AUTOIMMUNE DISEASES

Fourth Wheelchair Ride, Ocrevus and Other Tales

Posted on by tresswann

Well, if this is Mt. Sinai, this must be a wheelchair.  Right!  I was scheduled to see my neurologist prior to my second Ocrevus infusion.  She’s on 98th Street and the infusion was on 102, four tiny blocks.  As I have mentioned, I did see a new neurologist closer to home.  She works under the doctor who provided my confirming diagnosis.  I recently connected with someone who had her as a doctor.  She called the 2nd opinion doctor a “robot genius”.

The stopgap neurologist had upped my Baclofen to 6 pills a day. I felt I didn’t want or need it.  I was discussing this with my doctor, Dr. F and how the other doctor was just missing.  I told her about “robot genius” and how I term the new one, “mini robot genius”.  We then had a whole conversation about med students, empathy and humanity. She feels it is lacking in her students.  She  considers me, as her patient, as part of her extended family and it shows. We discuss my signing up for the MS Gym.  Dr. F is pleased with that idea and tells me she has other patients who use it.     She assures me that even though I have deteriorated physically my mind remains the same.  I do feel like me until I try to stand or walk.

Ah, now I have to get over the four little blocks to the infusion.  I used to be able to walk a block in less than a minute in high heels!  I really thought I’d be able to struggle the 4 blocks.  Tom asks Dr. F if we can sort out a wheelchair and go underground.  No problem, she’s on her way out (she came into the office before her rounds to see me) and will speak to Mr. Mike. Mr. Mike greets me near the exit.  I get into the chair.  Tom takes the walker and we are off to the races.  It’s a beautiful autumn day in New York City so Mr. Mike decides to whisk me above ground.  It’s odd to be moving so quickly without any effort. I used to love the feeling of my body whizzing down streets, boardwalks, wet sand.  We are zooming along city blocks.  It’s dizzying.  It’s the speed I used to walk at but now I am in a chair and relatively invisible.  I am invisible until we get to the building and the elevator.  Even though this is an hospital, people get slightly huffy by the elevator.  The chair disrupts the space.  Mr. Mike is a rockstar in this building as he used to work here.  The acclaim becomes even more pronounced as we get to the infusion floor.  Apparently, I am confused by referring to it as an infusion.  In this world that’s for cancer patients.  I am here for therapy.

Tom has been insistent that he will demand Nick, my previous nurse as he knows exactly how to hit my one vein. No, I’ve never had a drug issue but skinny veins.  Nick is not in and I get a new nurse.  She is a compact Filipina nurse.  Years ago, I had a temporary  fill in job with a Filipino family I knew.  I described it as selling Filipino nurses to hospitals.  I was terrible at it but apparently the idea was sound.  C looks at my chart and states I must have a good vein other than the one in my hand that Nick has noted. She gets a heating pad, wraps me up and finds a  vein in my arm.  This means that instead of having a needle in my hand for  4- 5 hours I could have it in my arm.  It makes it a little easier.

I am used to the infusions by now.  Tom gets his fill of HGTV as he sits by my side.  I get uninterrupted reading time.  The problem is that I can’t use the facilities for the infusion period.  Actually, I can but it is involved so I have always held it. Yes, in Uruguay as a thirty something for  13 hours!  Buckets and newspapers and curtains that don’t close, do not work for me.  My luck finally ran out this time.  With close to 90 minutes left, my bladder had it.  I caved.  An expedition was needed -an aide holding the IV pole and me, Tom following behind with the walker.  The fun started when we reached the bathroom.  I do have bashful kidney/shy bladder but we were way beyond that.  The three of us caravan into the bathroom.  Now is the tricky bit – the aide has to leave, the pole needs to be held up and me, too.  My recollection is just of me crying out, “no, no I don’t want to fall.” She is tiny, smaller than my new 5’3″ stature but strong. Somehow we manage to get my pants off and me situated while Tom keeps screaming at me, “Be careful of the IV! Be careful of the IV!”  I walker it back to my chair with Tom holding the IV.  The aide literally left. The rest of the procedure is uneventful.  As usual, the next day I was my usual boiled lobster color.

I did come out of it with a somewhat brighter attitude.  I always get a brief bounce from the Ocrevus.  Plus, I have felt that I was getting weaker.  Dr. F asked if I had had an infection.  Bingo!  Teeth.   There’s hope once more at the bottom of Pandora’s box.

Things Fall Apart

Posted on by tresswann

I have always had atrocious handwriting.  I received an A in penmanship first quarter 5th grade.  Both the teacher and my mother thought I had doctored the grade until they realized it was in his handwriting.  I received a D for the next quarter, had to stay after school and had a special book.  Alas, to no avail.  By the end of my first semester in college, my dorm mates said I could encrypt anything against Russian spyware.  I was in trouble my second year on.  My parents, in particular,my father were concerned about my wellbeing – academic and personal.  My father was a writer and an editor.  He was interested in what I was reading and would edit my papers.  This usually occurred after the paper had been graded.   I soon figured it out.  With right amount of charm and angst, I could get Daddy to read the texts and send me notes.  These could then be lifted almost whole and used for a paper.

