Once a legitimate blog. Now just a collection of memes 'n menz.
I saw my dentist today for the first time since last September’s surgery. This is not where I thought they split my jaw. All this time I was thinking it was front and center when it turns out it was behind my last molar. This also explains why they didn’t have to remove any teeth and why I have no feeling in my lower jaw; they had to cut the nerve!
How do people without insurance do it?
Short answer, they don’t.
Healthcare in this country sucks.
I went in for my second once-every-three-week Keytruda infusion today. I was handed this “informational sheet” at check-in. I mean, I knew this shit was expensive, but that $30K figure isn’t for the full course of treatment; it’s per infusion. A year’s worth of treatments rounds to more than half a million dollars.
As I was getting unhooked from the IV, the nurse and I had a long conversation about the state of healthcare in these United States and agreed that we needed Medicare for all, no questions asked. We’re the only “first world” country without universal healthcare and frankly, it’s a fucking embarrassment.
Just kidding.
4 weeks post surgery. Healing continues. Left side of my jaw and chin is still mostly numb, although sensation is definitely coming back and it’s better than it was three weeks ago.
The left side of my face is still a bit swollen, but at least I don’t resemble American Dad like I did when I first got out of the hospital.
(That was no exaggeration. Again sorry, no pictures!)
Despite one side of my jaw and lower lip being numb, my speech is still understandable and everyone says my voice is still pretty much the same as it was prior to surgery. At first it felt like I was speaking with a mouthful of cotton, but that’s dissipated over the past few weeks either because I’ve grown used to it, or because of further healing.
I’m supposedly still NPO, but who am I to follow all the rules? I’ve had swallowing issues for years and have learned to deal with them. Even my doctors say, “Well, you shouldn’t be eating, but since you have developed ways of dealing with the swallowing issues you had before and you feel confident you’re not going to choke…wink wink nudge nudge.” So right now I’m in a kind of hybrid space. Swallowing is still an issue (as is opening my mouth wide enough to get any normal amount of food shoveled into it), but I know my limits. I have been eating soft foods and drinking, but also continuing to use the feeding tube for medications and the tasteless formula I need to ingest to keep my calorie count up. (Sorry, no pictures.) I’ve also shed the easiest 20 pounds I’ve lost since my last cancer—something I’m not upset about in the least.
The area on my wrist where tissue was harvested to patch the hole left where the tumor was removed from the back of my tongue—while looking awful—is exactly where it should at this point in the healing process according to my surgeon. I keep telling myself that six months from now everything will look normal…or at least close to it. The area on my thigh were they harvested skin to patch my wrist is completely healed although still bright red. (Again, totally normal.)
The back of my tongue on the other hand, looks great. I failed to ask for a photo when he scoped me a week ago. I will remember to do that when I see him next month (and will share it).
My energy level isn’t yet back to what it was prior to all this happening, but again, that’s to be expected. I spend most afternoons napping and then regret it in the evenings as it leaves me feeling more worn out and generally “sick” than I did beforehand. Night time sleep has also been a mess, although last night was the first time I’ve slept longer than in hour-long increments.
The good news in all this is that the surgery got all of the cancer, including the bit that had “nerve and vascular involvement.” No evidence of it spreading to any lymph nodes or anywhere else. Still, my ENT wants to followup with further therapy “just in case.”
Since I went through radiation for my previous cancer, I flat out refused that as his recommended next course of action. I’m not going to put myself through that again and working in the same area as twenty years ago carries—per my radiation oncologist—the very real danger of “blowing out my carotids.” So…
Keeping that in mind, my ENT then suggested Immunotherapy, so that’s my next stop on this journey. I meet with that oncologist in a couple weeks.
In anticipation of next Tuesday’s surgery and the subsequent NPO order, onThursday I got the gastric feeding tube inserted. The appointment was at 1 pm, requiring being at the hospital for check-in at 11 am. It was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out thing but like with so many things these days, it was anything but.
Turns out I wasn’t wheeled into the operating room until nearly 4 pm. We got bumped three times for incoming traumas. (It’s a trauma hospital.) We got back home around 6 pm.
The post-op pain has been manageable with Tylenol, but even so, sleeping was difficult Thursday night; thankfully not so much last night. Pain was a solid 7 yesterday at the site, but it’s dropped to about a five or so today…except when I cough. Home Health delivered supplies and enough flavorless (because I obviously won’t need to taste it) protein “drink” today to keep me nourished for quite some time after I’m eventually released from the hospital and can swallow solid food again.
