Surgical Consent Forms and Other Hospital Delights

 OK, I lied and am squeezing in one more post . . .

Hospitals leave you  no options these days — either you sign their informed consent forms or they won’t operate. I listened carefully to the doctor as he listed off the dozens of horrible things that could go wrong (including they remove the lobe of my lung only to find the diagnosis was wrong and the spot was a bit of hard candy not cancer). Out of the corner of my eye I could see the consent form and it struck me as being very brief based on the horrific list the doc had just rattled out. Then he pushed it in front of me for me to read — “You could wake up dead. Sign here_______________ .”

Just the night before, the case manager from my medical insurance company called me to go over ways in which I could “protect myself” while I was in the  hospital — like insisting that anyone attending me wash his/her hands. She said “make sure you initial the lung that is to be operated on.” That was followed by dead silence on my part as I tried to visualize how I would accomplish this. Did I have to stay awake until I was splayed open and then apply my John Hancock? Or was it sufficient to initial the skin on the chest above the lung? Do  I use pen, felt tip or ball point? Then she warned me against the fish sticks and suggested I stick to the tuna melt. A full service case manager. But I was rather alarmed at the notion that I had to “protect” myself from the hospital — until I listened to the news in which there was a report about a hospital which had for the third time in one year operated on the wrong side of a patient’s brain. Those pesky hemispheres look so much alike. . .

After signing away any hope of coming away unscathed,  I was sent for my pre-admission tests. A Russian gentleman (not the same one from the thyroid biopsy department) literally tore open the front of my johnny and glued dozens of electrodes on my chest and belly so fast it seemed he was trying to win a race. Then just as fast he ran the EKG and then ripped the electrodes off — all the time repeating over and over “Well then, there is nothing we can do about that.” I am not sure whether such fatalism was meant to be comforting or whether he was crazy.

My next to last stop was the anestheseologist who looked at my questionnaire which included the question “Did you ever use recreational drugs?” to which I answered yes (in the sixties!). He put on an exaggerated look of horror — “NO! You smoked pot in 1968? Please don’t tell me you inhaled!” Hardy har har har.  On that light note I was sent down to radiology to have my chest smashed against a screen for a few minutes before being sent home with a piece of paper giving me instructions — “No food or water for the next 365 days and don’t even think about smoking a joint.”

Time for my annual medical leave

This time last year I was off work for a month recuperating from a total knee replacement. I enjoyed my time off so much that I thought I would do it again this year. But I want a new experience so I am going to have the lower lobe of my right lung removed along with some lymph nodes. My surgery date is Friday November 30th. Holy carp Batman, you say. That is kinda radical way to get a few days off!

Well let’s just say I’m special. The kind of lung cancer I have is very rare (about 1% of lung cancers) and very unaggressive (most of the time). The trick is to catch it early (I did) before it morphs up the nastiness ladder.  I met with the surgeon last week (he was hot) and we went over the procedure — he will attempt video assisted thoracic surgery which means I will have four incisions (one for camera, two for instruments, and one for extracting the lobe). If that is unsuccessful he will do the old fashioned procedure where they cut you in half and shake vigorously until your lung falls out. Then the sew you up and you hurt like hell for weeks.

All this is preamble to say I will be away for a bit but will resume blogging as soon as I am up to it. I have a whole bunch of posts in draft form that never made it to prime time (cause they were awful) — if ya really miss me I’ll post a couple of those. It will be good to get this lung business over with. So I’ll see you in a few weeks. Have a happy holiday season and drink plenty of venti peppermint mochas for me (with whip).

Ms Chunka Chunka Fatty versus the PET Scanner

Over 33% of Americans are obsese. Obsese people get sick more than thin people. And yet the hospital industry caters exclusively to thin people. Try fitting a fatty into a nuclear imaging tube — the extraction process alone requires preapproval from your insurance. The table is supposed to glide effortless in and out of the PET scanner — with Ms Chunky on board it groans and shimmies as two aides push hip flab inward making the patient into a giant calzone. Then once inside the patient gets to spend half an hour reliving the burial-alive scene from Kill Bill.

But let’s wind the clock back and get the full richness of the Fatty versus the PET Scan ordeal. The aide ushers the patient into the changing room and hands over the pile of hospital pajamas — pants and two tops (one to wear as a robe). Ms Chunky Fatty steps into the pants and pulls them up to groin level where they stop and begin to creep down again.  Deciding that they make fine (if somewhat restricting) leg warmers, Ms Fatty dons top #1. One arm fits just fine but the other arm would have to be at least seven inches closer to its mate to fit into the other sleeve. Top #2 will have to serve as the second half of the top. Elaborately laced, Ms Fatty sits in the waiting lounge hoping that the other patients ignore the peekaboo effect of her outfit.

