Things I am grateful for, or an epistle to the powers that be

Dear Life:

You and I have had our ups and downs this year. Mostly downs, by any measure, but let's not quibble over the finer points therein. Suffice it to say that in general, 2010 has been unmatched in this Troubadour's experience of "rough patches," "tough spots," "suboptimal circumstances," or any other euphemistic label you'd like to slap on it -- despite multiple appeals for relief. To which I have to ask, at the risk of sounding repetitive: WTF?

I have not, in the past, been a big bright-side seeker. I lost my innocence a little too early on to develop the habit. But I'm willing to try almost anything at this point, given the November you've served up so far. And as tomorrow is Thanksgiving, I figure now is as good a time as any to start. So whatever you are -- an entity indifferent to the human plight or one whose intentions for me have yet to make any sense -- listen up.

In the last week, I was grateful for the following:

• Getting to see one of my dearest friends from college, who happened to be interviewing in Seattle for a medical residency at the UW and needed a place to stay. Never mind the kidney infection you decided to make apparent to me with a raging fever and teeth-rattling chills, about the time her flight was going to arrive. The ER was on the same route as the airport, so it was convenient for D to drop me off and continue on to pick her up. A reunion in one of those skimpy hospital gowns was not what I'd envisioned, but I have never been happier to have company. The laughter that came from behind the curtain in my ER bay for the hours we were stuck there should be proof enough of that.


• Having my white cell count remain oddly normal in the ER, despite the fact that the infection had already spilled into my bloodstream by the time the poor nurse assigned to me found a usable vein to get the IV antibiotics going. (Is laughter, indeed, the better medicine?) The delayed immune response fooled the hospital into discharging me on the same night rather than admitting me for what was actually a much more serious condition (bacteremia, with the potential to turn into straight-up sepsis). It was nice to get to spend a few extra hours with my friend outside the hospital, which we used not wisely but very well. We took the conversation home and didn’t end it till nearly 3 a.m.


• Having the blood cultures come back soon enough the next day to get word to my urologist, who promptly called in the extra antibiotics I would need to make sure the infection was properly treated (the ER doctor prescribed only 7 days' worth; turns out I needed 14). Without them, I would have been short on meds for the length of my research trip. Which brings me to ...


• Getting to go on said research trip, despite the severity of the aforementioned infection. I know the party line, per the infectious disease consult ordered by the urologist, was to cancel my plans, but she and I decided that the calculated risk of getting on a plane for a few hours to spend a week essentially under my parents' care (the arrangement was for me to stay with them while doing the research) was reasonable to take. Yes, you made me pay for it by giving me more chills and fever while I was somewhere over Utah, but I was armed this time with enough antipyretics to kill a buffalo. So I'm still glad I went. Recovering in Panhandle, Texas, is essentially no different from recovering in Seattle. And Mom's chicken soup beats any I could make.


• Being lucky enough to have scheduled my return flight between that arctic front's passage over Seattle and its subsequent arrival in Panhandle. For a few days before the anticipated snowy cold snap, we were concerned that I might get stuck in Texas for the holiday, leaving D on his own for Thanksgiving. But I'm home now, thanks to a little mercy from the travel gods, and we will have turkey together tomorrow. Given the last month's health ridiculousness, we will not be throwing the usual fete we love to put on nor will we be traveling to share the holiday's bounty with the numerous folks from out of town who have invited us. But we are glad that I'm on the mend (for real this time, we hope) and look forward to the long weekend, if only just to rest.

So. Here's to a happy Thanksgiving. May what remains of 2010 offer much to be grateful for. (I wouldn't mind, though, if the things to be happy about were packaged with fewer associated challenges ...)

Sincerely,
C. Troubadour

In which I am a bad patient

This whole recovery thing is not what I'd anticipated.