Shit’s gettin’ real, folks.
so, Senate Republicans put on their usual dog-and-pony kabuki. they did that thing where they rend their garments, throw their arms up in despair, and wail ‘how can I in good conscience vote for this terrible bill? so conflicted! so conflicted!’
the media gobbles this Lucy-and-the-football shit right down. it makes for such great headlines. Republicans in disarray! legislation in jeopardy! will they actually defy the Mad King?
and then, when it comes time to vote, every almost single fucking Republican is a ‘yes.’
so now, the Big Beautiful Pile Of Shit goes back to the House, where we can watch the same pretend-garment-rending happen all over again.
three Republican senators actually had the bravery to vote against this economic abomination. Tom Tillis, Rand Paul, and — holy shit — Susan Collins! this time, Susan Collins didn’t susancollins. she actually stuck to her guns and voted against the bill she swore she wouldn’t vote for.
but you know who did just susancollins her way to infamy? Lisa Murkowski. you can drop blame for the bill’s passage right in Lisa’s lap. if she’d voted no — as she implied a thousand fucking times that she would — the bill would have gone down in defeat, 49-51.
Lisa Murskowski is so sad right now. she can’t understand why Lisa Murkowski didn’t prevent Lisa Murkowski from doing what she did.
“I know that in many parts of the country, there are Americans that are not going to be advantaged by this bill.”
“we do not have a perfect bill by any stretch of the imagination. my hope is that the House is going to look at this and recognize that we’re not there yet.”
fabulous. Lisa’s going to absolve herself of any culpability, and kick the can across the Capitol Building back into the well of the House. she’s going to hope Republican Reps bail her out.
oh, sure. because Madge Three-Toes and Handey Oakley and Holy Mike Johnson and the whole worthless lot of them can always be depended on to do the right thing.
thanks a fucking lot, Lisa. here’s a present from the American people.
who’s the biggest pantload in the Democratic Party right now? I’m thinking it might be this guy.
“NEWS: I just got the name struck off this bill with a move on the floor of the Senate. It is no longer named ‘One Big Beautiful Bill.’”
awesome work, honcho. that’ll solve everything. you have totally met the moment, Chuckers.
write yourself a strongly-worded letter.
in a world of Chuck Schumers, be a Jasmine Crockett.
I don’t really understand what it is that y’all plan to go back and tell your constituents. the reality is that you have sold your constituents out for 83 people in this country. how is it that you can explain that we still are running up the credit card and we have nothing to show for it except for the fact that we won’t have food on the tables and we won’t have health care?”
I’d love to predict the imminent demise of the Republican Party, because none of this shit is popular.
Harry Enten: “you don’t have to be a mathematical genius to know that these are horrible, horrible, horrible numbers. Washington Post, -19 points, Fox News -21 points … holy Toledo — you just never see numbers this poor … to quote Sir Charles Barkley, ‘terrible terrible terrible’ … it is one of the most unpopular pieces of legislation that I have ever seen.”
and that clip is from from before the bill cleared the Senate. wait until the House passes this shitpile of a bill, Donny signs it into law, and Cletus finds out that Dear Leader lied to him about saving Medicaid — and now grandma has to come live with him because her health insurance went fuckity-bye, and the nursing home kicked her out onto the street.
you would hope that Republican voters will remember this all the way to Election Day next year. but the average MAGA is basically the guy from Memento, who literally can’t remember what happened five minutes ago, unless it’s tattooed onto him.
so it’s up to us to stay angry, and never let your drunk MAGA uncle at Thanksgiving forget how Dear Leader screwed him.
oh look, it’s just the worst people in the world, having the time of their lives at the Grand Opening of America’s newest concentration camp, Alligator Auschwitz.
yeah, that let’s trample all over basic human rights shit sure is fucking hilarious.
hey, you know who else laughed it up while doing war crimes? these jolly madcaps.
those are guards and office workers at the actual Auschwitz, kicking back during some downtime.
oh, huh.
folks, these are truly historic times we’re living in. it isn’t every day you get to watch an American president’s brain leak out of his ears in real-time.
reporter: “Mr. President, is there an expected timeframe detainees will spend here? days, weeks, months? and does that have anything to do with the immigration judges you just spoke about, being trained and staffed here?”
Donny: “what was the first part of your question?”
reporter: “is there a specific timeframe you expect the detainees to stay here? days, weeks, months?”
Donny: “in Florida?”
reporter: “yes.”
Donny: “I’m gonna spend a lot. look, this is my home state. I love it. I love your government. I love all the people around— these are all friends of mine. and they know I’m— very well. I’m not surprised that they do so well. they’re great— people. uh, Ron has been a friend of mine for a long time. I feel very comfortable in this state. I’ll spend a lot of time here.”
in the space of one second, Donny forgets what question he’s been asked, and starts improvising a nonsensical answer.
does Donny even know what planet he’s on right now? I’d love to see a reporter stand up and ask ‘Mr. President, what day of the week is it?’
hey, worthless scribblers of the corporate-controlled press — any interest in reporting on the obvious deterioration of Mad King Donny Demento?