As I said, my life took a very bad turn from my sophomore year.  However, I did find my groove.  For those of you who have only seen the fashionista side of me, there’s more.  I became excited by African and West Indian studies. Take a deep breath.  My particular area of interest was the syncretization of African religious forms in the colonial world.  Yes, I did spend the majority of my working career in financial training.  I had wonderful, absorbing classes and read amazing things.  I loved it.  I was very excited to be reading Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart”.  In the ’70’s, it was revelatory.  So, back in the old days, mail was composed via either typewriter or handwriting.  I’ve mentioned my handwriting.  In terms of my typing, let’s just say that I was sent to school with erasable paper, typewriter erasers, Correct-type and tape, and whiteout.  Also, it was back when a telephone call to the next town involved extra charges, let alone another state.  The usual agreement was 1 call a week. Now that I have set the scene…

You might guess where this is going…

I wrote home very excited about Achebe.  My father couldn’t read my handwriting but could see THINGS FALL APART very clearly.  He jumped to conclusions and called me.  We sorted it out.  Hysteria on both sides calmed.  And no, he couldn’t read the novel because Achebe was not available in the Levittown of the 1970’s, nor did I need the help.

Present day, my writing is worse.  I am older but more than that, my hands are impacted by this condition.  Even I can no longer read my handwriting.

When this first started, I would run into people I had not seen in ages.  Three years ago this week, I was let go from a company I’d been with for 15 years.  I was a technical trainer so literally had worked with hundreds of people there in the NYC office alone.  The company occupied four floors of a building that was an NYC block.  I did an enormous amount of walking as part of my job.  I didn’t see some people due to they’re being on different floors and not needing me.  I’d run into someone at a meeting  or in the hall and I would hear, ” Oh my G-d, oh my G-d! What happened?”  My response, a shrug and “Things Fall Apart.”  And no, it wasn’t a stroke or an accident.  It’s not cancer, contagious or terminal.  My brain is the same.

Well, things do fall apart and are falling apart; not colonial structures but me, for real.  I have discovered since summer’s end that my spine is a mess and I have osteoporosis. My teeth were rotting.  I have acknowledged that I am in pain.  I never used to be unless I had fallen.  I went for my spinal surgical consult on Monday.  I was fairly inured to the idea that surgery was in my future.  Two neurologists said it was time. My walking was bad.  I am beyond non-surgical intervention.  When the issue was first raised, I had intense issues.  My dear friend was paralyzed after spinal surgery twenty years ago. I have always been fearful due to that. I also made the analogy that it was either like cataract surgery or laser surgery for the over 40 eye.  In each instance, change would be minimal at best.  The surgeon showed Tom and I, an in-depth section of the MRI.  My philosophy has always been not to look.  Do I know what I am seeing? Can I tell the doctor to do it differently?  This time I could clearly see something was not right. So, this appears to be like cataract surgery.  It’s so bad that anything will be better.  I was told without surgery I will be one of those little old women whose head falls on their chest.  He discovered a fracture in my neck.  I need further tests to see if this is new or old and a better picture.  This is disturbing on several levels.  I fractured and didn’t feel it?  My mother had spinal fractures and they were excruciating.  She literally broke apart.  I am so similar to my mother.  This is not a trait I wish to share.  I was also told I am two inches shorter.  Visions of the Wicked Witch.  I am too young to be melting and shrinking.  I walk worse.  I am fighting as hard as I can to stem and reverse the tide.  But. But things fall apart.

In terms of the surgery I need they can’t say if it will be through the front or through the back.  Two different types of surgery.  The additional tests will tell. It will require an overnight stay.  In anyone else it would have been outpatient.  However, because of my multiple issues, I need to be monitored and physical therapy will have to sign off on my release.  Now, back in the day, a lady only had her name mentioned in the papers three times – birth, marriage ,death. This corresponds to my view of hospital stays.  I am not pleased although I do realize the sanity of staying overnight.  May I be blunt?  I have bashful kidney/shy bladder.  This is almost scarier than any operation. I won’t be able to drive for a couple of weeks due to painkillers. I am the driver for my household.  Scary, huh? And I see another wheelchair ride in my future.  The surgeon is disclaiming all over the place about my prognosis as is my neurologist.  I’ll still have MC and they say it probably won’t impact my mobility.  I remain totally optimistic that I will be improved on all kinds of levels.  If not, why bother?

Things Fall Apart! But… But..

 

Batik and Not Happy

Posted on by tresswann

My late ex-husband was prone to spoonerisms. He used to tell me, he liked “batik” women, meaning petite. Of course, I was not batik. Actually, far from it. I was very unhappy so gained weight. I blew up. I left, went to live with my mother and dropped the weight. Ha! I moved in with someone else, unhappy and became heavier. I left him. I lost some of the weight. Then this condition. I changed the way I ate and became the lowest weight I have been in my adult life.

