And a Plague on Your House...

There is nothing like an illness to bring out my maternal instincts, even if my lovely daughter is a full-fledged adult. On Sunday night Nora called and mentioned she had some bites on her legs. I asked if she had "bites" on any other parts of her body. Her affirmative response led me to don my "Medical Mom" nursing cap and diagnose Chicken Pox. As the photos below document (I apologize for the poor clarity) Nora already had chicken pox as a four-month-old baby. We hadn't anticipated a second round at age 24.













I was all set to rush to Nora's bedside but her doctor mentioned that she had recently had a second case of the "pox" herself and cautioned against a quick visit from Mom. I also spoke with a few friends who shared anecdotal evidence of second exposures that resulted in another bout of chicken pox for the care-taking adult. So, I postponed my visit and satisfied my maternal urges through frequent phones calls. Too many, perhaps, for the patient, but I'm pretty sure I was very helpful.

Yesterday, while unloading the dishwasher (an act I perform on a regular basis) I pulled a muscle in my back. Was this a sympathetic illness? I iced, walked and felt like I'd dodged a bullet until I tried to get out of bed this morning. Excruciating! More icing, Motrin and sitting in the most uncomfortable chair in the house have made the situation marginally better. I'm hoping that a day of gentle stretching and taking it easy will make it possible for me to drive up to the Bay Area tomorrow to administer some personal TLC to the now less-contagious Nora.

Always interested in multi-tasking, I thought that a day spent at home might also be a good time to break in my flashy new walking shoes. That's them, in the picture below. The ones all the way across the room. On the floor. The ones I have to bend down, way down, to put on.


I'm thinking that I might be able to scoop one up with a broom handle. And maybe, with a bit of practice, I'll master the art of tossing one directly on to my foot. Tying the shoelaces will be a challenge. I might have to wait until one of the neighbors hears my desperate cry for help. Or maybe a quick 911 call...

VICTORY!

It's a New Year...

It has been months since my last entry, but what better day to revive "Oh, Margaret!" than January 1, 2009.

Right now I am indulging in my favorite New Year's Day tradition of watching the Rose Parade. I used to wake Nora up early each Jan. 1 and we would watch it together, both of us fantasizing about wearing the heavily-pearled crown of the Rose Parade Queen. I think that ship may have sailed for us at this point, but maybe we could join the Rotary Club International and walk along with that float someday. Nora and I still share the parade experience but now we watch in our separate residences and call each other up throughout the morning to share our insightful comments--three phone calls so far. Traditions are great, aren't they?

The other traditional activity of the New Year is making resolutions. I posted an entry in August 2007 about how I always make my resolutions at the beginning of the school year, but somehow I missed that deadline in 2008, so here I go.

Health: Knees and Diet

I'm afraid my April knee surgery didn't do the trick. My swollen knee has kept me from walking which was my favorite (and only) form of exercise. Diet is an ongoing dilemma, but this needs to be the year I take control. Instead of relishing the successes of participants on the Biggest Loser, I will begin my own path to better health.

Writing: Sigh...

I am taking another writing class from Val Hobbs. The structure of the class inspires a more committed writing schedule and I always get a lot out of the exercises and discussions. This year I need to add a healthy dose of writing passion. Paul always says, "Don't get it right, get it written." I recognize the truth in that statement, but I still struggle.

Many other areas of my life could benefit from a new approach, but I don't want to lose focus on my "big" resolutions. I know how easily I can justify distractions...like not writing until I have all the Christmas decorations taken down. Hmmm.

My goal for 2009 will be to honor my personal commitments. I'm hoping that this year will be productive and satisfying for my family and friends as well. Happy New Year one and all!

Let the Healing Begin!

My knee surgery went well. Another meniscus tear was discovered but all tears were cleaned up, as were the crabmeat fissures in my knee cartilage. My doctor delighted in telling me about the white fronds of cartilage, resembling crabmeat, hanging down from the underside of my patella. Fronds? Crabmeat? Who knew medical terminology could be so descriptive?




At any rate the surgery part is over and I suspect that the upcoming physical therapy might be a little more painful than the surgery itself. Now, my knee stiffens and locks in place at any given opportunity and I am reduced to a stooped crab-like shuffle as I move around the house. Hmm...I wonder why the crab imagery keeps popping up. Regardless, I am eager to put in the work so that I can walk normally again. I especially miss my Friday afternoon walks--they are always both mentally and physically therapeutic.



Beautiful flowers, great reading material and delicious treats are helping to speed up recovery! Calories consumed during recuperation don't count, do they? Oh, and of course, the pain killers. They help, too. I truly appreciate all the good wishes.