Ms Fatty Ho-dressing patient notices that there is a scale against the wall and fears the worst. The aide comes back and yells across the room “Ms Fatty? Ms Fatty  please come over here for your height and weight. 5′ 6″ good, 260 lbs . . . well ok — Marge, I’m gonna need your help in  room eleven.” Marge, who is in the next wing of the hospital starts singing at top volume “Tote that barge, lift that bale, ya gets a little fat and start ta smell”. I don’t think that is how the lyrics are actually written.

I forgot to mention that Ms Fatty has been fasting since midnight and her breakfast consisted of a bottle of ClearScan medical fluid — the ingredients list says it is made out of water, oil, and mint flavor. For the first time in months Ms Fatty’s joints don’t creak when she gets out of her chair. During the battle to wedge her into the imaging tube she wonders if instead of drinking the oily concoction she was supposed to rub it on her hips and bottom.

Headachey and semi-delerious from a lack of food, Ms Chunk-o-Fat sits with the doctor to review the scan. “Ah, Ms Fat,” the doctor begins, “has anyone suggested to you that you might not be at your ideal weight?” Chunka Chunka replies “Has anyone suggested to you that you are a complete moron?” The doctor records in the medical record “Patient is combative.” and continues on to the scan results. “We must do some more tests.” says the doctor. “We’ll start with blood pressure. Stella, (he calls to the nurse) bring me the extra-large cuff please. Hmmmm. 210/105. Not good, not good. You need to reduce your stress.”

Turkey Neck

Every November I am reminded that the Shaolin genes are mighty dominant — not just the piercing blue eyes or the propensity to tell shaggy dog stories, but the wattle neck — the damn wattle neck. Generations of nice people who would have been hot if it were not for their neck flesh waving like the tide coming in and out as they pass the giblets around the Thanksgiving Day table. Gobble, gobble, gobble . . .  

The Shaolins have an ancestor who came over on the Mayflower (Edward Doty). Edward must have brought some neck issues with him from Merry Olde England and made them worse by being punished for fighting the only dual in Plymoth Plantation’s history by having his feet tied to his neck. In a thoughtful gesture, Edward willed his house and turkeys to  his wife so that she could raise her precious children so that each, in perfect health, could go forth and multiply, ensuring generations of wattle necks in the future.

The Shaolin neck has deceived many a suitor, remaining firmly tucked under a handsome jawline until the wedding night. Somewhere between opening the honeymoon hotel’s cheap champagne and returning from slipping into something more comfortable, that taught jaw line suffers a mighty convulsion and with a sound much like that made by intestinal distress, three inches of flesh suddenly drops. The Shaolin bride or groom returns to the love bed, amorous and randy, to be met by screams of horror.

Although no Shaolin records specifically call out gullet fraud as the grounds for divorice, there is an unusually high rate of divorce within the first few months of marriage in the clan as a whole. However, once past those critical first weeks, those matches who were able to close their eyes and think of England have exceptionally long and close marriages.  In fact Edward Doty’s marriage to Faith Clarke yielded seven children to add to the gene pool — pictures of Doty’s and Clarke’s descendents (check out Arthur C. Clarke, for instance) prove the dominance of the turkey neck. Benjamin Franklin was right — the turkey should have been the symbol for the United States, not the eagle!

Unfortunately, the current generation of descendents lacks the backbone of their forefathers and mothers and are opting for further deception — the neck tuck. All those sixteen year old girls who have their noses fixed over summer break and later go on to surprise their hubands by giving birth to enormous honkers have nothing over the neck deceivers. Even my own daughter has started a savings account for cosmetic surgery. I have assured her she is beautiful — and as long as she never turns to the side, her life can be rich and fulfilling like mine. Actually, I finally broke down and opened a savings account of my own.

This year, as you pass the platter of bird, stop and give thanks for your fine neck, your firm jawline, your ability to wear a scarf or necktie that is not the same diameter as your belt. Happy  Thanksgiving.

Wait a minute Mr. Postman

The postman always rings twice but since our doorbell does not work he does not get to talk to me about the Grateful Dead or George W much anymore. I did lurk at the door today in a fruitlelss effort to STOP the catalogs from coming . . . I have three large baskets of catalogs that we have received since October. LLBean Home, LLBean Fat Ladies, LLBean Regular Ladies, LLBean Rugged Males, LLBean Dogs, LLBean Sportsfisherman, LLBean Kids, LLBean Landlubbers, and LLBean Duck Bootsalooza catalogs have a monopoly on one basket and hold turf wars with the Landsend catalogs. Landsend is not really keeping  up — I find scraps of torn catalog pages every morning. What is worse is that Landsend has to share a basket with Winter Silks and Coldwater Creek. The shame of it!