Being a “fashion is my life’ kind of person, I found out that I actually could be a petite size. By the way, a petite size doesn’t mean you don’t weigh a lot, just that you are 5’4” or less. I could be petite in certain things at 5’5”.

A few years ago, I started to buy petite pants because I could no longer wear heels. The line was wrong and the legs too long.  Then I dropped weight and sizes. Things started to and continue to be baggy. But they also didn’t fit.  Things that had when I was much heavier.  Can you guess?  I am soo vain. I noticed things weren’t quite right.  I seemed a little hunched in the mirror.  I didn’t like it which in part prompted my bone scan.

At 5’5”, I have always been the shortest in my family. My mother was told when I was born that I would be able to model as I was going to be tall, at least 5’9”. I felt cheated. My cousin M, a mere 8.5 months older than me was over 6 feet and wore it well. My mother, originally 5’7” shrunk to about 5’. My recent diagnosis of osteoporosis terrifies me. Yes, more than MC(my condition because it is unique).  Yesterday, I went to a surgical consult for needed surgery on my spine. They measured me. I am only 5’3”. I have unwillingly entered the land of the “batik”.

MC, Osteo and Me

Posted on by tresswann

Well, the results are in.  I have osteoporosis in my right leg, low bone density in my left and osteo in my spine. This along with the spinal arthritis is just too much.  I am terrified.

My mother had intense osteoporosis and osteoarthritis.  It was sudden and unexpected.  My mother was 79.  I called her  every morning when I arrived at work. The week after September 11, 2001, I rang her and she told me she felt a little achy as she had bagged 11 bags of leaves.  It was completely downhill from there.  As I have mentioned, my mother had an extraordinary tolerance for pain – teeth drilled without Novocaine, childbirth no big deal.  My mother cried and screamed with this.  As I’ve also said, she was advanced for her era in terms of fitness and nutrition.  Some of my earliest memories are of my mother exercising.  Once I started to work in NYC along with her, I no longer joined her for tennis after work.    She was down to aerobics three times a week as she said she vacuumed and gardened.  Foodwise:  Leafy green veg, yogurt or cottage cheese for lunch, fresh fruit everyday, lowfat.

Now my gran was short, plump and very erect so I was hoping against hope that this would pass me by.  I started taking calcium and Vitamin D years ago as a pre-emptive measure.  I walked miles and miles until I couldn’t .  Then I went to the gym regularly till my balance was off.  I modified my diet and do green smoothies most days. Lots and lots of leafy green vegetables. I noticed in the bathroom mirror suddenly that I had a hunch.  And my clothes are fitting my legs differently.  And for certain exercises, my legs seemed out of sync, like one was shorter.

Receiving the spinal arthritis and spine deterioration diagnosis has been devastating and now this! Eventually, I took several deep breaths and did a little research.  Yup, this condition can be the result of the other condition. Lack of exercise and weight bearing can be a factor. Oh, yeah.

Another deep breath and I set up an appointment with my PA (I have all kinds of medical people.  An ever increasing team is necessary). I need this because due to technology I can see my numbers but do not wish to diagnose myself. Yes, she confirmed, I do have osteoporosis and there is medication.  We are rather bombarded with that information – the attractive lady actors extolling the virtues of once or twice a year, oh and yeah, the side effects! Therefore, I realize that there are risks associated with them.  My mother was briefly on Fosomax.  Another funny thing about my mother – she hated taking anything. She took Vitamin E and a multi, something for the dementia, if I recall, and the Fosomax.  You should have heard her complain about how many pills she had to take.  If only, she had seen what I take!  She was taken off Fosomax but I do not know why. The PA said I had choices.  Well, the way my mother felt about pills is the way I feel about needles.  I have a real problem with them.    I don’t like prescription meds.  I prefer another way.  For this, there doesn’t seem to be a non-pharmaceutical option. Well, the Ocrevus is enough infusions for me so those options are out.  Injections are out.  So, what does that leave? The PA doesn’t even hesitate – Fosamax.  I ask her about my numbers and what they mean.  She cannot access them.  This is not confidence making.

A tiny bit more research.  I can rebuild some of the bone. I am in search of an endocrinologist.

In the meantime, I am being gentle with me so that I don’t fall and focus on the positive.

Bone Density Dressing

Posted on by tresswann

Clothing is my life.  Shallow, sad but true.  My mother announced when I was 10 or 11 that she could tell that I was going to be a clothes horse when I grew up.   She said this resignedly.  I had no idea what she was talking about and I definitely didn’t like horses.  I have always been my grandmother’s child, so there it is – life defined by what you wear. Grandma could tell you all about the lavender dress she wore when  her father’s will was read.  I can remember what I wore when going far back.  And no, it’s not  because it’s memorialized in pictures.  I remember what I bought, when and usually how much it cost.  One of my first paychecks went to a pair of Bobbie Brooks brushed denim bellbottom blue jeans with camel stitching.  I wore this for my first week of college with  a beige ribbed turtleneck. I wore a plum shantung dress with a full skirt and short jacket when I was 10 to see “The Brothers Grimm” with my aunt in NYC.  Oh, and yes, of course there were short white gloves.  See what I mean?