Don't get me wrong -- I know I had surgery, which means not trying to do more than my body can handle. Even if all that that entails is sleeping A LOT. (Seriously, I had no idea I could crash all day and then still sleep a full night without waking up in the middle of it.) But I'm off the prescription pain meds as of today, which means I have a clear head for the first time in 48 hours (yay!) even if I'm still stuck in bed.

It also means the gears are turning.

They should, if anything, be turning on Chapter 4 of the thesis. (Forgot to mention somewhere in the last two weeks -- I turned in a revision of Chapter 2 and a new Chapter 3 to my advisor!) If recovery continues as expected (and it should), I should be cleared for a research trip I'd had in the works long before the health mess ever happened. That's scheduled for next week, so I'm looking guiltily at my files, which I need to back up and organize so I can make the most of my time while I'm up to my elbows in old photos and supplementary documents. Actually finishing the Chapter 4 draft would be good too.

But the kitty is pawing at the bedroom door, which is not conducive to any sort of concentration, and the ibuprofen is only so effective, and I've been distracted by more pressing thoughts since I got my brain back.

It's been an isolating year.

Seattle, I've been told, is a friendly place but a difficult one in which to make friends -- as in those who will make room for you in their established social circle. This cultural oddity even has a name: the Seattle Freeze. Seriously, a name? How's that for intimidating. I know I haven't tried my hardest in the last year to reach out to people, but I have tried, despite all the other stuff I've written about here (2010, you've been difficult). I've gone to get-togethers hosted by D's work colleagues; tried to start conversations there with the wives and girlfriends; suggested and pursued follow-up lunch dates, coffee dates, dinners. Much response?

* Crickets chirping *

I'm still looking and asking, because it's not healthy to be so isolated. I've even gone so far as considering sites like Meetup.com (where there are actual references made to the Seattle Freeze). But a lot of what's offered isn't quite my style -- dance parties on a boat in themed costume? Sure, but I do better in smaller settings. Then how about speed friending? Um, that's kind of an oxymoron.

How about just a meal and some good conversation?

I know, these are things I shouldn't be worrying about before I can walk around the house without feeling exhausted. But being stuck in bed gives you a lot of time to think. And I'm thinking my list of local friends could use some rejuvenation.

So, dear bloggy friends (how I wish you were geographically nearer). How do you make opportunities for new friendships where you live -- and encourage them to grow?

The last thing I remember

... is the room beginning to spin.

It was kind of cool, the pinwheeling, marbleizing filter that had suddenly fallen over my eyes as I lay on the operating table. I wanted to remove the oxygen mask to tell the anesthesiologist what I was seeing, but before I could reach for it, I was out.

*

And then someone was saying my name, and I was propped up in some bed with a lot of blankets but I was still cold and there was no way in hell I was opening my eyes because -- well, there was just no way in hell. "We're going to move you to a recliner, okay?" the voice said, bright and sonsy. "Just swing your legs over the edge and we'll help you stand."

Amazingly, my body complied. (Apparently, I'm very good at following directions even while semi-conscious.) Teeth chattering, limbs shaking, eyes still mostly closed -- why the recliner? I wanted to ask; let me stay in bed, please. But I couldn't muster a word. It didn't matter, though, because I was out again before I hit the chair.

*

At some point, the urologist came to talk to me. "We got the stone," she said. "It was impacted."

"Great," I said. And then I remembered why I was there to begin with.

The suspected kidney stone from early September never passed. And after weeks of waiting, hurting, and bleeding, it was time to figure out if the stone was the problem or if something else was going on. So I met with a urologist -- not the one who first found the stone but another recommended to me after my third trip to the ER. She scheduled the imaging studies for yesterday -- x-rays, with contrast injected into the urinary tract -- to see what there was to see. If there was indeed a stone, it could be taken out at the same time, while I was under.

"How's your pain" -- suddenly, that other sonsy voice was speaking again -- "on a scale of one to ten?"

"Two?" I ventured. My bigger concern was my ability to think or move (or were they really just the same thing?) -- both still muddied and slow and exhausting, like trying to levitate from a bed of quicksand.