I thought so.
you know, there are a lot of things in this world that have never happened — but if you were to put together a list of all the things that never happened the most, the heartwarming tale we’re about to hear from Kristi Noem would def be in the top five.
“Joe Biden let the worst of the worst come in. they other day I was talking to some marshals who have been partnering with ICE. they said that they had detained a cannibal, and put him on a plane to take him home, and while they had him in his seat, he started to eat himself. and they had to get him off and get him medical attention.”
MY GOD, PEOPLE, THEY’RE EATING THE DAWGS. THEY’RE EATING THE CATS. THEY’RE GNAWING ON THEIR OWN ARMS.
because I’m a responsible journalist and everything, I googled “ICE detains cannibal” — just to double-check, because who knows? maybe this patently ridiculous allegation isn’t just some fever-swamp hallucination of Kristi’s. maybe it actually happened.
fact check: fuck off, puppy perforator.
every search result links back to yesterday’s press conference, and everyone is mocking Kristi for being a dumb-ass — with the exception of the wingnut media. they’re printing it as if it were God’s own truth.
check out the New York Post.
because of course they are. it’s good business. no one ever went broke underestimating the gullible stupidity of MAGA.
As I wrote a few weeks ago, a troublesome spot appeared on the back of my tongue one day and based on my history, my ENT decided a biopsy was in order. The biopsy was performed, and it came back as a malignant squamous cell carcinoma.
I met with him on Monday to discuss my options. I went through seven weeks of radiation therapy back in 2003 for my laryngeal cancer. This took care of that, and I’ve been cancer-free for the past twenty-two years. But the radiation took a huge toll (that actually didn’t start manifesting until about three years ago). Even with the hell I went through with those treatments, when my doc presented the options—surgery, radiation, chemo (or some combination of all three) and after he described the surgery (it’s horrific), I immediately zeroed in on the radiation again. Trouble is, I might not be able to have radiation again.
So as not to drag this thing out, after much reflection—and speaking to a dear friend who’s been a nurse since I was in high school who talked me off the ledge yesterday—surgery remains the best option. It’s not going to be fun by any means, but after speaking to the surgeon who’s going to be handling my tongue reconstruction after the tumor has been removed, I feel much better about the whole procedure. It’s a ten hour procedure. Afterward I’ll be in the ICU for three days, followed by another week or so in the hospital. I’ll have a feeding tube for some amount of time, and there will be weeks—or months—of speech and swallow therapy once I’m released. The doctor I spoke to today said everything should “mostly” be back to “normal” by the first of the year—although a complete recovery could take up to a year.
How am I dealing with this? Last night—prior to speaking to my friend—I was near tears. After speaking with her (who is dealing with a much more serious cancer herself but beating it into submission) I wrapped my head around the idea that this is just one. more. adventure. in this thing called life.
I have no doubt whatsoever that I will come out the other side cancer free; it’s just getting from here to there that’s probably going to test me in ways I can’t even begin to imagine. Or not. Maybe I’m stronger (as my friend insists) than I believe.
It will probably be another 5-6 weeks before this happens so I have plenty of time to mentally prepare. As Ben said, “It’s the unknown that’s the worst part.”
All I know is that—much like 22 years ago—I refuse to let a group of runaway cells the size of a pencil eraser dictate shit.
“Right, Bubba?”
I’m not talking about the Middle East being inches away from WWIII, or the latest attempted power grab by the orange clown in the White House. No, this time it’s more personal.
As many—if not most—of you know, I was diagnosed with laryngeal cancer back in 2003. Through a combination of fortunate events (and damn good medical care), I came through it—although not without some battle scars—and have been cancer free for the last two decades.
Everything’s been good, but lately I’ve been having more than the usual difficulty (a long-term effect of that previous course of radiation) swallowing. Stuff was getting caught on the way down, and while I’ve been able to successfully hack it back up and get it down on a second try, I was concerned enough that one day I reached down my throat and felt something—odd—on the back of my tongue. I made an appointment with my ENT. He ordered a CT scan and the results came back clear. Still, he shoved that infamous scope up my nose and down my throat and saw a spot where things had been getting caught. “Probably just an ulcer,” he said, “but with your history let’s be sure.”
I was supposed to go in for a biopsy yesterday, but when I went in on Tuesday for my pre-op screening, we discovered that I was never told to discontinue one of my medications, so now it’s rescheduled for this coming Monday.
It’s not my first biopsy; it’s usually an in-and-out the same day thing, but last time I had one done (this past November) I ended up in the hospital for several days because my blood-oxygen was remaining stubbornly low post-op. They finally decided that I had some kind of non-specific pulmonary infection and sent me home with a strong antibiotic and oxygen. It resolved itself in about a week, my numbers climbed back into the mid 90s and the oxygen generator went back.