I dress for the occasion. For my initial appointment at Mt. Sinai I believe I had on a hunting jacket and black skirt.  I definitely wore black leather 2.5 inch heels. When I had my first MRI, I went locally and was told no metal, no bra with hooks.  So, sports bra, sweatshirt and sweatpants.  I hate being seen that way unless I am at the gym.  At Mt. Sinai, it’s not an issue as they want everything off and provide gown and pants.  It’s slightly hilarious as it’s one size larger fits everyone and I can’t wear the spectral leg.  Last month, I had to have the MRI locally again.  It was really hot so I wore an Old Navy  navy blue sundress with turquoise embroidery, no bra.  And nothing showed!  Ahem, I can “protrude”.

I decided after the MRI came back with spinal deterioration,  to get my long delayed bone density scan.  It came with the now familiar no metal  caution.  What to wear?  My plan was my Sudara blue/green pants with a green tank top.  Overnight, it was fall.  No sundresses and bare legs.  Here’s the thing – I  can’t do the sports bra thing anymore.  I am not strong enough.  Tom gets too frustrated helping me get them on and off.  Wow, have we aged! So, a totally discombobulated outfit ensued.  Track pants, a Coldwater Creek sleeveless black top with tiers (to hide the “girls”) and at the last moment a grey knit poncho because it was so cold.  On my feet, the spectral leg and my Jackson Pollack influenced splatter sneakers (Target, $11.99).  It all made me feel horrible, like an old bag lady.

The scan took place in the Women’s Imaging Center so no help from Tom.  Great news!  I didn’t have to remove the spectral leg or the sneakers.  Getting me on and off the table can only be described as fun.

Mission accomplished.  As we stumble out to the main area, the tech comments on my great sneakers.  My take on shoes is not to appear handicapped.  I hate those big galumphous black shoes you are supposed to wear.  The sneakers are something I would have worn in my old, “normal” life.  I can’t say that for all my shoe compromises.  Many times, it feels patronizing when people tell me how they like my shoes. IMG_2055 I know, I know; it’s the effect I strive for.  I am not sure how often people say this to able-bodied people. The tech and another one wish they could wear ones like that.  They are not allowed.  They must wear all black including shoes.  Their feeling is that being able to wear color would help both them and their patients. I agree.  There’s a difference between being professional and being somber. We all need to dress for the occasion.

The Theory of the Universe, Bugs, Mobility and Me

Posted on by tresswann

I had a friend whose theory of the universe is:  Women have periods.  Men kill bugs.  An equitable distribution of labor.  However, this is not always possible.

I shared a summer beach house with a cheerleading squad and their male entourage.  Full disclosure:  I am not, nor ever have been of the cheerleading species.  We returned from a drunken evening to a seven year locust.  The guys fled the house leaving the squad to deal.  And as women do, someone took a cup, placed it over the bug, slipped a plate underneath and ran to the door and released it into the night air and the guys.  Of course, this was done amongst much screaming.  My role? An interested observer , ready to bolt.

Years ago, I returned to my apartment around 10 at night to be greeted by a cicada.  I called my father.  “What do you expect me to do?”  Uh, fulfill the unspoken contract? Next step,  call the originator of the theory .  Her advice, which I had used before was vacuum it up.  So, amongst much hysterical screams, vacuumed the cicada in the living room and barricaded myself  in the bedroom.  Next day at work, my manager asked why I was looking so peaky.  He told me that vacuums don’t kill bugs.  Now, this was a man who was such a tease, his children tried to smother him one evening.  Could he be right?  Yes.  I came home and it had just about crawled out.  I ran the vacuum for over an hour and smothered that sucker.

During my first, ill fated marriage, I started to grow  out my dark brown hair.  It was at the point where it could barely be put up and it would fall down.  I love to read, especially in the bath.  I was upstairs in the bath with the latest Patricia Cornwell.  Outside  the corner of my  eye, I see something brown. My hair?  NO!!!  Movie spider. SCREAMING!! Jumped out of the tub, dropped the book, grabbed it and levitated out of  the room.  Husband  comes up.  No big deal. NOT!!

So, you see bugs and I don’t agree.

It’s been weird weather, hot and damp.  This has caused an influx of spiders, little ants, crickets.

I am also a clutter person.  I have all sorts of little piles.  My planner with all sorts of papers sticking out is on the floor next to the desk. I also don’t see really well.  It’s that over 40 eye thing.  I amble into my office room and there is a creature sticking out of the planner papers, a big creature.  Something with a body.  I don’t kill things with bodies (see above and theory of the universe).  I cannot clearly see the creature nor can I tell whether it is alive.  Next problem:  Usually when confronted with a situation such as this, I scream or whimper.  Tom is asleep in the next room as it is early morning.  I also scream/whimper when I am falling or losing my balance.  This usually causes him to come running to attempt to catch me.  It’s not pretty as he is a middle-aged man with asthma.  So, I am struggling to suppress my urges and inclinations.  Next, my natural inclination is to run.  Uh, but I can’t.  At this point, I wall and furniture surf, not even walk. Picture me, trying to get out of the room quickly without alarming anyone, i.e. Tom.  And why aren’t those cats earning their keep?