The postman explained to me that he is legally required to deliver the mail to the addressee. Ha! I pounced — “Look at this catalog label. What does it say?” John answered “Current Resident”. I announced with satisfaction “Well I am Linshaolin, not Current Resident!” John looked at me blankly. “Do you live here right now?” Seeing what was coming I could not think fast enough on my feet. “No…well, yes….I mean but that is not my name it is just a descriptor so that you know you can deliver this catalog to anyone in this house.” John replied “Exactly” and handed over eight more catalogs.

Today was food catalog day. Does anyone really pay $47 for twelve pears wrapped in green tissue paper? If you do, please send me your name and address — I am having a special on pears — twelve for only  $36.50. And who eats salamis shaped like gingerbread men? Or cheddar cheese yule logs? Do you know of any corporations that give their clients macadamia brittle towers? Clearly someone buys this stuff. I guess it must be wealthy foreign students sending some Americana back home to the folks.

One year my husband and I entertained ourselves for an entire evening looking for the most outrageous catalog gift item. Here are some of the leaders: 8 ft long pepperoni, (Swiss Colony), diamond encrusted Wizard of Oz red slippers (some store in Texas), earrings made from spent Civil War bullets (a place in Gettysburg), and an “enlarger” (from Singapore’s Happy Family catalog). But the clear winner was a life sized Donald Trump manniquin wine display unit (Donald holding a bottle a la wine steward complete with white linen towel). The Donald was some staggering price and claimed to be one of a kind.

Having been unsuccessful at keeping them at bay I  have decided that I will keep all the catalogs this year figuring they will be good light reading during my recuperation. I will save the Handyman Toys and Boys catalog for last and won’t even peek inside to satisfy my burning curiosity — is it porn or is it diy?

Choosing Gifts

Since I am going to be laid up all December following surgery, I have to do my Christmas shopping now. Shopping for gifts and choosing the exact right thing for each person on my gift list is one of my favorite seasonal activities. And I have lots of people to shop for: my husband, daughter, brother, sister-in-law, their two kids  (who both have December birthdays as well), three friends from work, one internet friend for whom I am Secret Santa, Toys for Tots, the Coat Drive, and the homeless shelter for women and kids. With so many people I need to set a dollar limit for each — and getting the most for my money is a challenge. Getting the right gift for the right price is a bigger one.

I do splurge on my daugter — she is being graduated from college next month and so I am combining her graduation gift and her Christmas gift — a trip to Japan to visit her dear friend. I will also buy her some small gifts to open on Christmas eve — a laptop briefcase to launch herself into the working world, books, a necklace, and a gift certificate to Anthropologie (where you can buy nothing for less than $69. She is so easy to shop for since she has very defined interests. Any books, cooking gadgets, yoga related stuff, or photography equipment will be loved.

My husband, on the other hand, is brutally difficult to shop for. A) he has everything, B) his hobbies are tennis and art and there are only so many sweat bands and sable brushes one can buy before it gets terribly boring. I do spend hours searching for just the right books for him. Thank goodness his favorite mystery writer has a new book  out. And there is a highly praised compilation of interviews with American artists that is perfect. I always get him marzipan and a calendar refill in Harvard Square — that is tradition. And I make him a batch of peanut brittle (I make the best!). Every year I put an eraser in his stocking as a reminiscense of our youth when all we could afford at Christmas were things like erasers and items from the drug store.

Every year I make a basket full of homemade goodies for my brother’s family — cookies, chutney, fruit breads, candy. And the kids get gift certificates cause I have no clue what a 15 year old and a 19 year old boy would want. They love certs and cash! They each get two gifts — one for birthday and one for Kwanza/Christmas (they are adopted biracial kids and my brother and his wife are trying to preserve their ethnicity). I used to think that it was terrible that their special days got squashed in with Christmas but then  I found out that my sister-in-law makes a big celebration for each of their adoption dates.

My friends get neat gifts suited to their likes. I love to go to museum shops for their presents since those stores have unique and gorgeous things. Where else would I find both a Buddhist tryptich and an Orthodox Catholic one? Or coasters with Impressionist paintings on them? Or Nantucket baskets with polymer skrimshaw that looks like ivory? While I am there I make sure to note the things I like too — I am very generous in helping my husband out with ideas!