"Good. I need you to drink something -- can I get you apple juice?"

My brain cleared for a moment. Apple juice equals sugar. "Don't think I can have it -- prediabetic," I said, eyes still closed.

"Water, then," the voice said. "And how about some crackers?"

"Can't," I said, fighting harder against the quicksand. "Carbs."

"I don't want the pain meds to make you nauseated," the voice insisted. "I'll bring you just a little to nibble on."

"Okay," I said, too tired to argue or try to explain anymore.

*

They're eye-opening, these moments of limitation. I'm used to being able to handle my own basic needs. When I can't, I fight hard to do it anyway -- for weeks, I've gone without more than over-the-counter pain relief because I needed to be able to function. To drive a car, to take care of household chores, to engage with other people just to feel connected to the outside world. And to monitor my health care in a system with a lot of cracks in it. I can't do that effectively on stronger meds, though, apparently, I still try.

I'm clearer today, but only just. I made the mistake of letting the pain meds wear off at one point yesterday, hoping to get my brain and body back, but it was too much. So here I am, typing five words a minute, reaching for clarity that feels just beyond my grasp.

I think I'm okay with that. Fragmented as this memory will be when I return to it in a few days or weeks, it will be here. To remind me that the limitations I feel are relative. Three days ago, I was complaining about not wanting to work out. Today, it's not a question of want at all. I'm just glad to be able to get down the stairs on these jelly-filled legs to brew some coffee. And come right back up to bed.

Grumbling rights

I'm exercising them. Because the gods of timing just won't leave me alone.

The short version: D left town this morning to throw his brother a bachelor's weekend before said brother's wedding next month. This afternoon, the nagging stitch in my side that started yesterday after lunch turned into an unrelenting pain that still hasn't gone away. A trip to the GI doctor got me some prescription painkillers and orders to return to the hospital in the morning for a thorough ultrasound (the one attempted today wasn't clear enough, so we'll try again when I'm fasting). The hope is that the gallbladder doesn't need to come out.

I'm pretty good at being alone most of the time -- years of living apart from D while we were commuting has trained me well. But this is one of those instances where I really, really wish he were here.

Tuesday

... was hard.

Well, for that matter, Monday was too. I had my follow-up appointment with my local GI doctor to talk about the plan going forward after what he lightly referred to as the Million-Dollar Workup.

I was glad he wasn't put off that I'd gone to someone else for all the testing. I'd planned to be forthright about discussing the findings, no matter how he seemed (I did have all the new data sent to him). But it was a relief all the same that we didn't have any awkwardness about it.

The good news he had for me: my liver enzymes are completely back in the normal range. Which means I can drink again -- at last! -- with continued monitoring every few months.

The bad news I had for him: this little problem called depression is not going away.

It is not the fault of any single thing. But we were supposed to start trying to have a baby this month. That was, in essence, the plan D and I framed up last summer, which was why we were so intent on getting my health issues fixed -- or at least properly examined to see what kinds of risks and other concerns we needed to take into account before trying to get me pregnant. We went to a reproductive endocrinologist, who ran the usual blood tests to get baseline readings, which revealed the abnormal liver numbers (you know the rest of that story). He also discussed the things I ought to consider to get my body in the best shape for this new adventure -- including tapering off the antidepressants I'd been taking since mid-2008. Commuter marriage? Not good for someone who's been dealing with chronic blues for a long time. But D and I were done with that, and I was working through family stress in my writing. I felt ready to move forward.

So I timed the step-down very carefully, waiting till after the holiday season to attempt it. The process seemed to go well; by the first week of February, I was done.

But the combination of things that was the rest of that month -- I didn't anticipate how they would affect me. I thought I was in a better place; really, I did.

No.