Tom does wake up and dispatches the cricket which had been on its back.

However, something as simple and silly hits me hard.  I have to come up with a new bug strategy. Another side effect of the mobility issue.  I am still holding to the theory of the universe.

Define, Confine, Shopping and the Web

Posted on by tresswann

My father’s two sisters, my aunts,  were obese; one morbidly so.  The elder had diabetes early on and lost her toes.  Aunt E had lost lots of weight but being a member of my father’s family did not believe in exercise, light or fresh air.  She had all this loose flesh under her arms.  As a child, I loved to scrunch it up and play with it. She died when I was a freshman in college. Aunt L, the younger, was morbidly obese.  She was 4’9 or 4’10” and over 300 pounds.  When I was little, she always told me that next year I would be able to sit in her lap.  That never happened. She was straight from top to bottom.  Indeed, she became larger.  As I became older and she became larger, she no longer wanted to see me. I was thin and healthy until college.  My parents never let me think I was as they were terrified I would take after the aunts.  I kept on assuring them that I loved clothing too much for that to happen.  I also liked boys and people.  I had seen what it had done to the aunts. Yes, from time to time, I have used weight as a shield but only a temporary one.  I like being  part of the larger world too much.  I worked in fashion and finance.  This is not to say that overweight people do not work or succeed in these industries but I was and am consumed with my appearance. I also am my very own person and early on had determined that I was not going to live anyone else’s life but my own.

After Aunt E died, Aunt L did lose some weight.  However, following the paternal family inclination, she never ever exercised.  The loss coupled with her height resulted in a medically necessary operation which removed 75 pounds of excess flesh.  After being smug for years that she didn’t have diabetes, it hit with a vengeance.  Her eyesight went.  Aunt L had lots and lots of issues.  This is also around the nascence of the Internet, the change in fax machines and increasing frequency of phone orders.  Aunt L found it possible to stay inside most of the time and order most of what she wanted and needed for home delivery.  My mother often said that with the increasing ubiquity of the internet, Aunt L  would never have had to leave the house.  My mother didn’t live to see Amazon.

I was told when this journey started that diabetes was an autoimmune condition.  Hmmm.  I was quite determined when this journey started that I would not be confined or defined by this condition.  I was adamant.  Well, easier said than done.  The almost 10 years since this has begun to afflict me has seen significant changes.  I obtained the “spectral leg”.  Initially, I only wore it to and from work.  I worked in NYC and commuted through Penn, Times Square and Grand Central Stations daily.  I used to wear it on the outside so it would be a visual clue to people that I might be slower or a bit stumbly.  I still mourn my black leather pants – spectral didn’t work with them.   I still wore  heels at work, just not the 3.5 – 4 inchers that I liked.  Then I started to have to wear spectral all the time.  New shoes were called for.  I wore “crazy” sneakers, lacy oxfords and mary janes.  It was not me but afforded a modicum of style.

I started to use a cane.  Again, as with the spectral leg, initially it was a visual clue.  A fellow commuter used to tease me that he was waiting to see me whack someone with it.  And again, per define  and confine, my canes are seasonal – summer is a pink floral, fall a rich paisley, winter and evening shimmery silver grey.

I started to find it harder and harder to do things other than work.  I hated the perceived pity people had for me.  On the flipside, I hated, hated, hate being inspirational.  I am me and this is it. I was let go from my job.  The world started to become narrower as I wasn’t up and out every day.   I became dependent on the cane, rejected the latest incarnation of the spectral leg currently known as Frankie for Frankenstein.

Then the walker which I haven’t decided will be known as either the gladiator or the chariot became how I need to perambulate outside.  I am considering Washi tape.  And the world shrinks yet again.  Grocery shopping fills me with dread.  The combination of a heavy cart and a poorly graded parking lot sees me relinquishing my list to my husband and sitting in the car.  Recently, at BJs, the greeter has been offering me the motorized cart.  I decline it as Tom and I have visions of my knocking down piles of groceries and children as I speed along ( I do like speed), forgetting or unable to brake. Lately, I am having enormous difficulty getting back into my home via its two little front steps.  It involves swinging my left leg to build momentum and then using the railing to haul myself up.  That’s on a good day.  On a bad day, it’s Tom arranging my legs which stiffen and hauling me up.  Not pretty.

One thing that I have had is the ability and knowledge to sooth myself.  I read.  Reading has always been my drug of choice.  For several years now, I order books and Tom runs in, picks up and drops off at the library.  Did you know there is a version of HIPAA for books?  I had to sign a form so that he can get my books.  I craft and calm down.  However, I haven’t been to Michaels Crafts for months.  I received an offer last week for 40% off online delivery and in-store pickup.  And yes, I could designate him to pick up.  He picked up at the library and then picked up at Michaels.  Easy.  Too easy!  I flashed back to Aunt L.  What happened to not confine and not define?  I have goofed, big time.  I don’t want to hear about you are doing the best you can or you are doing so much better than other people. Not a viable option.  Yes, it limits me.  It can confine me if I succumb.  Other people can decide to define me but that’s on them.  As I made up my mind when I was small, I need to live my own life.  I have to remember this and confront and overcome.