Dum, da dum-dum

Yikes! Only a few hours to go before I head off for my meniscus renovation. At this point any hope of further sleep is futile. Although I know this is a simple procedure (how complicated could it be if they send you home a few hours?), I am still feeling anxious.

Last night Paul took me to dinner at the Shoreline Beach Cafe, making the ultimate sacrifice of missing most of the Red Sox v. Yankee game on Sunday Night Baseball. What a guy! It was lovely to watch the sunset over the water while having a little calamari and salad. Of course it would have been perfect with a little glass of white wine, but since I had told the nurse at the surgery center that I only drank rarely I thought I'd better abstain. Don't want the people who are going to cut me open (with the teeny, tiny tools) to think I'm a liar.

Turned the light off around 11 p.m. and was just drifting off to sleep when the the nocturnal assault of the local raccoon tribe began. The corner of the house by our bedroom is a favorite launch pad to the neighbor's bushy cypress and the raccoons apparently need a running start to ensure a safe leap.Last night they were feeling especially frisky and the thumping and scramblings seemed very close...like inside-the-attic-instead-of-on-the-roof-close. I got up to investigate and heard growls and hissing when I walked by the open bathroom window. I fully expected to see a pointy charcoal face peering down at me from the attic access in the hallway. Fortunately, the board covering the opening was still in place, but I was wide awake. More reading required before I finally got to sleep sometime after midnight.

My pre-surgery instructions were to avoid drinking or eating after midnight. The no-eating part wasn't a problem, but just knowing that I couldn't have any water has made me incredibly thirsty. I keep having images of crawling across the hot sand dunes I saw in Death Valley. Argh! Now I'm wondering if brushing my teeth is against the rules. I'm sure I can avoid swallowing any water, and frankly I think the doctor might appreciate minty Aquafresh breath over my morning breath. I certainly don't want to irritate the man with the knife. Wondering if some women put on make-up for surgery. Think I'll pass on my usual mascara and lip gloss. I'm hoping the only women who wear make-up in surgical situations are the actresses in ER and Gray's Anatomy.

Thought about getting a pedicure so my toes would look extra nice for the surgery but unfortunately, I didn't have time. I was going to have the words "this leg" painted on the big toe of my right foot but I guess I'll have to just tell them it's the right knee instead of providing a visual clue. Dreamed this past week about putting adhesive colored dots up and down my right leg just to make sure there are no mistakes. Am I being compulsive? Maybe, but better safe than sorry.

Have you ever wondered if there is a medical version of You-Tube? Can't decide if it would be reassuring to preview what is going to happen to my knee in a few hours or so terrifying that I wouldn't be able to leave home. In my case it would probably be the latter. No sense increasing the anxiety level any further. It's clear that a brave heart is in order this morning, but I already feel it pounding in my chest.

Saturday I attended the SCBWI (Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators) LA Writer's Day with my friends Patty and Laura. Congratulations to Laura (far right in photo) for her honorable mention award in this year's Young Adult Fiction contest! Patty (middle in photo) won an honorable mention last year for her Middle Grade Fiction submission. I feel lucky to know such talented writers. Patricia Gauch, another talented author, crack editor and vice president of Philomel, spoke to about 150 eager listeners about putting our "heart" in our writing. She encouraged all of us to dig deeper and be honest. "Don't Flinch!" she admonished. Believe me, Patricia, I won't be flinching this morning.

You say meniscus...I say, "Ouch!"

Meniscus /me·nis·cus/ (me-nis´kus) pl. menis´ci [L.] something of crescent shape, as the concave or convex surface of a column of liquid in a pipet or buret, or a crescent-shaped cartilage in the knee joint.

A few weeks ago I didn't know the exact meaning of meniscus. I didn't know you can tear them, and I didn't know there were such things as meniscectomies. Suddenly, I'm becoming all too familiar with everything meniscus.

Another word I'm becoming too familiar with lately is degenerative. Unfortunately, I've reached a stage in life where many aspects of my physical being seem to be degenerating. The medical world tries to reassure women of a certain age that menopause is an exciting new phase of life, but as I stand on the cusp of the new phase, it seems to be pretty much about degeneration. My eyes started to degenerate (the ophthamologist's term, not mine) shortly after my 40th birthday, my memory has been degenerating for years (ask anyone), and now it's my knees.

It turns out that my great Carmel walking weekend came with a price. By the time I got home from that adventure my right knee was stiff, swollen and painful. A few days of living with that forced me to visit my doctor, which in turn led to an MRI , which in turn led to an orthopedist. My conversation with Dr. Hurvitz, complete with a pointer and assorted MRI images of my degenerating knee and torn miniscus, led to the decision to have arthroscopic knee surgery in a few weeks.