Charities get toys, kids coats, hand knit scarves, lap quilts, fancy soaps, and other much needed things. One year I made so many knit scarves for a shelter that I actually saw people wearing them throughout the winter. And, of course, the Salvation Army gets a donation every time I go out of the house! I am a total softie for bell ringers.

Then, of course, charity begins at home so I make sure that every couple of presents for other people are followed by something for little ole me. It is the only time each year when I buy myself really snazzy stuff (like today I ordered a faux mink bed jacket — oh yummy indulgence!). Christmas is not a time for practical presents — it is a time to spoil your loved ones, to remember those less fortunate, and to remind yourself that you are very special too.

Work’n aisle 8 at Home Depot

The other day I had finished mall shopping and was waiting outside for my husband to pick me up. I spotted an empty bench over by Home Depot and sat down. No sooner than I rested my butt, a small group of Home Depot sales associates gathered in that area for their cigarette break. One of them asked me  “So, are you new?” I replied “No, I am 58.” They laughed and  one of them punched the other playfully and said “She’s a  customer bozo.” We got to chatting and were engaged in banter when the  Supervisor appeared in a state of agitation.

The Supervisor went around to each one asking them how long they had been on break. He got to me and said “I’m not even going to ask you — I saw you get here 20 minutes ago. So I am going to write you up.” The others protested “No,  she’s the best employee you’ve got! Give her a break!”  I was greatly amused and went along with the deception. I saw my husband’s car and looked at the Supervisor. “You know what, don’t bother to write me up because  I quit.” I got up and got into the car — looking back I could see the clerks razing the supervisor who was looking horrified.

So just because I sat on the cigarette break bench I was assumed to be a Home Depot employee. I did work part-time during college in a department store. My turf was drapery hardware and wallpaper — how lucky can a girl get! So I thoroughly understand  the retail world and can look pretty convincing. Recently at Target a lady shopper assumed I was a sales clerk and asked me all sorts of questions about sheets. I know my sheets so I helped her out. And on the other foot I recently was helped for at least 15 minutes by a gentleman who turned out not to work in the store. He knew tons about MP3 players!

After a recent layoff, a whole bunch of my colleagues went to work at Home Depot until they could find another high tech job. Unfortunately I think I have alienated the supervisor there so it will be Macy’s for me. I hope I don’t get put in kid’s clothes or shoes.

It’s a miracle! I can ski!

Sword of Damacles 1 — Linshaolin 0

Rats,  I  have to have lung surgery to remove two gnarly tumors. I imagine things will happen pretty quick. Next week full-body PET scan, brain MRI, tire rotation and visit the surgeon. He plans to take out the tumors and while I am still under have them evaluated. If the cancer cells have spread he will proceed to remove the entire right lobe.  I asked the doctor if, with diminished lung capacity, I would be able to ski and he said yes. I said “that’s terrific. I have never been able to ski before!”

I really like this doctor and his office staff. When I arrived the receptionist looked up at me and said “OMG, sexy lady in the office!” Then she saw my husband and said “Why Santa, you can come down my chimney any time!” Both of us pleased with our welcome, I was given a paper medical  ID bracelet and we sat down to wait. I just happened to glance and the bracelet and saw that the name was right but the birthdate was one year off. Oops, wrong patient! They sent the wrong person’s charts to the doctor. This took some time to sort out since no one could believe that two people with the same name and same birthday could be seeing the doctor on the same day — but it was true. I wondered what my doppelganger was there for.

 I was pleased when the doctor came in — he was goooood looking! And my husband was pleased because he was from Colombia and they chattered away in Spanish. When I heard my husband say “chicita grande” I knew they were soon to be turning their attention back to me. “Chicita banana,” I muttered and turned my attention to the monitor that was flickering CAT scan pictures of my lungs. The doctor pointed to a small mass and said that that was the dominant tumor. I pointed to a huge mass and said “what about that one?” I was informed that that was my heart.

After a brief anatomy lecture we all agreed on the next steps and then spent some time talking about the world series — it is good to keep things in perspective. Then we left for the long drive home during which we discussed where to go for dinner (we agreed that the home cooking mandate could wait). We stopped at the CVS so  I could resupply my stash of  gummy worms –  I will need all the strength I can  get and gummy worms are at the foundation of the food pyramid.

After dinner I took an Ambien and conked out. I had vivid dreams about living in a mansion — was this a metaphor for  Heaven? I plan on living in my old fixer-upper for quite some time, but it is nice to know that my next place is going to be pretty snazzy.