But this time, as I got the pre-op paperwork from my insurance it mentioned not only the laryngoscopy with biopsy (expected), but also partial glossectomy. WTF? He’s planning on cutting out a part of my tongue? This was not discussed. I spoke at length with a good friend who’s been a nurse since probably I was in high school who managed to talk me off the ledge. She said that particular line item was in there because it was pretty standard, CYA stuff—especially with Medicare—in case he got in there, discovered it was not just an ulcer, and decided to excise the whole thing immediately.
This still has me a little freaked, mostly because of not knowing how it’s going to affect speech and swallowing if he decides to take out a chunk of the back of my tongue for however long it takes for it to heal. And then of course, if the biopsy comes back as malignant, then there’s all that to deal with, which—having been to that rodeo once already—I am most definitely not looking forward to going through again.
So if I go quiet—no pun intended—for some time after Monday, it’s because I have other things on my mind…
A couple weeks ago I went in for my annual visit with my Ear/Nose/Throat doctor. Same routine as always: snake the laryngoscope up my nose and down my throat, make some vocalizations, receive an “all clear” from him, and on my way for another year.
That visit was different, however. This time he spotted a polyp on one of the vocal folds. He said he didn’t think it was anything to be concerned about, but considering my history, he wanted to err on the side of caution and recommended a biopsy to be sure. Since he’s on the verge of retirement (same guy I’ve been seeing for the last 20+ years) and now only working part time, he referred me to a colleague.
I met the new doc (very easy on the eyes—very easy), and was immediately impressed with how thoughtful, thorough, and caring he was. He had a look at the little nubbin as well, agreed with the assessment of my primary ENT, and scheduled the biopsy for last Friday.
Even though I was getting knocked out completely, I figured it would still be a simple in-and-out procedure just like such things have always been in the past. I was wrong. My O2 levels in recovery were consistently below 90%. I ended up being put on supplemental oxygen and was checked into the hospital for observation. They attempted to wean me off the O2, but were continually unsuccessful. After a CT scan, a pulmonologist was brought in, and she suspected lingering pneumonia or some other non-specific respiratory infection based on the imaging. It was her opinion I was well enough to go home on a full course of antibiotics and if I was willing to stay on the O2
By that time I was crawling the walls to get out and jumped at the opportunity.
So here we are. I have a followup this afternoon with the surgeon. I had to run some vials over to the hospital this morning and I took a chance and went without being hooked up to the O2 (the hospital is only a few minutes from the house and I had the canister with me just in case). The whole time my meter was reading between 93 and 95%, which is the best it’s been since all this started, so it looks like the antibiotics are finally taking hold.
And oh yeah…I’m home for the duration of the antibiotics, so there is something positive to come out of all this.
Damn the Republicans all to Hell.
I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have decent insurance. Come to think of it, I do know. I’d die.
I’m on two types of insulin, as undoubtedly most Type 2 diabetics are: a short acting type to be taken before meals, and a once-a-day long-acting variety that helps keep glucose stable the rest of the time.
In my particular case, it’s Novolog for short-acting, and Tresiba for long-acting. My endocrinologist prescribes these in 90 days supplies which—as you can imagine—is a lot of boxes of pre-filled syringes. With my insurance I pay $80 for each 90-day supply; a steal I know. I looked at the retail price they conveniently print out on each order, and I was beyond shocked. (The same goes for the other medications I take on a regular basis.)
Novolog—which is basically just plain old insulin—in that 90-day quantity retails for $3100. The Tresiba goes for $2400.
So, four refills a year of each would come to a grand total of $22,000 a year.
That comes to a little less than a third of my pre-tax income.
Who can afford to pay that?
And don’t even get me started on the cost of the Libre3 monitors…
Despite my continued social distancing and mask-wearing-in-public, I have somehow managed to come down with pneumonia. Again. Second time within the last twelve months…and it sucks. At least this time the symptoms were much less severe and there wasn’t any pain, unlike the bout last spring that landed me in the hospital for four days.
Still, it’s not fun. Thanks to a regimen of modern pharmaceuticals and a knowlegeable (and I must say, cute, gay) doctor at urgent care earlier this week, I do seem to be on the mend. Now before you scold me for not getting the vaccine this year, I will accept full responsibility for that. With everything else that’s been going on, it completely slipped under my radar and I going forward I will not make that mistake again.
I’m cleared to return to work Monday if symptoms continue to improve. Not looking forward to that, but thankfully next week is my two-days-in-the-office with the other three working from home.
I got my COVID booster yesterday…and my yearly flu shot.
