt exhilaration like none other.  


Yes, the downside was that I popped my femoral artery a little later in the day, and I ended up in another ambulance heading from Riverton Hospital to the Hospital on 53rd, but I took great pride in the EMT guy's complimenting me on my terrific ability to keep myself oxygenated.  Remember I did have sinus surgery three weeks ago and I only had twenty-thirty per-cent ability to breathe back them.  I'm a great breather now!  


I'm pleased to note that through it all from when I first remember to now, there have been some bad patches, but it's always been good to be me.  Sure it's been sucky sometimes, but when those times have passed I always remember, I like who I am,  It's been fun.  


Trust me.  If you like you now, you'll like you later.  There'll be moments, of course.  Don't be scared.  It's a fun ride!

There Are Not Massive Strokes and Massive Strokes

Well, we've got this one straightened out.

It would appear that the press got it wrong on this one.

Remember the reports of Bret Michaels and his "massive stroke"?

Years ago, I had a friend who had an anyeurism at age twenty-six and it took him two years to start to walk and talk and still to this day, maybe forty-five years later, he has little short-term memory.  Tough stuff, that.  Brutal. Essentially, a "massive stroke."

Then there was my Dad who had a "massive stroke" and never was able to walk, talk or function with any degree of productive movement.

Then I start hearing that Bret Michals is walking, talking, blogging, doing the Funky Chicken and I'm thinking "Have they made enormous strides in stroke treatment or is Bret Michaels really the Golden Child?" I'm glad he's doing well, don't misinterpret me, here.  But this is too amazing.

So I called my close pal, and neighbor, Dr. Paul Hansen and undoubtedly former Primary class participant who gave me the following information:

He actually knows the doctor who was on duty when Mr. Bret Michaels came into the hospital and talked to him the other night!  Yes.  Yes.  You know the right people.  (I mean me, you fools.)

Mr. Bret Michaels actually drove his Bentley, parked it himself and walked into the hospital under his own steam, not complaining of the "worst headache of his life" but of what was like a pulled muscle in his neck.  The doctor just decided to do a CT scan "just in case".  He was having no balance or speech problems or other classic symptoms of a stroke.

But it was discovered he did have some bleeding from the brain stem but probably not much.

Paul got no diagnosis from his friend, but he said it certainly didn't sound like a "massive stroke" with lots of bleeding going on inside, and certainly not with much, if  any damage.

I asked him about repairs, which never take place until after things are stabilized and he said that they probably had taken place by now and the drop in sodium which can cause seizures was probably put together by the press on the internet without much hospital input.

You know what?  I don't think the hospital had to tell the press much at all.  I think that what they had been told was too boring so they ran with all the drama that popped into their own little heads.

Is there improvement in stroke treatment over the last forty, twenty years?  Guess not really much.

Paul and I also wondered whether Bret Michaels is just really lucky or . . . if God might like to hear a just little more Poison.  Hmmmm. Who's to say?

Nosiness

I LOVE the internet.  Look what I found.  Here's what nasal splints look like.  Perhaps like the very jobs that  I carried around in my beezer for almost a week and which were removed just yesterday.  Felt a little more like little burrs being removed, I might observe.  Little, gucky burrs, but I'm still very glad about the whole thing.

I felt like leaping in the air, clicking my heels (figuratively, of course) and swallowing and swallowing, over and over again, to sense the glorious, well, I won't go on so that you won't be offended by how wonderful I feel.

I wanted Dr. Finlayson to show me all the resplendent guckiness but he said it would make me sick.  But it wouldn't.  It would represent all of the yuckiness going away.  I wanted to paw through his garbage but that would have made him AND Carl sick, so I didn't.

So here I am on the other side, glad I did it all.  I've felt a little dizzy today and I presume that's the hyperventilation, so I just stop breathing for a minute.  I also listen to myself NOT breathing.  For the first time in my life I actually cannot hear myself breathe.  It's amazing.  There's not a hint of a sinus headache and I can blow my nose -- gently of course -- but I can blow my nose.  And there is less and less and less stuff.  Sorry all you guys with weak stomaches but pretty soon I'll be like you.  Noooo stuff.  And I'll be able to afford being disgusted at the slightest sight of nasal emission too!