Learning New Words – All this and Arthritis, too?

Posted on by tresswann

I recently went to a new neurologist as I physically could not manage commuting in to NYC (see New Neurologist Visit).  As a result, I had to have a new set of MRIs.  I expected the usual “There’s been no change, blah, blah, blah.”  Last year, my neurologist told me that but mentioned I had spinal arthritis, quite normal at my age.  From the get go, Dr. F had said I might want to consider spinal surgery.  My first thought, years ago, was pure, utter terror.  I had a friend who on Thanksgiving Friday 1998, found a lump on his rib cage. He went to the ER that day and it was determined to be cancerous. Another lump was found on his spine.  It was operated on.  By 9 December, he was paralyzed.  His funeral was Memorial Day weekend.  When Dr. F broached the possibility again in 2017, she said it could possibly help but I would still have MS.  My response to her was that I have been told that I am an ideal candidate for laser eye surgery.  But…there’s always a but.  I would still need to wear readers because of my over 40 year old eyes.  What’s the point?  Would my mobility change?  I voted  no.

Despite my expectations, the new doctor left a message that she wanted to review my test and MRIs.  I had already received a call on the blood indicating that my B12 was a little high.  I’ve had that before.  The nurse also said my cholesterol was a bit high.  This was unusual and mildly alarming.  However, my husband’s was also high.  Aha, we had made three batches of Pati Jinich’s homemade cookies in a week and a half.  When I go off the rails, I do it definitively .  The cookies are made with three and a half sticks of  butter; in other words just about a pound and a tin of condensed milk.  I actually thought Dr. M was calling about my urine test.  I didn’t do it at the lab.  The last time I did one was at my gyn NP’s as we were fairly certain I had a urinary tract infection.  Hilarious is the word that comes to mind.  Not to be too graphic but it was challenging to collect, not fall or spill.  I also have bashful kidney or shy bladder. The lab was not happening.  They gave me a specimen jar.  Next, my husband would have to carry it it in.  My middle initial is P usually for Perfick! But all too often  Procrastinate.  We finally got it together along with a little brown shopping bag for Tom to carry it in.  LOL.  I truly believed and feared that I had something urinary/renal going on.  So, the phone call.  My blood is as previously indicated.  My urine is FINE!  Really? Really. However, Dr. M tells me that I have spinal arthritis.  Yes? But.  I have badly herniated discs.  There has been significant deterioration.  I hear the words “spinal surgery”.  I close down and tell her I have to discuss it with my husband.  This is just graceful politeness.  I always make up my own mind.  I am known for consensus and collaboration but I always, always make up my own mind.

Technology is a wonderful thing or maybe not.  Dr. M has said she will send me the report.  However, there is a patient portal.  I go on it and pull up the actual MRIs.  They are so ugly and so not me.  My philosophy has always been “I am very good at my job.  I know it.  I expect you to be very good at yours.  You don’t know how to do mine and I don’t know how to do yours.”  I used to argue with a friend of mine who wanted all the exact details.  Why?  Can you tell the doctor/hairdresser/dentist, “Wait, that’s not the right way!?” I do open the written report.  I am good at words.  I don’t like these. I pull a Scarlett O’Hara and “I’ll think about it tomorrow.  Or next week.” The report actually makes a kind of sense.  I have been deteriorating almost daily.  No one wants to acknowledge it, including me but there it is.  Spinal deterioration at least provides a rationale.  This, then leads us to spinal surgery.  Tom assures me that things have changed and it’s been almost 20 years since my friend had his.  Laser surgery is now common.  I read the report again.  Basically, it says that there has been no additional demyelination; no increase in plaques. Actually, there has been no increase in plaques since this started. However, I have significant myelomalacia(new word!) and nerve impingement.

I am going to get a surgical opinion.  I am terrified of it but what’s the worst outcome?  I can barely walk now.  My mother developed intense osteoarthritis and osteoporosis seemingly overnight.  So, this diagnosis also makes sense in that light.

It’s always something.  Once again, I find myself being my own care coordinator.

Has anyone else encountered spinal stenosis and had a positive surgical outcome?  Or is this going to be like cataract surgery and because I’ve reached this state of deterioration, anything is an improvement?

Using Herb aka Weed, Ganja, MMJ

Posted on by tresswann

I grew up with a mother who had a very high pain threshold.  She thought childbirth pain vastly overrated.  So, that informed my view of pain. In the past, I used to get laughing gas and Novocaine for cavities.  Of course, my mother considered me babyish for this amongst other things.