This one has knocked me on my ass much the same way dose #2 did. And I was praying for death at 3:30 this morning when the fever and chills kicked in, along with the muscle and joint pain. I called out sick today and went back to sleep after Ben had left for work, and slept until nearly 10 am. I ran out for coffee and to the mailbox and came back home and plopped myself in front of the computer. I lasted another hour or so and decided it was time to go back to sleep. Sammy was fine with that—at least until a delivery person came to the front door and that was the end of my nap.
In other news…
Oops! I did it again! (Hopefully the last time for many more years.)
This is not what the delivery person was dropping off today. I picked this up yesterday.
I can hear y’all now: “Are you insane? Didn’t you just buy a new MacBook a few months ago?”
Yes. Yes I did. But believe it or not, this purchase was all part of a long term plan both Ben and I had in put place earlier this year when we’d both reached the end of our patience with our respective butterfly keyboard MacBook Pros. We knew the more powerful M1 chips would be coming out before the end of 2021, but we each went ahead and replaced our old gear with the basic M1s—knowing full well we’d be able to trade them back into Apple for a significant amount of money to be shaved off the cost of the new machines. And that’s what we did.
As I wrote earlier, I ordered, then cancelled, the reordered again a new MacBook Pro the day they came available. Ben ordered the same day, and his laptop was due to arrive yesterday. Because I’d hesitated, my order was pushed out two weeks further.
Scrolling through my news feed yesterday, I ran across a post that basically said, “Don’t want to wait? You know you can pick up any of the standard configurations at your local Apple Store today, right?”
It was true. I verified that the model I wanted was indeed available, and canceled my previous order outright. I drove to Scottsdale and came home with a shiny new 14-inch MacBook Pro.
Everything went well until I got to the point in the initial setup where you’re offered the opportunity to transfer your data from a backup or from another Mac.
Begin rant…
I use CarbonCopyCloner to do a nightly backup of my data to an external USB SSD. Like I’d done in times past, I plugged it in and directed the Mac to use it to transfer my profile and settings.
It read the disk and started transferring my data. I was kind of surprised that it was taking so long; after all, these new machines are supposed to be speed demons.
It finally finished up and I logged into the machine. Because these machines always ship with a slightly out-of-date OS installed, so I went about starting the update. Almost immediately I get a warning that I was almost out of disk space.
WTF? The Mac had a 1TB drive, and the data I was transferring was at most 350GB. I verified that it was indeed a 1TB drive in the machine, and then started looking at what exactly was using up space.
As it turns out, CCC was set to create “snapshots” when doing the nightly backups. These snapshots contain the the older files that are different from the current backup. In my case, this was taking up nearly 500 GB and it had—for some reason—been transferred over with the rest of the profile. Okay, I thought, I’ll just go in and delete all this garbage.
And thus a typical Apple clusterfuck began.
All those snapshots were locked. And they refused to allow themselves to be unlocked en masse. Why would they? Why should they? “It just works!”
At this point I got to check out the new “Erase All Content and Settings” function in Mac OS Monterey…several times.
TLDR, after another 6 hours and several more abortive attempts to get my data transferred, it finally worked.
It shouldn’t be this hard.
Home tonight and just relaxing to some classic Carpenters.
I should be going home tomorrow. Feeling much better tonight, but scheduled for one more test first thing in the morning to they can make sure that all bases are covered and/or run my accumulating hospital bill up even further.
Sammy has been so forlorn the past couple days that Ben brought him by the hospital this evening and they stood outside my window (room’s on the first floor) so the little guy could at least see that I’m still okay.
I’m not crying. You’re crying.
I woke up two days ago with some minor pain on my right side. I didn’t think much of it, attributing it to sleeping wrong on a pillow that was probably due for replacement. I tried a different pillow that night and woke up yesterday in the same situation. By mid-morning it was hurting to take any large breaths. By mid afternoon the pain had moved from my side to my chest, just right of the sternum and it started coming in waves; it wasn’t just when taking deep breaths. It was the worst pain I’d ever felt since passing those kidney stones 13 years ago. I didn’t think it was a heart attack because I had none of the other symptoms (numbness, tingling, shooting pain down my arm) but something was definitely amiss and Ben left work early to take me to the ER.
TLDR, after numerous tests and scans, it was not a heart attack, or—as my intake doctor and my nurse friend Cindy posited—gallbladder related. It is (probably aspiration) pneumonia. They started me on IV antibiotics this morning and I’m feeling a lot better already, but I’ll still be holed up here for at least another 24 hours…
More to follow, I’m sure.
I’m getting a colonoscopy and upper GI endoscopy today. This was prompted in part by anemia and some slightly-off norm blood tests last fall that had my doctor (who errs on the side of caution, bless her) sufficiently concerned to send me to a hematologist. The hematologist, in turn, referred me to a gastroenterologist, as even though I’ve had no indication of a GI bleed, this is the first thing they check when this sort of thing occurs.
