Small smiles and a pet peeve

 

Sophie waiting for happy hour

Several things yesterday and today gave me small smiles—I like moments like that. Last night it was far too chilly for happy hour on the patio so Jordan, Mary, and I gathered in the cottage. Sophie sat on the deck and stared at the cottage for the longest time. We couldn’t figure out what she was doing. Much later it dawned on me—she was trying to figure out why we were inside and not outside with her. She loves happy hour when there’s a guest!

Some time ago, Dean Jones, who bills himself as the Well Seasoned Librarian, interviewed me for his podcast. The interview covered the whole of my career and gave me a chance to talk about some of my books and how they came about. Today, I finally got the link and listened. At first I thought my voice quavered, like an old woman (hold those comments, please!) but as the interview progressed I must have felt more at ease because my voice got stronger. A couple of times my mind went blank, and I couldn’t remember  simple fact or a title, but I think that was just on-the-spot nerves and not failing memory.

The ”well seasoned” in Jones’ moniker comes from the fact that he has a special interest in food and food writing. He apparently was attracted to my work by the Blue Plate Café Mysteries, but then we had a good talk about Gourmet on a Hot Plate, the book and the blog, and I told him my story about seeking a publisher for a biography of Helen Corbitt, the Neiman Marcus food lady who really was a fascinating woman aside from her career at Neiman’s.

You apparently have to sign up for Spotify to listen, and that took me a chunk of time this morning. But now I have a Spotify account I will likely never use again. If you’re interested, here’s the Spotify link: https://open.spotify.com/episode/2nGkxjM8qFsbuE44nUDGJ6?si=-2pgSQ8TSnu24ja1yuZryg. The interview runs twenty-nine minutes.

A pet peeve I’ve only recently developed: It is slowly dawning on me that when Jordan and I go to my medical appointments, everyone from the doctor to the receptionist talk to her about me, as if I weren’t there or were incapable of understanding. I didn’t really catch on to it yesterday in the endodontist’s office, probably because I was so relieved to have the procedure done with. But last night, talking about it, I realized he told her that I should eat soft foods, nothing crunchy. He explained the medications (none of which I took) to her and showed her the x-ray of my tooth. When I complained about it—to Jordan, after the fact, she said, “The screen was behind you. You were still in the dental chair.” Maybe so, but if I’d be alone, he’d have gotten me out of that chair, into my transport chair, and wheeled me to the screen.

By contrast, Monday I went to the eye doctor alone—Jordan dropped me off and picked me up, but I was in the doctor’s exam room alone. The young doctor carefully explained to me three options for surgery that might improve my vision. Without them I see well enough to drive, if I were still licensed, and certainly well enough for my daily routine. I told the doctor that I didn’t want any surgeries that were not absolutely necessary, and he accepted that saying, “You seem to have a good grasp of the condition of your eyesight and the options open to you. We’ll do nothing and check again in a year.” I loved the words, “You seem to have a good grasp.” Of course I did. My mind still works, just not my legs so well.

I think it is a common misconception among those in the health care professions. If they see an elderly patient with a walker or a wheelchair, they automatically, though probably unconsciously, assume some degree of dementia. Every time I mention it, Jordan says I’m imagining it, but it’s happened too often.

I resolve as of today to take more direct charge of office visit with physicians. After all, I’m the one that schedules appointments and deals with the physician’s office (I am blessed to have several docs that I can communicate with by email), and pays the bills. I don’t mind if they call me “Judy” instead of “Mrs Alter”—in fact, I prefer it. But I want to be talked to, not about.

As you can tell from this post, dementia is an ongoing concern with me. My mom developed it, from a series of TIAs or small strokes, when she was about the age I am now. I think my ongoing involvement with the writing world and my active voice about politics and current affairs helps keep that wolf from the door. But I loved it when Christian said the other night, “Well, you certainly don’t have dementia.” Wish I could remember what the conversation was about.

 

 

Hey, doctor, I'm not sick

I am a child of osteopathic medicine. My father, countless uncles, brother, ex-husband and some cousins were all osteopathic practitioners. Today, my nephew, his wife, and one niece proudly hold the degree, Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine. I think in the public mind osteopathic medicine is often confused with chiropractry and characterized by manipulation—and sometimes voodoo. Here’s the truth as I understand it: chiropractic medicine is an offshoot of osteopathic medicine which began to emphasize manipulation; manipulation is but one tool in the osteopathic doctor’s medical bag.

