2017: My Year in Health
January/February
It’s been a mild winter, so I have been able to engage
in Women’s Running’s excellent “Couch to Half Marathon” training program
outside. After a stress reaction in my right femoral neck derailed last year’s half-marathon
and triathlon goals, I’ve been slowly getting back into running. This program,
entirely based on run-walk intervals, is perfect for me. It also emphasizes
cross-training, so I’m really getting fit with the yoga, Pilates, and swimming.
It’s going to be a great year.
March
Orthopedist: “So if it walks like a duck and quacks
like a duck….”
Me: “Another stress reaction?”
Orthopedist, after x-ray and MRI: “A mirror image of
last year. Your right side is completely healed up, but now it’s the left.
Because you’ve had two in less than a year, I recommend you go to your GP for a
bone density scan and some blood work. You can start walking for exercise in
June.”
April
General practitioner’s colleague: “Blood work is fine.
The bone density scan shows you just barely have osteopenia in your femoral
necks. You’re just slightly on the young side for that. The next step is to see
an endocrinologist to figure out why your bones don’t like you.”
May
Endocrinologist: “Let’s do a couple gross urine tests.
I don’t think you’re absorbing enough calcium because you don’t have a colon.”
Me: “Could the high doses of prednisone I took as a
kid have something to do with this?”
Endocrinologist: “Nah.” [Researchers are starting to see mounting evidence to the contrary.]
June
Looking in mirror after a shower at a mole that
resembles a wood-tick on my right boob, I realize I first discovered it nearly
two years ago and it’s been three or four years since my last mole scan.
Dermatologist: “You have a melanoma. They make up
about only 5% of all skin cancer diagnoses but account for nearly 75% of all
skin cancer deaths, so get that sucker excised right quick.”
July
It’s a short, outpatient operation, less than an hour,
done with a local anesthetic.
Dermatology surgeon: “So you like beer? Are you
familiar with Lift Bridge?”
Me: ::grunt,
pant:: “Yeah, that’s a prominent Minnesota one. Commander is my favorite.”
Surgeon: “My husband and I are co-owners. Nurse? See
that white thing there? That’s the breast capsule.”
Me: struggling to
stay conscious, didn’t realize breasts came equipped with capsules, so she must’ve
cut rather deeply, sweating profusely
 |
| Image courtesy of Medicallessons.net |
Surgeon: “Commander, the barleywine – you must be a
true beer geek. My favorite is our Mango Blonde.”
I drive myself home and buy beer on the way. She’s
left me with a 3-inch scar on my right breast, which has slightly misshapen it,
thus dashing my dreams of becoming a Playboy centerfold. My main physical
activity of the summer, swimming across Lake Nokomis, must be suspended for a
few weeks while the incision heals.
August
Another mole scan as part of melanoma follow-up. I
think I’ve met my insurance deductible for the year! You know, it’s been a
while since my last brain scan. I can’t even remember which year it was, so
maybe I’ll get one while it’s cheap. (Oy! I haven’t had one in three years?!)
September
It was Saturday of Labor Day weekend. My husband and I
were doing household chores so we could leave the next day to celebrate our
anniversary in Duluth. I was clearing away a stack of mail and saw the letter
from my neurosurgeon. I opened it, knowing it would be similar to letters in
the past: “Still looks the same, no change. We’ll contact you to schedule a
follow-up MRI in 14-18 months.”
It was a short letter,
certainly. Maybe only four sentences. In those four sentences, he used the word
“just” three times. Just, meaning “mere,” “insignificant,” “slight.” However,
one big word erased all the justs:
Unfortunately. Unfortunately, it had grown. (Just 1-2 mm). I was to call his office and schedule an appointment
to discuss surgery to remove it.
I read and reread the
letter. I took a few steps to my left. Then I took a few more steps to my
right, as if by positioning myself in space I could make sense of what I had
read. I blinked dazedly and said the only word that came to mind: “Fuck.”
I went into the basement
and showed Brian the letter. We sat on the couch, stunned. There’s nothing like
the sudden, unexpected proposal of brain surgery to knock the wind out of your
sails.
That week, we parsed the
letter, trying to convince ourselves that the neurosurgeon only wanted to talk
about the possibility of surgery, not the certainty. We met with him on the
following Friday. He greeted us with, “It’s good to see you again, though I’m
sorry it’s under these circumstances.” He then led us into his room where he
proceeded to show me a model skull with different shaped bone
flaps cut out of
it and different versions of titanium skull fasteners. I realized he was
talking about my skull and this was
not a “maybe someday,” but a “let’s do this in the next three months” kind of
visit.
 |
| Image courtesy of DePuys Synthes |
October
Second opinion
neurosurgeon: “I completely agree with this course of action.” [Exception: He
wouldn’t have prescribed anti-seizure meds after surgery, but my surgeon did.]
Pre-operative physical
examination with my GP: “Weren’t you just in here in August? You’re the third
person in your 8-person book group to have a meningioma removed? What kind of books
are you guys reading?!”
On Halloween, a “stealth
MRI” is done to give exact coordinates for where to drill my skull.
I’ve nearly met the
out-of-pocket maximum for the year, and I haven’t even been admitted to the
hospital yet.
November
November 1st: craniotomy to remove meningioma.
First night spent in ICU.
November 2nd: catheter and drainage tube
removed, moved to regular floor
November 3rd: discharged
November 6th: follow-up neurological function
appointment with GP’s colleague
November 11th: spend three hours at orthopedic
urgent care and an ultrasound lab to rule
out deep vein thrombosis due to sudden intense foot pain
November 15th: head staples removed by
neurosurgeon’s assistant (23 staples total)
December
December 1st: Check-up with neurosurgeon,
should be cleared to drive
December 8th: Mole scan, as part of every
3-month melanoma protocol
December 22nd: Regular gynecological exam. We’re
taking bets now for any fun,
actionable item like “uterine fibroids.”
Comments
Post a Comment