Sinuses, A "Gone" Issue (Issue? Get it? --Snicker)

Let's hope I've enjoyed my final sinus headache, my last blast of Nasonex and my last sinus irrigation.  Today I went under the Skill Drill (stainless steel, I presume) at 9:15 A.M.)

Online reading has yielded the fact that not only will breathing be easier (Rex said after his surgery, he experienced hyperventilation since he'd developed mighty lungs to force air through his pin-prick air holes), I'll have enhanced sense of smell and taste, so don't be surprise to see me prancing through the flowers, sniffing with wild abandon and savoring every bite of food.  This might, however, bring the hot sauce to a halt.  We'll see.

The surgery is only about an hour-and-a-half, out-patiient and will cause no bruising.  The doctor said so.

The only thing I'll require is extra pillows so I don't DRAIN into my lungs (lovely) and I'll need a little humidifier.

When I announced to the "girls", PHS class of 1960 that I was getting my nose "done" they couldn't imagine why, since it's all ready quite lovely,  until I mentioned the sinus situation, then they immediately changed the subject and Suzie pointed out that your nose is as long as your thumb.  Mine isn't unless you mean to your first knuckle.  

Made you check!  Also made you forget my nose.  See?

Sinuses, Mine and Maybe Yours

The Cannon Head strikes again.  (The possible visual in your head is most entertaining, you know.)

I finally relented and went to an ear-nose-and-throat guy, Dr, Keith Finlayson.  In spite of the gargantuan size of my head, the passages from my sinuses are miniscule.  My sinuses are seventy to eighty percent blocked by my natural physiology in his his estimation.  Ironic, huh?

He spoke of teensy passages, bone spurs and mentioned the enormity of my turbinates.  When he mentioned this, I said "Did you say turbines?"

He said "They are something like that."  I saw the picture, and for sure they are.

Here's the reason for this post:  If you're a Cannon, have sinus problems, you might want to get this checked unless you enjoy the blinding headaches, the toxic waste trapped behind your eyes and the stuff forever leaking out.

I might have a problem getting it fixed now because I take blood thinners and getting the surgery requires I stop taking them for five days and that means there's a chance of some problems.

They say a word to the wise is sufficient.  I hope so.

I asked what sinuses are for anyway.  The doctor says no one really knows.  About three per cent of the population lacks them altogether and get along just fine, thank you.  Lucky dogs.

What's With All These Changes Anyway

I have a hard time remembering to cough into my  elbow.  I just can't get it

I've had a cough since the swine flu struck a month ago and when the urge hits, I first go for my hands, because I have a big gob of Kleenex there, then I remember the elbow drill, go for that, remember the gunk that flies, lunge for the Kleenex again, elbow, spew, charge for the door, redden in the face, horrify others, make the sign for "Make way for one who is unclean", and pass out before having to make eye contact with anyone.  All the while I'm holding back a cough.

Five-year-olds make it look so automatic.  I can't do it.  It just doesn't work.  Maybe it's because my arms are just too long.  I'm afraid of clubbing my neighbor.  Maybe it's because of all the gesturing that takes place.  Maybe it's because I end up feeling like a big bag of germs coughing into my clothes like that.  I don't know.  I just liked coughing into my hands.  It's discreet, handy and quite lady-like.  Coughing into your elbow indeed.

I'm smart enough to not want to shake hands with someone holding a big handful of used Kleenex.  Why isn't everyone else?  I'm really not that bright.

Vonnegut

Just finished Kurt Vonnegut's "Player Piano". It was written in 1952 and is extremely dated in it's references to technology, but was fun anyway. It is about a United States that is run by machinery, by-and-large and by people with high IQs who think that the vast human wasteland that remains is happy with housing, income and nothing to do. I would recommend it to anyone who can overlook references to vacuum tubes and mechanical means and the lack of references to microchips. After all, it was 1952. Human interaction is quite dated as well, but overlook that, dear reader.

Vonnegut was inspired to write it when he was working for GE. That should interest my brother, Mark. He also says he took the plot from Brave New World which in turn was taken from We. It was also his first novel. I think it is also dead-on with its premise of what human nature comes to.