I have to admit to feeling anxious about the operation. I've never had surgery before and although I had many childhood fantasies about walking on crutches, the prospect isn't appealing to me anymore. To reassure myself that this was a good plan, I immediately turned to the Internet and launched a new research project: Operation Margaret.

In just a few minutes I discovered that the surgery will involve three little incisions, an arthroscope and teeny, tiny surgical tools. Depending on the type of anesthesia the doctor chooses I may even be able to watch the surgery on the monitor. Although I'm sure it would be fascinating, I don't think I'll choose that option. Watching someone else's operation might be educational, but watching the real-time version of my own surgery might be more than I can handle.

The Internet gave me a good idea about the rehabilitation process (3-4 weeks) and Operation Margaret also unearthed a lot of information about my doctor. It's odd to meet someone for just twenty minutes and then agree to have him or her operate on you. I needed to know more than my own impression that he was a nice guy. I learned that Dr. Hurvitz is a Fellow in the American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons and he's also on the collegiate medical teams for both UCSB and Westmont College athletes. His professional accomplishments, both national and local, comforted me, but I still feel like this is going to require a huge leap of faith. Trouble is, I'm not doing much leaping these days.

I just reread this post. I am honestly not as depressed about the inevitable consequences of aging as it might seem, but making the necessary adjustments--both mental and medicinal--is challenging. Paul and I used to keep a small plastic jar of aspirin tucked in the corner of one of the kitchen cabinets. That space has now expanded to half a shelf filled with our combined prescriptions, iron pills, vitamins, calcium, antacids, allergy medications and Motrin. I guess the good news is that I haven't yet reached the stage of the daily pill dispensers. No, the real good news is that the medicines make me feel better and the knee surgery will too. It's just a big pill to swallow.

NIBEM 3: Mammo Day

No soap. No lotion, no perfume and especially no deodorant. The packing list for Survivor? No, just pre-mammogram instructions. Abstaining from these items ensures a better x-ray, and I’m happy to comply. No woman ever wants to endure the mammo experience more than once a year. Repeat visits produce way too much anxiety. I’m willing to do everything I can to get a clear image the first time around.

My appointment was for 8 a.m. yesterday. I never sleep-in anyway so I was happy with an early Saturday slot. Also, an entire workday without soap and deodorant would have been trying for me and everyone around me. On the rare occasions that I forget to put on deodorant I’m sure that my anxiety about possible body odor causes me to sweat more that I would normally.

Mammograms are the only Saturday appointment at the Sansum Clinic. I was sure I had the wrong date when I drove up and no one was there but the security guard. I was assured that the “ladies” would be in shortly so I went back to the car and read the newspaper. When I saw the staff arrive I went in and 15 minutes later I was back in the car. In and out. Short and sweet.

Personally, I don’t find mammograms incredibly painful but they are definitely uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. It’s also the only time that I view my own breasts as if they are detached from my body. Breasts are lifted and manipulated by a strange pair of hands, and then the machine takes over. It’s the compression that’s the killer. The clear plastic shield is lowered in jerky increments, and just when you start thinking the whole experience isn’t so bad, the shield smashes your breast more and then just a little bit more. And then you have to do the other breast. My least favorite pose is the one where they lift your arm and drape it over the machine. It seems like you are actually embracing your instrument of torture. Moaning, grimaces, tightened jaws and clinched fists are allowed as long as you stand very still.

Seven years ago was the only time I’ve ever had difficulties with a mammogram. I got a letter from the radiologist saying I needed to come back in for additional screening. At the time we were in the midst of packing to move back to California, and my stress level was very high. My life was in a state of disruption. Why should my breasts have been any different?

The technician was young, sweet and barely competent. She had to redo the x-rays about 4 times, apologizing profusely each time. At some point in the process I burst into tears. She looked bewildered, and then smiled as she asked if I wanted a hug. My very clearly stated, “NO!” didn’t stop her and she threw her arms around me before I could remove my breast from the lower tray and back away. This didn’t comfort me, and I’m sure the tearful tirade that followed didn’t do much for her either.

In the end, an ultrasound determined that everything was fine. As a reward for my healthy breasts I received a large manila envelope of souvenir breast x-rays to carry all the way across America to Santa Barbara. Here’s hoping my good fortune continues.

NIBEM Note: Have camera, will photograph. The radiology technician looked at me strangely when I asked to photograph her x-ray machine. She didn't respond right away so I told her I was going to email the picture to my daughter to prove I got a mammogram. Sorry, Nora, but that won her over. I'm sure my request probably gave her a good story to tell around the lunch table.