Universe? Hello. It is me, Jenny. We both know that you have kicked me about a lot recently. And then while I was trying to catch my breath, you sucker punched me. And then you slashed my car tires. Apparently, your momma did not teach you how to play nicely with others.
But that is not altogether negative, because tough experiences make one a better person. More empathetic, more kind, more generous. All good stuff. So I get that. But I think I have had enough for right now. Karma-wise, I should be fine. I pay my taxes in full and on time, I let people holding only one grocery item jump in front of me in line, I like babies and kittens, I floss regularly. I know I am a strong person and all of that stuff, but I am getting a little worn out trying to prove it to you. So I would like you to officially note the following objection, for the record.
I am saying Uncle. OK?
Uncle.
UNCLE UNCLE UNCLE!
On "normal" days it is easy enough to pretend all is well with me. Try to hold it all together and balance all the spinning plates, hoping none fall. This week has not been a normal week. On Tuesday, it was Hopkins in the morning for IVs and scans, American Radiology for x-rays (re: lymph node involvement) and Centennial Medical for heart monitor fitting. The exhaustion level has been bad and getting worse, so my doctor wants to start me on Provigil to help combat the severe fatigue. Provigil is a stimulant and carries with it a small risk of heart explosion – not his exact words, but the gist. Since I have a benign murmur, it is prudent for him to check out my heart rhythm to ensure it would be safe with the stimulant meds. If these meds work, it may be bad news for Starbucks shareholders. Right now, my daily latte intake single-handedly funds Mercedes leases for at least three of the junior VPs. Throw in my morning bagels and the occasional scone and I am also paying for their childrens' private violin lessons.
Tuesday evening it was off to my therapist for some long overdue mental tweaking. Our appointments have taken a turn for the ridiculous. She used to hold me to high standards and push me. Lately I think she considers it a success if I show up and she can see that I am not actively trying to chew off my own hands. On my last visit, I caught her up on all the latest medical details. "So," I began breezily, "Here are my records … they are thinking subependynoma ... they cannot operate …"
Her pen stopped scribbling and hovered above the paper. She peered at me over her glasses with a flash of unrestrained expression before she composed herself. My therapist is a psychiatrist, an M.D., who has been practicing for thirty years. A large part of her practice deals with the truly "abnormal" along the spectrum of mental health. She professes a special fondness for her "schizophrenics – so fascinating!" When I first started seeing her and opened with, "I don't want you to think I am crazy but …" she countered with, "You don't even come close to crazy. A patient this morning thought he was John Lennon and that he could fly. It takes a lot to shock me." That fact that I could, for one brief unfiltered moment, alarmed me.
The breakthrough moment of this appointment was when she urged that I needed to "figure out [my] best life and live it."
I challenged, "You want me to live like I am dying?"
Pause … one second, two seconds …
"Yes," she replied evenly, "like you are dying."
The next day it was back to the regular docs for more heart monitoring and lab testing. I had to wear this heart thing for twenty-four hours. It attached to my chest and under the rib cage with adhesive electrodes that sprout rope-thick cords. The cords connect the electrodes to the actual monitoring device. The monitoring device itself resembles a large Walkman. This got strapped into a fanny-pack belt around my waist. Every time I peed it threatened to fall off into various public toilets. I think I would have left it there.
Between the chest electrodes and dangly cords and lumpy wire bumps and fanny pack, there was no discrete way to model this contraption. Since I was advised to go about my normal daily activities with this thing on, I went to lunch with my dad, to work and ran a few errands about town. The public reaction to my Bionic Woman look was mixed. Some gentler souls held doors for me and offered to carry my packages. They seemed unsure what exactly was so wrong that it would warrant such medieval and extreme medical intervention and took pity. The alarmists were a different matter. In our post 9-11 era, not every stranger looked at my possible Unabomber (female edition) device with kind eyes. I felt as though my moves were closely documented to ensure that I was not about to self-detonate in the Tampax aisle of Target.
Today it was back to Hopkins for evaluation by a new neurologist. I expected a strong talking to because I have not yet done the lumbar puncture. The logic behind the LP is to see if the tumor is shedding cells and infiltrating the spinal cord. If it is, then I don't even know what they would do, remove my spine? No, that cannot be right. In any event, he was fine with holding off on the LP since the MRI of my spine was clear. This makes me absurdly happy since I am breaking into a panicked sheen just typing the words "lumbar puncture." The thought of having my lumbar "punctured" makes me want to vomit, pass out and then buy a bus ticket to Mexico far, far away from organized medical care. Not necessarily in that order.
I have been told that the LP is really no different than an epidural. That, however, is factually untrue for one simple reason: An epidural is provided when one is in more pain that even the Devil himself could imagine. I knew labor would hurt but I had no IDEA how MUCH it could hurt. During labor, if the anesthesiologist had shown up with a pair of forks and told me the contractions would feel better if I would just stick the tines into my eyeballs, I not only would have complied, I would have asked him when the set of butter knives would be arriving so I could do the same with those. But to take a perfectly good spine and just PUNCTURE it … I don't know … the thought squicks me out.
But don't you worry your pretty little head that I get off scot-free in the bizarre medical test department for more than one full week. Nope. He thinks I may be experiencing seizures and wants me to have an EEG. You would think an event such as a seizure would be easy to discern -– one is either foaming and writhing about on the floor or one is not. Apparently, though, there are many flavors of seizure. My muscle twitching, word misappropriation, and the driving near-miss could all indicate seizure activity. It is also possible that I could be having sub-clinical seizures at night while sleeping and this is contributing to the endless fatigue, so I will likely do a sleep study as well.
Since we were at Hopkins anyway I decided to pick up my scan report for my breast MRI. I saw a breast specialist recently because I had a lump that was not going away. My OB checked it out and when it started to get bigger, he recommended more testing. I knew the radiologist's report would be ready, but had not heard from the Breast Center doctor yet. One guess what the report says? I can only assume that my boobs have felt left out from all the fun because they (well, one) has developed its own mass. I have a mass in my freaking breast. To match the mass in my freaking brain. Matching masses.
Now I have not TALKED to the doctor about this report yet since I picked it up at 5 today. She said, before, that scans can pick up false positives but if the scan came back abnormal, the next step would be a biopsy. So I wait. This is how all this brain nonsense started almost one year ago. Right before Thanksgiving. With a report. And a mass. A reported mass. And now I am tired. TIRED.
Hear me Universe, cut it OUT. Shakes fist at sky. Ok? Please?
This girl needs a break. And a stiff cocktail - Grey Goose, extra olives.