Some years ago, I started having major issues with my teeth.  In fact, I attribute dental problems for unleashing this in my system.  I had Vicodin.  This was before the pain I am currently in.  My neurologist said it was addictive.  I don’t care.  I do not have an addictive personality. Despite years of denying my mother’s assessment, I confess; I am a control freak.  I, especially do not like anything to be in control of me – people, jobs, drinks, drugs.  I would have managed it.

I also don’t prefer using medicine.  It’s another thing I grew up with.  We only took aspirin with real fevers.  I carry that with me to this day.  When this journey started, I rejected all talk of drugs.  As things progressed, I broke down.  I now take Ampyra, Baclofen and Ocrevus along with high dose Biotin.

I read Megan Llewellyn’s journey with MMJ and was encouraged. People began to talk about it  in a more public space.  People also began to personally suggest I start smoking.  I saw people online walk again.

History:

Let’s tackle actual cigarette smoking, first.  I always thought it most unattractive and senseless.  When I was about 10, I told my at-the-time smoker parents that I thought it was stupid.  This was in the day when there were still cigarette ads and commercials.

I became older and thought it nasty and smelly as well as ugly looking.  All that being said, I found myself from my junior year university finals puffing away during that period.  Only at finals.  However, my senior finals were stressful.  By this time, my parents had stopped smoking.  The first week I was home, I found myself blowing smoke outside the bathroom window.  The control freak emerged.  How could I be smoking like this after only three weeks?  I am my mother’s child and stopped.  She decided one day to stop smoking and she did. After college, the next time I smoked was when I was losing a beloved job.  I had a corner office on a high floor of the Empire State building.  It was back in the days with ashtrays and windows that opened.  I used to have my assistant go downstairs and buy me a pack of Eves.  I remember one of the sales managers coming into my office and saying it smelt of smoke but you don’t smoke.  I lost the job and stopped.

Alright, next, actual marijuana and hashish.  Okay, I am a child of the 70’s.  The first thing that stopped me was (see above) smoking is ugly.  By the way, so is snorting cocaine. In the town and era I grew up in, alcohol was considered better than weed.  Parents had no problems if you were drunk but stoned?  It was around me but not for me.  At college, many of the pre-meds stayed away due to med school.  I had a truly horrific sophomore year which culminated in academic disaster.  I returned for my junior year with enormous tension and stress.  My college boyfriend prescribed pot.  On one of the better days of my sophomore  year, one of my roommates decided to see what pot  was all about.  We enlisted the help of two guys who are now nuclear physicists.  She is also a prominent doctor.  We smoked somehow and became really, really high though we didn’t know it.  It was one of those spicy, inviting spring evenings and we gadded over to her boyfriend’s fraternity house.  He has had fairly prominent political and legal roles, including judicial.  See, I have always known I am the least successful member of my college class.  Anyhow, the two of us stood in the street bellowing for him to comedown.  Wisely, he didn’t.  So, it’s the start of junior year.  I still hate smoking especially in front of the opposite sex.  My boyfriend (significant legal position) eventually brings a hookah.  The bong did not work for me.  Two – three weeks in, Miss Control Freak surfaced again and determined to need something everyday was not in her best interests. After that, only if I drank. If I drank and smoked on a Saturday, you could scrape me off the ceiling on Wednesday.  My last bout for years occurred during senior week festivities when I locked myself in (name dropper) a guy who became a local broadcaster’s closet.  I have successfully avoided him for years.  Thereafter, once a decade ending on Good Friday, 1994.

Before I certified, someone gave me caramel gummi bears with CBD/THC.   I have to channel my father who always said you never knew what you were going to get.  They were uneven.  They definitely relaxed  and calmed me.  They satisfied my sweet tooth after dinner.  My muscles were looser.  Sometimes, I would get higher than other times.  Control!

Someone else provided me with actual weed .  I coughed, my chest burned and I aced the stairstepper.

We were told about a CBD/MMJ Exposition east of us.  Well, it was in an industrial area.  Definitely, stoners.  Not only was I the oldest, but the lamest,  However, I felt like fresh meat.  They didn’t want me to leave.  And no, I wasn’t going to put CBD oil on my tongue  for the hour drive home.

I met someone at my father-in-law’s funeral.  She told me that the legal MMJ was expensive and you couldn’t get high.  Uh, see above.  Not my interest!

I am of Jamaican ancestry.  Marijuana is herb aka ganja. It is definitely medicinal, if not religious. I like the idea of using herb instead of pharmaceuticals.

I went to my primary.  He certifies you for $200 cash.  Clueless, it’s just about the money. He wrote me a fairly open ended prescription – no monthly limit, no specific kind.

In New York , there is no weed, edibles or lotions.  Options are: pills, vaping and sublingual oil.  Guess what I chose?  Well, not vaping.  I chose the sublingual 50/50 CBD/THC oil to start.  It’s cash only. For me, this means over $100 a month.  It did numb my pain. I am mildly less tense.  The first month I was taking it 3-4 times a day.

Last month, I decided to up the THC and went to 75THC/25CBD oil.  This I decided to use maybe once a day.  I was warned about the side effects – sleepy and munchy.  NOT.  I get a little thirsty.  I haven’t noticed a discernable difference between the two .