It’s been ten years since the last one, so I was due for a colonoscopy this year anyway. The endoscopy was something my GI at the time of the first colonoscopy wanted to do in response to my decade-long history of recurring GERD. I never followed through with it because the GERD was controlled by Prilosec and quite frankly, I hated her guts. She had the bedside manner of a pit viper.
I’m not worried about results from the colonoscopy; the endoscopy has me more concerned. I’m fulling expecting a hiatal hernia diagnosis at the least.
Excuse me now while I run to the toilet—again—in response to the final prep solution I had to drink this morning.
UPDATE: I worried unnecessarily, both about the procedure itself and the outcome. I was literally asleep two seconds after they inserted the bite guard and don’t remember a thing (other than it was the most restful sleep I’ve had in ages) until I woke up in the recovery room. Esophagus and Colon were unremarkable. The doc removed 7 benign polyps from my stomach lining, all of which were bleeding to some degree. Source of the blood loss located and taken care of! As I told Ben afterward, “You’re stuck with me. No cashing out my life insurance just yet!”
To be filed under: Getting Old Is Hell
About a year ago my right shoulder started hurting whenever I had to reach for something on a high shelf or turn off a ceiling fan. I ignored it because it wasn’t debilitating, but as often happens when you reach a certain age, it didn’t magically go away, and of late has become a pretty painful affair, causing me to wince whenever I reach for my wallet in my right hip pocket. I saw my doctor last month about it, she sent in an order for an x-ray and I finally got around to getting it done last Friday. The results were as more or less as expected. At least it isn’t a torn rotator cuff.
“Your shoulder x-ray shows that there are no fractures or dislocations but you do have mild to moderate degenerative changes in the right shoulder. Degenerative changes are considered similar to arthritis type changes. If you would like to try physical therapy we can do that and if your symptoms persist then we can consider MRI.”
What the fuck is physical therapy going to accomplish if this is a “degenerative change” other than to drain my wallet?
Yesterday, shortly after arriving at work, I noticed a rather large, gray “floater” in my field of vision. I’ve had floaters as long as I can remember, but this one was different. It was much larger (about the size of a fingernail at arm’s length) and when I closed that eye, it would turn white—with circulating black flecks inside it. This was not normal, and of course internet searches convinced me I was dying.
My dad had a history of detached retinas, so I feared the worst and called my opthamologist. I saw her yesterday afternoon. As I described to her, it was like the afterimage you get when staring into a bright light…except it never fades away.
She dilated my eyes and looked around in them for several minutes. Turns out it is a fairly common aspect of aging; the vitreous gel (the substance “inflating” the eyeball) starts to break down as we get older, and in doing so it can pull away from the retina, causing these spots. There was no sign of tearing or separation or macular degeneration, so there’s that, but it’s annoying as hell because it’s dead-center in the field of vision in my left eye (my dominant, “reading” eye) and because I’m so aware of it now I’m getting eye-strain headaches. “The spot may disappear completely as it migrates, or it may stay put.” How reassuring.
She noted to call immediately if anything changes—especially seeing bright flashes, but otherwise it’s nothing to worry about. I made an appointment to see in her in month’s time to followup.
Bodies aren’t meant to stay the same. We are supposed to grow and change. We shouldn’t be making people in their 30’s, 40’s, 50’s, etc. feel like they need to strive for the bodies they had in their teens and 20’s. Or making people feel like they ‘need to get their bodies back’ after they have had children. These mindsets aren’t healthy and change is inevitable.”
As I’ve written about before, I have to say that cancer (and to a lesser extent, simply getting older) was my own body image wake up call. Among the other things it changed in my life, cancer obliterated my decades-long obsession with losing weight. Except for during my 20s when I wore size 31 jeans, I’ve always been—in Sears catalog parlance—husky, and when the weight started padding on in my mid-30s, my mantra became, “If I could only lose another 20 lbs. I could…wear tank tops to pride parades, get a boyfriend, win the lottery, blah, blah, blah.” (Truth be told, even when I was wearing size 31 jeans I considered myself fat.) After I came through on the other side of the cancer treatment however, for the first time in my life, none of that was important any more. I was actually comfortable in my own skin and I learned that it was so much easier to just take care of myself, eat as healthy as possible, and simply accept who I was rather than to fixate on what size jeans I had to buy.
Twelve years ago this week I was told three life changing words: “You have cancer.”
It didn’t exactly come as a surprise. I’d been dealing with continual hoarseness with no definitive diagnosis since late 2000. But it was still one of those moments when time seemed to stand still.
