Doing It Twice

The next surgery is scheduled for Monday, February 16, at an as yet undetermined time. I know that they prefer to do "dirty" cases last, so I anticipate a late afternoon start time. Due to Fred's hectic schedule this week, the only day we can get the pre-op testing and all the admission details done is Friday. Cutting it close, but the nurse said it would be okay.

She hugged me again.

Everyone is hugging me. It makes me nervous.

The PA was sweet -- a tough adjective for such a big, tall guy to pull off, but he does. The two of them sort of crashed in my exam room -- I am like a comfortable piece of furniture over there -- and I was surprised to hear them violating HIPAA all over the doggone place, much as they did last week. Not that I remember, or even care to remember, any of the patient names they tossed around. They were not badmouthing anyone (except for the occasional raised eyebrow and shift in tone of voice) and they were clearly exhausted. Dr. ShoulderMan is running them ragged. Red-rimmed eyes, the both of them.

This was my informed consent: "You know the drill, right?" Actually, I am fine with that, though I did have a moment of feeling pissy about how blasé we all are now about slicing me open. This will be the fourth major operation since the end of August, the third on my right shoulder. They anticipate removing the spacer that's in there and either giving me another (if still infected) or if everything is pristine, giving me another prosthesis.

NOTHING showed on the x-rays of the left shoulder -- which absolutely blows my mind, because I cannot even use the damned arm, and the slightest jostling causes intense pain. The PA will show ShoulderMan the films today or tomorrow, to see if the Master has a different interpretation.

And so they "consented" me for bilateral shoulders on Monday, but with no real intention to do both -- the two of them said it was definite for the right side. In the interim, I am to try taking more muscle relaxants, and doing "whatever works." God, I wish ShoulderMan had been there. Not that I don't trust the PA and the nurse -- they are excellent -- but he is supposed to be the freaking orthopedic genius. And as nothing is working, I am kind of clueless how to help myself. Maybe I will slap the stupid TENS unit back on and groove to the funky beat...

Okay, so maybe he was busy, off somewhere saving limbs and lives. Or attending a conference full of ultra-important information that he really needs to know. Possibly, he is delivering a paper of earth-shattering significance, being the Bone Sage.

This morning, I tried using the arm, with no improvement and excessive pain. So I switched back to one-arming it with the infected-as-all-get-out right arm. [We all know it is still infected, or re-infected, if one wishes to engage in semantics. My fevers, white count, C-RP, etc. all are screaming to be acknowledged.]

And then I blithely, unconcernedly, stupidly, picked up the full carton of milk. No, that wasn't so stupid. What was stoopid was doing it twice. (Back on 22 May 2002, after falling and fracturing my leg and other skeletal parts, the Evil Deaf Asshole Nurse made me stand on it -- slamming the door to the hall shut and hissing "It's not broken, stand up, standupstandupstandup!" And so I tried, falling back to the floor with another loud c-r-u-n-c-h sound. With such a great initial result, of course I tried it again -- at her effing urging. By then, my entire foot had rotated to an inhuman angle, the leg was purple and swollen, and, unbeknownst to Evil Deaf Asshole Nurse, unbeknownst to me, CRPS had begun...)

Ummm: Flashback.

{Who is that screaming? And is it now or is it then?}

I am prone to flashing back with doing-it-twice pain -- stoopid pain that could easily be avoided -- also when I am fearful.

Erin was my physical therapist -- home visits -- back in 2002. My left arm was messed up (nothing like falling on a freshly operated body part) and immobilized in a sling. My right foot and leg were in a cast, non-weight-bearing. My right arm was kind of bad off -- it had initially been scheduled before the left for replacement and I don't recall why the switch was made. So when the time came for me to try standing up, with Erin and Fred right there, I could not do it.

It felt physical. I simply could not do it. I was weak, the one leg would not hold, it was impossible.

There surely was no relationship between my hyperventilation and shaking, and the impossibility of standing beside the hospital bed that completely took over the bedroom. So when Erin began asking what I was afraid of, I had no clue. I kept trying to stand, then sinking back onto the bed, more and more approaching real exhaustion.

Once Erin elicited the underlying truth -- that I was not just afraid of falling, but that I knew with complete certainty that I was going to fall -- she and Fred got so close to me, so obviously had control over anything that might happen, that I conquered my fear just long enough to quickly stand, then sit back down.

Erin cheered. It wasn't easier after that, but I began to make some steady progress. Now and then, I would still get "stuck" by memories. Don't ever forget that fear is powerfully paralyzing. Fight fear at all costs, Dear Readers.

All of which to say that I could learn to appreciate black coffee.