Of course, it's not just February I'm trying to work through. February was just a month of triggers. But, given their effects, it's clear that there are underlying griefs I haven't found a way to manage completely. And knowing that, knowing I haven't yet achieved that goal is what kills me now. Because I wanted to be ready for motherhood (at least, as ready as one can hope to be). The reality is that there's no way I can look myself in the eye and say, "Sure. You can handle it." I know at least that much about where I am, even if I don't know much else.

And yet. No matter how wise that decision, for me and for the little life that will be utterly dependent on me, it is still heartbreaking -- because of the delay, because of the reasons for the delay, because there is no clear mark on the horizon to tell me when the delay will be over. And the irony of it all: the antidepressants were quite likely the source of the liver damage.

I know I shouldn't be hard on myself about this as it certainly won't help. If there's anyone who needs to be in my corner with me, it's me. "You've got a lot going on," the GI doctor said sympathetically as I confessed to him that I'd relapsed (with not just the GI problems but also depression) and what that meant for our plans for a family. He urged me to take care of myself first.

I spent much of Tuesday trying to write this post, but it was still too hard to put everything into words, so I gave up and cuddled our foster kitties for a while. They seemed to know I needed their company and stayed close. Today, to my relief, felt better -- even though what I've described isn't a fraction of the way it all feels, at least some of that was writable, which means I'm working through it. I am taking care of myself here.

I just wish I didn't have to.

$%!#

I hadn't been blogging about the outcome of all the testing for a lot of reasons.

For one, I needed a break from thinking about it. And I certainly didn't want this space to become all medical, all the time. Then the diagnosis, while a diagnosis, was still preliminary, so I didn't want to jinx it by talking about it -- I figured I'd get my prescriptions filled (a combination of antibiotics and probiotics), start treatment, and await the results before mentioning anything here. Things were looking good too! No nasty GI symptoms for a week and a half. I was stoked.

But this morning, I woke up to a gastrointestinal mutiny.

What the hell happened??? Of course my brain shifted into analytical mode and started counting off possible causes. Last night's leftovers? (Not likely, barely two days old, quite properly refrigerated, and without effect on D.) Side effects of the antibiotics? (Doesn't make sense -- wouldn't they have made themselves known early on?) How about the shellfish from two weekends back. (Again, doubtful, given the time lag.) That leaves -- uh oh.

Did I mention we picked up two foster kitties on Friday? And that one of them recently tested positive for giardia? I had no idea until after I'd gotten them home and had time to read their medical files thoroughly. Kitty's been treated, but still. Gulp.

I've always been very, very careful about handwashing after handling any of our fosters. These parasites, however, are especially tenacious -- you have to boil them to death. Unfortunately, as much as I'd like to, I cannot plunge my hands into boiling water every time I finish grooming our furry guests or scooping their litter.

Please, after these last nine months of GI evil, let me not have gotten giardia.

The problem is that its symptoms, from what I've read, are essentially indistinguishable from malabsorption resulting from other causes (the issue I had to begin with). In my case, Dr. Specialist was guessing I had a bacterial imbalance in my small intestine. And a significant reduction in symptoms after this course of antibiotics would mean he was probably right.

But now, now there's this new variable. Possibly throwing off this test, as it were. Does it mean further months of not knowing for sure what's wrong? Are we going to be playing the watch and wait game all over again? And which doctor am I supposed to call -- Dr. Specialist, who is nearly impossible to get hold of because of the system he works within, or my local GI guy, who seems to be a bit more conservative (read: in no rush to get an answer) in his diagnostic approach?

I know, I'll call both -- Dr. Specialist first thing tomorrow and as many times as is reasonable (it's too late in the day to reach him now). If no answer after a day or so, I'm moving on to local GI guy. That's the best I can do. I just wish I could do something more in the here and now to help me feel less frustrated.

Well, in a way, I suppose I already have. I bought myself some potted gerbera daisies last week because they caught my eye at the grocery store. Took them directly to our bathroom, our makeshift spa for plants. They're hanging out at the edge of the tub, the first thing I see whenever I walk in there.