Andrew Taylor Still of Missouri developed the concept after the Civil War when he lost his wife and several children to spinal meningitis. Basic to his thinking was the idea that health, not disease, is the natural state for the human body. His focus on manipulation came about because he found the body that was well aligned was much more likely to remain healthy. He also stressed the body as a unit—if you have appendicitis, it is not just your appendix that is in trouble, but the entire working system of your body. The ankle bone is connected to the knee bones, etc.—there’s something to that old ditty. Sounds pretty logical, doesn’t it, but in the late-1800s it was radical thinking. Today, of course, osteopathic physicians are fully licensed in all specialties and subspecialties of modern medicine, and they employ all its tools. The only difference, when there is one, is a focus on health as the natural way for the whole body.

All of this came to mind because I collided with modern medicine recently. It’s a long story and I won’t go into details, but basically last summer a medication I took to control my heart rhythm was making me sick. It was probably a little over two months before I convinced doctors that the medicine was the problem—no anti-nausea pills were going to cure it. By then, I had apparently developed a kidney infection which, to my alarm, was called acute renal failure. Antibiotics took care of it, but in the course of checking out my recovery a small anomaly in my blood landed me in a hematologist’s office. And that’s the point of my story.

If you have lots of whatever protein molecules in your blood, you may possibly have multiple myeloma. I had only one molecule, but the doctor felt obliged to check it out—probably both to protect my health and her medical status. My protest that I felt great was met with the cheery assurance that I wouldn’t know if I had this condition. Urine and blood studies followed and still only one molecule, but I was anemic (remember the kidney infection). She wanted to do a bone marrow biopsy but said she would give me two months to bring my red blood cell count up (as though by hard work and positive thoughts I could do that).

Yes, I was worried, but I came to some conclusions, and that’s why I’m boring you with my medical history. My gut told me I was healthy, and my brain told me I felt better than I had in years. I could not see subjecting a person who felt as well as I did to an invasive procedure. (No, I’m not a Christian Scientist, but yes, I believe in following your instinct in health and other matters.) I knew the biopsy was a minor procedure, but it still invaded the body’s health system and as such carried some risk. At that point, I didn’t think the need outweighed the risk, and I, who have always followed doctor’s orders, resolved to ask for a second opinion.

This story has a happy ending. My blood work had improved to the point that the doctor dismissed me as a healthy patient. She had indeed been practicing good, pro-active medicine but like much of medicine today she saw disease, not health, as primary. And from the onset of taking that cardiac medicine to the final good outcome, the story is one of being caught up in the medical spider web. I could easily have been drawn into being a chronic invalid had I not resisted. I could have let medicine convince me I was sick. There’s an object lesson in my story.

Watch yourself in the doctor’s office. Yes, the doctor is a friend (like we tell kids about police officers) but you are your own best advocate. Uncertain? Take a spouse, other loved one, or friend to be your advocate.

Gratitude

Deep and grateful thanks to all of you who sent wishes, prayers, and hugs. I am humbled but cheered by your concern. I am still in the hospital, with all signs and symptoms steadily improving, but I will be here another night. The cardiologist told me this morning I could go home only if I took the monitor and IV with me. Guess I’ll stay.

I have been worried about Sophie, who feels abandoned. When a friend went by the cottage to pick up some things for me, she said glared at her as if to say, “You’re not my mother. What have you done with my mother?” She was comforted by having Megan all night, and this evening Jacob took her in the main house for a while. But in the picture above, she still looks a little cautious.

Meanwhile, I’ve been treated to the best of medical care and can’t help thinking back to the fifties when I worked in what was then a state-of-the-art hospital. Yesterday, a technician did a scan of my lungs (no, not an x-ray), and told me it would go to Dallas to be read. Everything is digital and electronic I remember food service when there was one choice for dinner, and every patient was served around five. Now, there’s a menu, and you can order it twelve hours a day.

I had been thinking before all this happened about the goodness of people Some wonderful stories are coming out of Houston and the surrounding area. The owner who opened his furniture stores to evacuees, the marooned bakers who kept making pan dulce for twenty-four hours and used 4400 lbs of flour—the bread went to various shelters; the people who have welcomed evacuated horses—and their owners—to their ranches.

I’ve personally been touched by kindness the last twenty-four hours. When there is so much unfortunate focus on race in this country, I couldn’t help but reflect my caretakers have included two of apparent Arab descent, two of Asian background, and a handful each of Anglo and African American. There was no differentiation—they all work together in harmony and they were uniformly kind and caring to me. I have seen nothing but the best of Texans.