Too stupid to die…

This happened yesterday. The only info you need to make sense of it are a) I was in the hospital for a few days about two weeks ago due to high fevers following an endoscopy (a look down the throat), and b) when they were looking, the docs saw something that concerned them,  declaring it Must Be Removed. I agreed. Now if only I could get it done…

Rather than polish it up and risk losing the, er, spontaneity, here’s the eMail I wrote to my friends.

Went to ENT (Ear/Nose/Throat) clinic today to get the thingy in my throat removed. The following happened:

1. Doc saw me, said situation is exactly what the docs in the hospital had said two weeks ago: growth on pharynx, probably papilloma, needs to come out. Said he’ll do an excisional (right word?) biopsy removing the whole thing (unless it extends into my brain or some other inconvenient spot). I said hooray for that! (more…)

Ok, I’m getting sentimental here. But I’ve opened yet another door of the Medical Winchester Mystery House – an autoimmune condition this time – and I’m in need a bit of sentiment. I’ll write the gloomy stuff later, but right now…

I’ve posted (and posted and posted) about Otto, my dog. I’ve said less about my ex-cat (ex-mine that is, not ex-feline), Orion. Orion now lives with a dear friend, partially due to my medical adventures, but he’s still a frequent visitor.

More important, Orion and Otto are… well, it’s kind of hard to say what they are to each other: lets just call it a really really strong bond. Orion was here first, and when Otto arrived as a 7 week old puppy they fast became inseprable. Breaking them up was one of the sadder things I’ve ever had to do. It’s been sadder yet for the two critters.

During Orion’s last couple of stay-overs, I started taking notes on life with a cat and dog. Anyone who lives with both knows that the usual cat rules and dog rules – and your life – change erratically.

So here are the notes. And please: send along your own observations. No doubt we can come up with a book. (more…)

Otto performs a laparoscopic squeakectomy

Otto is REALLY good at removing squeakers from toys. If he doesn’t do it the moment he gets his little paws on a new one, it will happen. It’s just a matter of when.

Last night a friend came by for dinner. As it was raining all day and he’d been stuck indoors with his dog, Jake, he brought Jake along for some R&R with Otto.

After much trading of toys, guarding of bones, and competing for chewies Otto normally ignores, my friend and Jake left. They left behind a small red squeaking ball. Otto of course found it.

This afternoon Otto ran about the house squeaking it constantly. This evening, when I went to throw it for him, the squeaker no longer squeaked. It just rattles around inside the ball, a dead piece of plastic. 

Somehow Otto managed to disable the squeaker without the usual shredding and body parts. A sort of laparoscopic squeakectomy. I’ve called him the surgeon before when he’s dismembered some stuffed critter; I guess he’s upgraded his skills.
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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 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.