In hindsight (yep, back to the poop humor again), flowers were a great idea.

Because this never happens

... I had to take a picture. Yep, those are my (rather foreshortened) legs stretched across all three seats on the plane from Chicago to Seattle on Tuesday. Thank you to the two passengers who decided they wanted upgrades or standby seats on an earlier flight. You made those four hours so much better than they might have been.

It looks like all the testing is over for at least a month. And several of the tests came back with results we can actually work with, so it was very much worth all the trouble. Many thanks to Dr. Specialist for the very thorough work-up and for helping me retain some sense of dignity through what were some fairly dignity-robbing circumstances. Many more thanks to Almost Dr. Sis for getting me where I needed to be for all those appointments -- I know it couldn't have been easy with the tough stuff you were dealing with in your own life. The gods of timing, eh? How they mock us sometimes.

I'm happy to say I've recovered from the last round of sedation (Versed + Demerol = one very groggy Troubadour, even more so than after general anesthesia! WTF?). That said, it's taking me longer to bounce back from these last two weeks than I thought it would, for a lot of reasons, some unexpected.

Fortunately, D and I have a long weekend planned just for us at a local bed-and-breakfast. So I'm looking forward to that. Maybe when we get back, some more trip-related news. And if not, then definitely one more curlicue-related story.

On accumulation

We went skiing this weekend.

It was a much-needed getaway for me. We decided sort of at the last minute to meet up with two of D's friends from his office when we found out they had a trip planned -- they have similar slope preferences (intermediate level runs, groomed, with the occasional trail through the trees and powder). A quick stop at Hotwire revealed a place to stay the night at a very affordable price, so we made our reservations, attached the ski rack to the car, and took off at the crack of dawn Saturday.

Wearing my body out felt good for once. It's funny how exhaustion feels different when you're in control of its degree. I did wish I could take something for the muscle soreness (no anti-inflammatories allowed until after my next blood draw) but I knew what I was in for when I agreed to go. Overall, we had a really terrific time -- time to cut loose and feel light-hearted, even if our limbs felt impossibly heavy at the end of each day.

We didn't have a chance to take many pictures, but take a look at the ones we did get:


It was misting at the top of the mountain because of a heavy cloud sitting over the peak. Water droplets condensed out of the fog and froze to everything, including my hair, which I'd put in two braids to keep it out of the way. The shot above is from just before lunch on Saturday. An interesting effect, no?

And here's a shot at the end of the day.


Still interesting! But also a bit shocking. I had no idea all of that was there.

I think that's how these last few months felt to me yesterday -- small things building up and building up without my realizing they were doing so until I got a picture of it all. A picture of where D and I are. I try to deal with little issues between us as they come so they don't grow into bigger ones, but what about those that continue to haunt us, sticking to us? It seems many things have, and when that realization hit us yesterday, we didn't know how to handle it. We've fought because we've had to readjust to each other and, now we're fighting because that process is revealing those icy ghosts on our shoulders. But we're trying to crack them off.

We had an explosive Monday. I'm glad we had Saturday and Sunday before that to remind us it's not always like Monday was.

Back!

As in flat on it, until the rest of today is over.

Oh no, you're thinking, this doesn't sound good. My apologies in advance. I hate, hate, hate to make the first post of 2010 a less than jolly one, but I didn't start this blog to create yet another place where I'd have to hide my real thoughts and feelings. I will throw in happy things at the end, so don't worry. Bumming in awaits! But if you're not up for (down with?) less than jolly, feel free to skip right to the photos. The happy starts there.

So. I feel moderately guilty that I've spent most of the afternoon in a travel-induced daze while D had to go straight to work from the airport, but I'm accepting my pathetic lack of vigor for now because I'm in a weird place. Limbo, I suppose, but it's a different limbo than the one I was in before the holidays.