I read Slaughterhouse Five by Vonnegut about twenty years ago while travelling shotgun around Yellowstone Park. It was the summer I was wearing a wig due to my being in chemotherapy and was not especially thrilled with anything. I barely checked out the beauty of our great national park. For that I feel deeply guilty, but anyway . . .

I must read that one again, sometime, because that is Vonnegut's biggie and I barely remember the plot at all. All I remember is that I couldn't put it down. Sigh. Cooked brains is all the excuse I can give.

Sick Heart Walking

Carl mentioned Friday that he'd felt a little "uncomfortable" for a couple of days and tagged along with me to the heart doctor for the Protime blood test I needed. I mentioned it to the nurse and she immediately abandonned me in the dust and called an army of folks around to deal with Carl.

They performed some typical heart tests and immediately dispatched him to the hospital for an angioplasty. The result was three stents implanted in one of his heart arteries on the spot.

He's fine. He's home. I only had to sleep alone for one night, but still.

Carl is a stoic, but he still claims the discomfort was only about a three on the infamous one-to-ten pain scale. I was ready to launch into him for not stepping forward sooner and accused him of probably not having gone had I not needed to. He assured me he would have gone.

His doctor's parting shot was, however, "Next time, come in earlier." Fur shure he better.

Health Update

Here's a note -- Friday at Dr. Symkoviak's office I learned I have a blood pressure of 90/50. I also had a pulse first of 50 then on second check, it was 63. "I should be dead or at least still in bed," I cleverly observed. "At least dizzy", the Protime administrator responded snappily.

Who would dare ask anything of me?

Yet I'm asked to stomp through half of West Jordan to watch hours of parade, stay awake through Ice Age and then attend fireworks later on on the fourth. I'm telling you, the respect I receive isn't up to the standards I would have set.

Yet as I type, I can tell I'm not mustering up a great deal of support -- which is just as well. I'll just be sitting over here, sniffling quietly to myself, or not.

Fearful Friends and their Phobias

People have strange phobias. I have a friend who has endured years in analysis to overcome her strange fear of having a child throw up on her back. None of the approaches or techniques have worked. As a consequence, she barely endures children and particularly when they get behind her. I was both amazed and a bit entertained by her misery so one can imagine my joy on relating to her how at a Jordan Middle School band concert, a little girl threw up in profuse quantity on the back of the woman who was sitting behind me. The woman remained in her seat for much of the concert in order to hear her child's part in the program. She sat forward in her seat so she would not besmirch the back of the seat behind her. Hence, she was close enough to chat a bit through the whole event. It was hilarious though she was not particularly amused.

Today in Sacrament Meeting, the little girl behind me kept saying to her mother, "I'm sick." I kept waiting for the excitement to begin. I thought that perhaps I would have a new anecdote to amuse my friend with, but it didn't ever happen. Alas.

But still it occurs to me to wonder why that mother kept ignoring her little girl. "I'm sick" to a child as small as she means "I'm going to hurl." No matter how strong your own stomach is, who needs that kind of mess? And who knows who might be around us who might be, like my friend, in peril of a personal meltdown?

The Amazing Bionic Julia

Julia got a little something put into her head today! I took her down for some minor surgery on her ear to be done by the very competent Dr. Brian Peterson. The astounding thing is that he put in a little prosthetic device that will serve to repair a couple of the three little bones in her right ear! What was to be a rather routine removal of a cyst, revealed that Julia had had a malformation in her first and second ear bones and that the cyst (the diagnosis had the root “mastoid” in it) had grown around these little bones. The third bone was vibrating just fine, but it was all alone in its work. Dr. Peterson also repaired her eardrum. He said that she had been born this way and that likely she had never been able to hear well in her right ear. He did add that it wasn’t necessarily something Ali and Sophia could inherit. It was just something that happens. This should make it so that she hears somewhat better though he doubts that she’ll ever hear perfectly.

It’s amazing that not only can the doctor repair it on the spot, but can install something as amazing as a little prosthetic device without any advance notice. Isn't this a little step on the way to replacing even more vital body parts, like lungs and hearts, off the shelf of the operating room? Maybe?