Too stupid to die…

A short time ago a friend came by and we went out for a quick bite. I’d had a hectic and minorly frustrating day today and was complaining about it, as we are wont to do – most of us, anyway. After I’d vented and the conversation relaxed, my friend laughed.

I was puzzled. Neither of us had said anything amusing.

What’s funny? I asked.

You, he said. Listening to you rant about phone calls and classes and traffic jams instead of your medical  operations or test results or upcoming procedures. I haven’t heard you do that in years.

Ouch.

I was stung for a moment, even a bit ashamed. WHAT was I doing, fretting about such things? After where I’d been? Perspective, Ed, please! Perspective!

And then I rejoiced.

Did I ever expect to worry about such everyday problems again? Did I ever expect to have everyday problems again? How far I’ve come! And how damn amazing is that!

I deeply thank my dear friend for that lesson.

For those who don’t know how most operations begin (may you long cherish that small bit of ignorance) here’s a primer.

You check in to a Pre-Op room hidden deep in a hospital. You are led to a little curtained-off cot, one of half a dozen in a row. Nurses come by with papers. You sign your life away, agreeing for the third or fourth time to the same procedures that landed you in the room in the first place. 

Your clothes, any dignity you might still have, and all other belongings are taken away to be returned “later”. Hearing the word “later” your mind substitutes “the other side” and tries to imagine what that might be like. You shiver uncontrollably. (more…)

I am now apparently  allergic to all pain meds no matter how they’re delivered. IV or pill, even the patch so beloved by many, every last one of them makes me puke. Lovely!. Not. Some people regurgitate like cats: casually, out of boredom, with no consequences. Not me: even thinking about it is a misery. So you can see how happy I was to spend my first conscious post-surgery hours desperately trying not to throw up and failing. 

The weird thing was, I had no pain. Nada. Just the usual post-op stiffness that comes from being artificially dead for a few hours. It wasn’t a difficult op and all the nerves in the area had been killed off during previous ops, so my body didn’t take too much of a hit. And I’d been training for this. No, really, I trained for surgery: at the gym, hiking with the dog, yoga, even hypnotherapy. Anything to get my body and mind in as strong a state as I could so I’d make it through this. After my last time getting chopped, I left no option that might aid survuval unexplored. And it worked. Something did, anyway. (more…)

I have this defining personality trait (we won’t call it a flaw): I’m curious about everything. In college, I took to research like a duck does to wet and never looked back. Living in ground zero of the AIDS epidemic in my younger adult years, I joined the treatment advocates and immersed myself in things medical and pharmacological. Later my pursuits of medical knowledge extended into other areas as family and friends succumbed to various life-threating illnesses and conditions.

Now faced with my own battles with liver cancer, liver transplant, and a maniac bout of hepatitis C, it is axiomatic for me to research my own issues. I know the docs can smell me and my questions coming. Depending on their schedules and temperaments, they either sharpen their pencils and prep their answers, or quicken their pace and exit the area.

So I’m sitting in “Club Moffitt” (aka UCSF’s Moffitt Hospital) for more than a few days (post-surgery fluid leakage, don’t ask) and as the staff doles out my various meds, one seems to be at a different dose than I’ve been taking at home. I’m not quite sure though (my protein/fluid problem doesn’t make for clear thinking) so I ask a friend to stop by my place, get the Rx bottle and bring it by. He kindly does so.

Sure enough, the dose they’ve been giving me is incorrect. I’d told the nurse earlier of my concern, and she asked me to bring her the bottle when it arrived. I do. She examines it.

“You’re right,” she says, handing me the bottle. “I’ll make the changes. Thank you, Dr. Brownson.”

After 20 seconds or so, it is clear she’s not being ironic. I laugh out loud, as does another nurse near by.

“Uh, I don’t have the degree quite yet,” I say. The nurse, flustered, goes on her way.

Maybe they’re planning an honorary degree as prophylaxis against bugging the docs with so many questions? Who knows. I can say that was the best chuckle I’ve had in three weeks.