Before we left town in December, I was doing my best not to get too worried about my not-so-great liver enzyme test results. There were presents to pack and people to look forward to seeing. And there was nothing to be done regarding the liver stuff until my seven weeks sans alcohol were up (more on that later). I did have some GI symptoms in the few days before we headed for D's parents' place, but I chalked it up to stress. (It's been known as early on as high school to cause me such problems.)

But the symptoms didn't go away. And they got more and more severe until on the morning of Christmas Eve, D and I decided I'd better give my GI doctor a call. One of his partners got back to me right away, advising me to double the dose of Pancrecarb I'd been taking before meals and call back after the weekend with an update on how it was working out. Simple enough -- and effective. By the end of the day, I was feeling tons better. I can't emphasize how nice it is to be able to eat without worrying how sick it might make me feel 30 minutes later.

I knew, though, that the previous ten days of ramped-up symptoms signified that things with my pancreas were getting worse. And once Troubadour Dad got news of the liver enzyme issues on top of the GI distress, he decided that something "wasn't right," particularly for someone my age, and suggested it was time to get a consult from a doctor at a more academic institution, i.e., a specialist with access to the most current research.

As it happens, Almost Dr. Sis has doctor-professors who are just those kinds of specialists. She very kindly contacted a senior doctor in the GI department to ask whom I should see, given my history, and he sent back a recommendation right away. So during the remainder of the week at my parents' house, I faxed off requests to all my doctors here in Seattle to get the pertinent parts of my medical records forwarded to said chosen specialist. The plan is to try to schedule a trip for me to get checked out by him in February. We're guessing it'll be a two-week visit, but we'll know better once this doctor has had the chance to review everything in my chart.

So, limbo. It's eating at me more than before -- probably because the whole flying-across-the-country-to-see-an-expert thing makes everything feel way more serious. Not sure what to do about that, so here I am, writing.

In the meantime, I have one more blood draw scheduled with my GI person here to look at those liver enzymes. I was a good girl and didn't even have a drink on New Year's Eve, even though Troubadour Dad was serving this:


But I was mildly naughty (from a blood sugar standpoint) and joined in the Spanish tradition of eating twelve grapes at midnight for good luck in the new year. One of Troubadour Dad's colleagues, who hails from Madrid, introduced us to the ritual that evening. Fun and hopeful! And excellent with really good cheeses afterward ...

Overall, my time with family was all right too. I have tons of photos to go through from the visit, which I might look at tomorrow when I need a break from thesis work (yep, it's time to get back to that before the semester starts up in two weeks). For now, here are a few shots of Troubadour Mom's bathroom residents. Proof that plants really can thrive by the tub!




I'm also thrilled to report that the rose we received back in October survived our absence marvelously. I wasn't sure it would, but these watering globes, which D picked up from Home Depot, actually worked. I'll take it as a good omen.

On that note, here's to a happy 2010, everyone. May it bring good things, surprising or otherwise, to you and the people you love.

And now, back to doing this*

Not totally, but for the time being.

I got a call back from the GI doctor's office a week ago, following up on the abnormal liver enzyme stuff. The good news is that nothing requiring immediate, invasive intervention is necessary. The bad news is that there is no short-term way to address the problem. Basically, for the next seven weeks, I get to abstain from alcohol and all anti-inflammatory meds, see what my enzyme levels look like in mid-January, and then reassess the situation. Which means I get to do the craziness of holiday season without the two things I was kind of counting on to help me get through it: good wine to calm my frazzled nerves and painkillers to put the kibosh on tension headaches (family get-togethers involving Troubadour Dad will do those things to a person). Oh, joy!

Oh, help.

I am going to get through this just fine, I assure you, but it may not be pretty. However it goes, I'll try to make it entertaining here. What's a stressful holiday without finding some way to laugh at it?

I will also be indulging myself in very good coffee flavorings for the duration of this no-alcohol thing. Torani, I'm looking at you and all your tasty sugar-free syrups.