I had no health insurance, but thankfully—somehow—I managed to qualify for Medicaid. This at least eased the worry of how I was going to pay for any required treatment and though I was now out of work (after the diagnosis and a week in the hospital my contracting position was “eliminated”) and eeking by on unemployment and the kindness of friends and family, I knew all my medical expenses would be covered.
I found both a great Otolaryngologist as well as a Radiation Oncologist. I approached this ordeal knowing that I would make it through to the other side of treatment and beat this thing that had been dropped into my life. That was never in question. I wasn’t about to let a clump of cells less than half the size of a pencil eraser destroy my life.
Alter my life, yes. Completely redirect the course I was on, yes—although neither of those were particularly conscious decisions.
The next six months were hell; there’s no denying that fact. Seven weeks of radiation therapy left my throat so burned and inflamed that all I could mange to eat was pudding, jello, and Ensure. Occasionally I could manage some well-cooked pasta with mild sauce. I laughed at the time that one unexpected and welcome side effect of all this was that I lost 40 pounds. I looked great.
Toward the end of the therapy however, I was so sore even the maximum dose of Oxycodone wasn’t helping alleviate the pain, and oftentimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night sobbing. I did a lot of reading during those long, sleepless nights.
I asked my doctors if I’d ever get my voice back (because there were several weeks when I was left unable to speak at all) and they said, “You won’t get your old voice back, but you will have a voice.”
Considering the alternative, that was a welcome prognosis.
After the treatments were completed and my throat had healed somewhat, a biopsy was taken of the previously affected area in my larynx. The tests came back negative. The radiation had been successful. And thankfully this particular type of cancer was one that had one of the least chances of recurrence.
Over the next couple months, the pain and inflammation subsided and I was able to speak again (now with a voice that reminded me of an elderly woman or a young child, especially on the phone) and once again return to eating regular food.
Where did it come from? Everyone—including my doctors—were baffled because I’d never smoked and never drank to excess (the two leading causes of laryngeal cancer). But while I haven’t been tested, at this point it I would almost guarantee the source was HumanPappilomavirus, something that at the time was just starting to be correlated with the disease and contracted no doubt during an episode of unprotected oral sex during my wilder days in the underbrush of Golden Gate Park—or any number of other venues. (I won’t make apologies for not sticking a condom on every dick I sucked because I weighed the risks based on available knowledge at the time and found them acceptable.)
Anyhow…
When my five year anniversary arrived—the point at which one is generally labeled “cured” (or “in remission”)—I decided to mark the occasion by getting my first tattoo. Those of you who have been with me during this crazy blogging journey know how that turned out.
My semi-annual checkups kept coming back clean, so when the ten year anniversary rolled around I celebrated it with another tattoo (this time done properly) and breathed a healthy sigh of relief. Even though I’d been told repeatedly “You’re fine. You’re cured,” until that ten year anniversary arrived I’d always felt that perpetual Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. In fact, it wasn’t until my last checkup about six months ago that I reached the point where I felt I really could finally relax.
I saw a new Otolaryngologist last week for my bi-annual post cancer treatment checkup. I wasn’t impressed with the guy who examined me two years ago, so I mentioned to my Primary Care Doc that I wanted to go to a new one.
Good news all around. After snaking that scope up my nose and down my throat (first time I got to see what she was seeing via a pair of attached display glasses), everything is good. Yeah, my larynx still looks like a war zone with one cord still immobile and the rest of the area remaining permanently swollen, but no sign of any recurring malignancy.
11 years and counting, baby!
Insomnia is evil. I have no trouble falling asleep; in fact, it’s usually within seconds after my head hits the pillow. But for some reason almost every night between anywhere from 3 to 4:30 am, I wake up (usually from an intense dream) and can’t fall back asleep. I start worrying about what time it is and how soon my fucking alarm is going to go off, or even if I glance over and see I’ve still got over two hours before I have to be awake, my mind starts racing and at that point I’m fucked.
I so envy Ben’s ability to sleep for ten hours at a stretch and immediately fall back asleep if anyone wakes him up.
When I was in my 20s a trick I used on the rare instances I couldn’t get back to sleep after waking up in the middle of the night was to tell myself that nothing was so important that I needed to fret over it and lose sleep—especially since nothing could be done about whatever it was that was bothering me until morning anyway. If only that still worked…
…of my insurance before it runs out at the end of August.
I’ve been a bad boy. I haven’t seen a dentist since we left Phoenix. I was reasonably confident that everything was okay, because I brush, floss, and rinse twice a day, but I really wanted a cleaning, so I made a last-minute appointment with the dentist my primary care doctor recommended. The hygienist complimented me. “Whatever you’ve been doing, keep doing it!”
There were a couple very minor issues; an ancient filling that should be replaced and a chipped incisor—but nothing that can’t wait until I’m working again and fully reinsured.