My husband gives it to me from a dropper.  I feel like a baby bird, opening my mouth for nourishment.

I take Baclofen and recently my dosage was increased.  I started with an extra pill at night, no effect.  One night I took the higher THC.  I just about passed out during one of my favorite programs.  My husband, “That’s it! No more THC for you!”  We figured out the next day that it was the Baclofen combo.

I was gifted with the real deal.  It relaxes me but I hate smoking and feeling high.

What did I expect?  I wanted increased flexibility, energy and stamina.  So far, it’s not working.

What has been your experience?

Suggestions?

MRI, Blood, Family and Me

Posted on by tresswann

I was brought up with a rather healthy attitude to medical matters – fact of life, suck it up.  It works for everything but blood and needles.  My father didn’t understand that as he said I was a woman and bled.

Breast biopsy 2003 just before Christmas?  No biggy, just the worry.

Then this started.  And nobody could figure it out.  So, an MRI.  I went locally.  I read nothing about it in advance.  I knew people were scared of them.  I haven’t felt claustrophobic.  Again, just not allowed. I focused on this was a means to finding out what was going on. At that point in time I had been advised it could be brain tumors, cancerous or not, or maybe MS.  The brain tumors weren’t a happy thought.   I was given headphones playing jazz, not my favorite.  I played flute in my youth so music is burned in my brain.  I count beats all the time.  I find it a great help with life in general.  For example , I count as I swing my leg to get in the house.  Since I unconsciously count, I could tell if it was an alright if I counted steps when walking in 100’s; in 10’s I knew it wasn’t a good day.

The first MRI passed uneventfully except for the jazz. And of course, the contrast dye with a needle was best ignored.  It was inconclusive. Another one was ordered.  This time I found I could ask for different music.  I have a rock and roll heart but asked for classical.  It’s calmer.  This time they thought they caught the edge of a brain aneurysm. Fun.  They told me to be very careful until I could come in for a different view. Very funny. During that period my postal worker asked me to give him a ride to his appointment with the postal psychiatrist.  Being paranoid, he made us park around the block.  Not the brightest idea for two people who had falling issues. But the definitive “this isn’t a brain aneurysm moment” occurred  because the newspaper delivery man backed up at high speed on a one way street at 5:30 a.m. when I was leaving for work, turning right onto the one way street.  My life flashed in front of my face but all that happened was 6000 dollars worth of damage and I cancelled the paper.  Oh, and he kept on missing for quite some time. The MRIs were not definitive and I did have to go for the spinal tap – same positive, determined attitude.  Same result – non-definitive.

So I ended up with a diagnosis and an admission of this is what we call it when we don’t know what it is. My first set of MRIs took  me years to pay off and I was insured!

I began to be treated at an MS Institute in NYC.  There I participated annually through last year in research studies.   I was paid to take the MRIs. The MRIs are state of the art and I usually do at least 90 minutes. No music but earplugs and headphones. We discovered the contrast dye and I do not mix.  So, here’s the thing – I fall asleep during them.  I drift off.  Part of it is counting the beats are like counting sheep to go to sleep.  The other thing is when I was working, no one could reach me!  I used to rise at 4:30 a.m. so I was perpetually exhausted? Where else could I be covered with a comfy blanket, not get calls, emails or inquiries and have a lay down in the afternoon.  They were always calling in “you need to stay awake!”.  Last time though I was in a deep sleep but it was fine as I did not move.

 

My eldest cousin does not share my view.  I am told as children we were mistaken for twins. Odd, as he is almost two years older than me.  I saw it better when we were teens.  We both spent some of our most formative years with our indomitable grandmother.  Cuz and I live in different countries but email weekly.  I was surprised to find that he had an upcoming MRI and had to have some calming things.  I shared some of my hints and tips with him – focus on a positive health outcome, no one can reach you workwise, close your eyes before you go into the tube, focus on that womblike, heartbeat sound, breathe and distract yourself.

Of course, on the family thing blood tells.  His youngest brother and I shared a fear of blood tests.  Unless accompanied, he would go in the front and out the back.  Me?  I live on what our grandmother called “Put Off Street”.

Cuz was very much on my mind as I had another MRI yesterday.  Due to the new neurologist, I need new MRIs.  She cannot view the previous ones in the research study. Yesterday, I returned to the site of the original.  I know the drill.  They don’t make you gown up but I had on a little cotton sundress, no metal anything.  Big difference.  The first time I had MRIs here I could walk.  There was no spectral leg, stick or rollator.  The institute is equipped to deal with me.  There are orderlies and techs who can lift/drag me along.  Quite hilarious as there I am in the full tog -booties, pants, gown, braless.  Here, there were two tiny women and my husband wasn’t allowed in. Well, we did manage in a fashion.  The blanket was not up to snuff nor my shoulders.  I did get classical music which I found moderately annoying after all these years.  I did not nap, quite disappointed.

And now, Cuz and I both await results.  Any  day that is harder than the test itself.  You can’t count the beats