* Photo courtesy of Marketing Sis

Drink and be wary

I meant to blog last week, really. But I didn’t bank on a minor medical mess getting in the way of that.

As I mentioned earlier, my gastroenterologist had me schedule some more tests after my unfortunate GI problems didn’t clear up. One of those tests, just a regular old CT scan to look at my pancreas, was Wednesday morning. It meant getting up at 5 a.m. to start drinking the barium shake (foul-tasting stuff, see photo) so my insides would show up nicely on the x-ray. No problem, I thought; I’ll chug it, sleep a little more, then head to the hospital to get the scan over with.

I arrived on time, did my paperwork, changed into hospital scrubs, and got my IV put in for the contrast dye that, when injected during the scan, reacts with the barium to produce all the fun images on the film. That went fine. You get a very warm sensation as it’s happening, but it’s nothing particularly uncomfortable. When it was all over, the CT technician asked me if I was experiencing any tightness in my throat or itching. And at that time, I wasn’t. So he sent me off to change back into my own clothes.

It’s a good thing there was a mirror in the dressing room. As I was pulling my shirt on, I noticed that my face was slowly turning bright pink. As in the color it takes on after I’ve had a drink (yes, I’m one of those Asians without the enzyme that breaks down alcohol) but more so. As I peered into the mirror, I watched the pink stain spread down my neck toward my chest. Uh oh, I thought. Not good.

I went back to find the CT technician, who took one look at me and said, “Well, I think we’re going to have to keep you here a little longer.” He showed me to a large chair and handed me a very tall glass of water. “Drink this,” he said. “Sometimes people have a little reaction to the dye. We’ll just get your kidneys kick-started so they’ll pull it out of your bloodstream. Just sit tight, and I’ll check on you in five minutes.”

Now I know what an allergic reaction looks and feels like. My sisters and I each have our allergens that produce full-body swelling when we get exposed. So the feeling creeping down my body as I obediently downed the water was very familiar -- and it wasn’t going to go away without proper antihistamines. By the time the CT tech returned, the hives were progressing down my arms. “Hmm, I’m going to go get the doctor,” he said.

Sigh.

They kept me for another thirty minutes to “monitor my reaction,” asking me to drink even more water. By the time they were ready to release me, I’d had nearly a quart of it, to no avail -- the hives were all the way to my knees. So they sent me home with two tabs of Benadryl with strict instructions to call 911 if I “experienced any shortness of breath, increased swelling, or other symptoms.”

Of course, since I had to drive myself, I couldn’t take the Benadryl until I got home. It worked very quickly, but it also knocked me out -- for six hours. I think I fell asleep on the couch around 10 a.m., dozed intermittently, and woke up after 4 with a massive headache. And a first thesis installment deadline 24 hours away. I had a good number of pages written, but they needed serious attention. So, no blogging until I got that done.

The installment has been sent, and I’m happy to say I’m back to normal (no more hives, headache, or haziness). Can’t say I quite feel great about the writing, but more on that later. Feedback from my advisor is forthcoming. As for the CT results, I’m hoping to have them before my endoscopy, which is in just over two weeks. So much to look forward to …

At the end of a rough day

... you can't be that down if you have a kitty in your lap.

Jada has been a bit skittish about being picked up or held in any way for the first week here, so we've tried to limit our contact with her to petting and scratching around her neck or under her jaw (she makes cranky noises otherwise). We'll offer our hands to her so she can sniff them, and when she's feeling friendly, she'll thrust her head into our fingers and rub it around.

So today I had my follow-up appointment with the doctor who put me on Pancrecarb back in July. On his instructions, I stopped taking it at the end of August, but my symptoms (I'll spare you the details) came back with a vengeance within a week and a half. Which means that the problem hasn't resolved itself. Sometimes a bacterial infection can throw the whole system out of whack temporarily, and Pancrecarb can help your body do what it's supposed to while its inner workings return to normal over a few months; since that didn't happen, we need to do some tests to look for other causes. Not what I hoped would be the outcome of this trial, but it is what it is.