From ARS Technica:
The use of silver in medicine is as old as Western medicine itself. Hippocrates is known to have used it to treat ulcers and wounds, the Romans almost certainly knew of its healing properties, and its use continued through the middle ages and up to the present day. In the antibiotic age, interest in silver may have waned a little. But with urgent need to fight antibiotic-resistant bacteria, there has been a resurgence in its use.
The reason is that silver can kill bacteria selectively, and more importantly, bacteria have been unable to develop resistance against it. Despite silver’s long medical history, we do not know how it operates.
A paper published today in the journal Science Translational Medicine sheds some light on silver’s success against bacteria. The most important finding is that silver—unlike most antibiotics—works in more than one way. This is perhaps why bacteria may find it difficult to build resistance to the chemical.
Here is silver’s multi-pronged approach: first, silver sticks very strongly to sulfur, found in parts of proteins. These sulfur groups normally bond to each other, holding proteins together and keeping the protein folded up in its correct shape. But if silver interacts with sulfur, then the protein cannot fold correctly, and thus it cannot do its job. Next, silver interferes with how bacteria use iron. Iron is often held in place within proteins by binding to sulfur. Since silver also interacts with sulfur, it blocks the iron from doing so. Finally, silver causes bacteria to produce extremely toxic substances called reactive oxygen species. These go on to cause damage inside the cell, harming the DNA, proteins, and even the membrane that surround cells.
The net result of this silver onslaught is bacteria with severe damage to their basic biochemistry. In addition, the membranes and walls that surround the bacteria are leakier after the silver treatment. This allows conventional antibiotics inside the cells; in their weakened state, the cells are much more susceptible to them. Bacteria are broadly classified into two groups, called Gram-negative and Gram-positive. Gram-negatives have an extra cell membrane that protects the bacteria, which makes it much more difficult for some antibiotics to penetrate the cell (examples include gentamicin and vancomycin). It seems that silver negates this advantage and allows even weaker drugs to do their jobs.
James Collins of Boston University, who led the research, showed that with added silver, less antibiotic drug is needed to kill the bugs. A great result in itself, but it gets better. Silver also reverses antibiotic resistance of E. Coli bacteria, making them, once more, susceptible to tetracycline.
These experiments not only worked in a Petri dish. When silver was added to standard antibiotics such as gentamicin and vancomycin, Collins could treat E. Coli infections in the bladder and abdomens of mice. Normally, these drugs have little effect on E. coli infections because they are designed to attack Gram-positive bacteria.
Finally, Collins showed that the mice themselves remain unharmed by silver. If he is able to repeat this work in humans, he may actually have a “silver bullet” for antibiotic resistance.
One of the things I miss most about Phoenix are the healthcare providers I had there. My Primary Care guy was amazing. My Ear-Nose-Throat physician was supposedly one of the best in the valley. My eye doctor was outstanding. Heck, I even liked my dentist. And working for the company I did down there, I had the added perk of only a $50 copay to any of our emergency rooms and any procedure I had performed at one of the hospitals didn’t cost me a thing.
Unfortunately, my luck in Denver hasn’t been as good. While my Primary Care physician is decent enough, he’s geographically undesirable. And since he only knows other doctors in his general area, that means anyone else I need to see (like an otolaryngologist for my yearly checkup) is also an hour drive from home. I found a decent eye doctor in Glendale (based on a referral I got through this blog a while back), so I’m hoping I can do the same again for my other providers.
I need a suggestion for a good primary care physician in central Denver/Glendale or the Greenwood Village/Lone Tree/Littleton area. Also a dentist. And if any of you have a therapist you can recommend, that would be great too. (With all that’s happened during the last six months, I’m reaching the point where I think I need to start seeing someone—at least until the mother-in-law moves out.)
With everything else that’s happened in my life since the start of 2013, I’m not surprised that a rather important anniversary slipped by under the radar.
I am now a ten-year cancer survivor.
April 1st came and went this year with none of the fanfare my 5-year anniversary garnered. I guess it was a combination of everything else that’s been going on coupled with a clean exam last November and the doctor’s pronouncement, “At this point, for all intents you’re cured and can relax. See me in two years,” that put this on the back burner in my mind.
That’s not to say I hadn’t thought about about it entirely. Almost immediately after getting inked for my 5-year anniversary (something that did not turn out the way I’d hoped; something you’ll remember if you’ve been reading the various incarnations of my ramblings for that long) I started wondering what I’d do for the big one-oh.
About a year ago it hit me.
Ten, ten, TEN:
Because I like dual meanings.
And who have I chosen to poke me, to guarantee that this time will not be a repeat of the last? Why, Erik of course!
Ben and I are planning a road trip in August, and a visit to Pea Ridge is definitely on the agenda.