Still, I am a coffee fanatic; I like it the way I like it; The rest of the day is instant doodoo if I cannot get properly prepared bean juice.

Good thing I am not nervous about Monday. Good thing I got over that stoopid fear of falling. And of doing it twice.

More Rotten Pot -- That's "Pot Pourri" to You!

Hmmm. I began this hodge-podge of an entry on October 3, and promptly forgot about it. In fact, when I stumbled upon the list of my dozen or so drafts, it was quite enlightening. As in: Oh, so that's where I left that thought.

Today is October 11, 2008, and I am different than I was on October 3. Primarily, I am much, much poorer, having lost beaucoup d'argent in the market. My health care costs (insurance premiums, co-pays, out-of-pocket, and care not covered) use over 85% of my private disability income. I am responsible for keeping the household afloat, so supplementary monies from my investments are the only help I have. Rather: HAD. I pay all utilities (except water), groceries, and half the mortgage -- plus, I cover the inevitable unscheduled expenses that occur in the maintenance of your average centuries-old European manor located in the Tête de Hergé. Stuff like the costs of reparation of smoky Rembrandts when Marmy decides to do a little vertical marking. Like weaving a textile patch to match the one-of-a-kind medieval tapestries that depict the warring and artistic history of the Castafiore family. Yes, and the more mundane stuff -- a better grade of lawn mower, hedge clippers, HVAC repair, and the odd new roof. So, as my investment account was decimated, my panic grew in countertime, in immensity. I cannot show fear to the Fredster, to the Felines -- not even to La Belle Biance Castafiore. "Don't worry!" I practically crow. And my-oh-my, the afflictions that go with living with CRPS / RSD? The exacerbations due to emotional stress? I've got 'em! For once, I will spare you the laundry list. (There is one thing, though, that has me confounded -- a blistery rash that feels and looks like a bad burn. Not knowing what to do, I slathered on some betamethasone dipropionate cream. When in doubt, find the closest steroidal concoction!)

After deleting all the now irrelevant detritus from the draft, and after adding all the flaming issues of the day, this is the sad bit that remains:

• I have fallen in love with Jon & Kate plus 8 -- I sometimes watch marathon sessions of the television show and am simply in awe... Laughter comes easily: yesterday, one of the sextuplet boys ran to Daddy, full of eureka and aha, to whisper "I am your son!"; Kate keeps her toenails painted because another one of the boys has a toe fetish; The twin girls shop for each other's Christmas gifts but insist, as well, that they each *receive* the same item that is being gifted... Still, I wish Kate would ease up -- verbally -- on Jon, although I get that she is maxed out in every imaginable way. He's amazing, she is awesome -- I am slack-jawed, and those children are blessed.


• Austrian National-Socialist Joerg Haider is dead. Saves me some trouble. Why is Mugabe still alive?


• I killed Pinochet. Yes. Yes, I did. Shush! I did, too! Much in the same way that I kept the paper cutout of the life-sized head of Jesse Helms impaled on my cork bulletin board with a 5.5-inch Henckels boning knife.


• What makes hydrogen peroxide fizz?


• The mail just came -- and despite my instructions that no bills find their way to me this morning, Fred somehow allowed Plumtree Orthopaedic Dudes' bill into the pile of junk mail (a Vera Bradley catalog, a Fidelity mailer on "retirement planning," and my yearly "invoice" for our CCF-sponsored Ethiopian child). How is it that my insurance refuses to pay for the services of the PA who apparently assisted my orthopedic surgeon in my recent surgeries? Even more wondrous... how is it that said PA *dares* to charge me $7,427.12 for his services when he is as much a surgeon as I am? And... jagged deep breath... what the hell is this additional $17, 125 listed as a balance? Plumtree Orthopaedic Dudes have always engaged in crooked billing, in my experience, but after two go-rounds, years back, I gave up trying to fight it. So how screwed am I? If you have followed my saga, you know that my real and actual (i.e., not the PA) orthopod is yammering the pros and cons of gifting me with a new right shoulder prosthesis, once he is convinced the infection that decimated the success of the old one is definitively gone. Will he proceed if these charges are still in dispute? Because in dispute they are. The hospital bill was over $100,000 and was paid in full by insurance... what is the problem with resolving the surgeon's fees? Could it be that they have finally caught on to the fraudulent billing (primarily double-dipping, duplicate charges in masquerade)? I have excellent coverage and am darned lucky to have it -- but I pay over $17,000 a year for the privilege (privilege?). Where did I stash those spare millions?


• Sarah Palin, reverse-nepotism in action!


• Does crystal meth give women a high, whiny voice? Or do women with high, whiny voices have an unusual affinity for the drug?


• And, as always, I wonder, along with Bill Cosby: Why is there air?