I came home pretty unhappy about the tests that are now in my near future, among them, an endoscopy with some biopsies. That in particular shouldn't be a difficult procedure, according to the nice little information packet the nurse gave me after the doctor and I had talked -- I'll be sedated -- but it is unsettling all the same. Of course, we've got company at home right now (D's brother and the brother's fiancée, who've just gone to bed) so I haven't had the chance to sit with the thoughts in my head until this moment.

When I did finally get to plop down on the couch, Jada appeared. And she put her front paws on my knees and asked with a little meow to be picked up -- a first for her since she's been so reluctant to be touched. I lifted her into my lap and let her stand there, looking around from her new vantage point. Then she arranged herself very deliberately over my knees and cuddled down for a nap. I've been typing as carefully as I can so as not to disturb her -- it's such a nice feeling to have her so close.

So like I said, you can't be that down at the end of a rough day if you have a kitty in your lap. Especially one that gives you her trust as a present when you most need something to comfort you. Too bad she can't come with me for the procedure!

Photo by Marketing Sis

Number crunching

That's what today has been about.

I've actually been preparing for today for about six weeks (ever since my endocrinologist started me on that low-oxalate diet -- bleh -- at the end of May). I saw the doctor this morning and got the results of my latest lab tests. The good news: the numbers are coming down as we've hoped they would. The oxalate levels are now in the 60s, which is much closer to normal (under 30; my last reading was over 270) and the phosphorus levels are completely normal in the high 800s (previously over 2100). So cutting out spinach and (some) nuts and tea has worked enormously in my favor, which hopefully means no more kidney stones in the future. This also means I have to stay on this diet, but so far, I'm managing.

Of course, though, there's a new wrinkle: I have exocrine problems.

Because I was experiencing some GI unpleasantness in early May (I'll spare you the details) and inexplicable weight gain, I got a referral to another specialist who ordered some tests of his own. It's not definitive yet, but the early results indicate that I don't digest fats properly. The culprit behind this problem is most likely the pancreas (again!) -- but this time it's the part of the organ belonging to the exocrine system, i.e., the part responsible for getting fat-digesting enzymes where they need to go.

So I'm now taking these.


This is Pancrecarb, which basically delivers the enzymes I need in capsule form. I take one capsule with each meal, and the tiny pellets inside get released as their container breaks down. So far, this seems to be alleviating the GI symptoms extremely well. Unfortunately, the weight gain hasn't leveled off yet. (Granted, I've only been on the meds for a week, but ... ) While the upward creep of the numbers on the scale has been slow, it has been frustrating, especially since I've been increasing my workout time -- and all that's done is give me sugar lows more often.

The nurse at the GI doctor's office who gave me my test results said that my body may have been hanging on to extra weight because it wasn't getting enough dietary fat (a bit counterintuitive, but certainly possible, I guess) so my metabolism may need to readjust. If that's the case, I'm hoping that happens sooner rather than later. I'm fine with what I weigh now, but about seven years ago I was nearly 30 pounds heavier (out of the healthy range for my height and build) and I really don't want to go back to that. I've worked too hard to get fit only to have a pancreas on the fritz undo it all!

In the spirit of staying motivated, here are a few blogs I've been reading recently that I'd like to add to my list of nominees for the One Lovely Blog award:

• Cranky Fitness, written by Crabby McSlacker and Merry Sunshine
• Refuse to Regain, written by Barbara Berkeley and Lynn Haraldson-Bering
• Back in Skinny Jeans, written by Stephanie Quilao
• PastaQueen, written by Jennette Fulda
  

So there's some inspiration to fight the good fight without losing total perspective on why we do it. I am not just a bunch of numbers, I know, even if my doctors tend to rely on them to keep me well. Maybe remind me of that the next time I have to step on the scale ...