Budweiser lamps and making do

My family did not own any proper furniture until I was a teenager. It is not that we were exactly poverty stricken — the folks preferred to spend what money we did have on adventures like driving across the United States in a 1936 Buick or taking a grand tour of Europe on a budget of $5 a day for each of us. I am glad they made the choices they did but I must say that their approach to home decor has left its mark on me. I am just not comfortable unless there is an orange crate somewhere in our living space.

When I was growing up we lived in a huge Victorian house filled with nearly empty rooms. The living room had two canvas directors chairs and a number of wooden boxes being  used for tables and for storage. My mother kept things cozy by going from Oriental rug shop to rug shop taking rugs home to try out to make sure she liked them at home before purchasing them. Oddly she never liked any of them and we had a new rug every ten days or so. Her home office had a desk that she bought at Goodwill and used until she passed away. She also had a metal filing cabinet and a Royal manual typewriter than she bought in the 1930s. Apart from her desk chair there was nothing else except two very scary tin masks from Mexico that she hung on the wall (to keep us out of her space I am sure).

My own darling bedroom was decorated with a twin sized bed, a desk made by placing a door on cement blocks, and track lighting my Dad made out of Budweiser beer cans. My collection of dozens of stuffed animals softened the look and almost offset the wall art my Dad created out of wine and cheese labels (he was unable to throw away anything he considered to be graphically interesting). The playroom consisted of bare floors and shelving made of planks, bricks, and peanut butter (see my earlier post).

My marriage did little to add permanent furniture to my environment. For a dozen years our coffee table was made out of a wooden wheel set on bricks and our seating was denim covered cubes of slab foam. We did buy a sofa once but our cats ate it. And our hundreds of books lived precariously on a set of shelves that were at the same angle as the Leaning Tower of Pisa. But none of our “furniture” equalled the deluxity of our Miracle Bed.

A) Never let your spouse precede you to a new living location and purchase the bed on his/her own. B) If this must happen, advise the spouse NOT to purchase a bed off a truck parked in an empty lot. C) If this does happen, purchase medical insurance to cover the impalement by springs. The only “miracle” in our Miracle Bed was that the bed had only one spring and when it sprang it was my foot that was impaled and not a vital organ. Oh, and D) consult a divorce lawyer.

Motherhood brought new furniture challenges. Our tiny apartment did not have room for a nursery so we had to share our cramped bedroom with our newborn. Baby Alli was so tiny that she fit perfectly into a Xerox copier paper box, which became her bed for the first  six months of her life. The paper box fit very nicely into a drawer in my bureau  (the same bureau I have had since my own childhood). The boxes of baby clothes handed down to us from friends and family were stacked in the living-room and covered with a sheet to make an occasional table.

With our first house came “real” furniture — leather sofas, lamps, glass-topped coffee tables, a bedroom set, a TV armoire. We even purchased a lovely granite topped kitchen island. The new stuff snuggles happily with  our old stuff — makeshift shelving sitting on top of state-of-the-art modular office furniture and pecan wood dressers side by side with that old bureau of mine (now painted a sophisticated mat black). Baby Alli got her own room with a real crib. And we splurged  on the fanciest ceiling light  fixture we could find. No one was going to mistake my girl’s room with a Nascar club house. How could they since I painted the walls lavender and put up a rose motif wallpaper border.

Alli is about to launch into the world and will be getting her own apartment. She does not plan on continuing the family tradition of making do — she has been reading the Pottery Barn catalog  for months now. I hope her first job pays well  — if not she  can raid the basement and find plenty of good stuff to tide her over – those vintage orange crates are probably worth a lot of money on the antiques market!

OMG, they are making me cook

I fear my lifetime of eating every dinner in a restaurant (or take out) is coming to an end. My family and therapists have ganged up on me and are forcing me to cook. I have been told in no uncertain terms that our eating out lifestyle has contributed to our fat bodies and to our lean checkbook. Ye that have dined out shall dine out no more. Go forth and repent over a hot stove — and don’t think you can get away with soup and sandwiches more than once a week! Phooey.

It is not that I don’t like to cook — I love to bake and make special dinners for parties. Fancy appetizers are a speciality. I just hate the idea of every day cooking. When my family asks me “what’s for dinner” it is not a nice question. I have tried switching tasks with my husband, but I hate doing dishes more than I hate cooking and I did have a really good scam going for years. Last night I roasted a dozen or so cloves of garlic, threw in some red wine and pan seared chicken breasts with herbs de provence. Not bad. Accompanied by scalloped potatoes (which I did not cook long enough) and asparagus. And night before that I made homemade meat sauce and spaghetti with salad. The guys can’t complain — but they do. Reason #2 for hating to make dinner.

My dear daughter, heavily into yoga and aligning her chakras, has informed me that she will only eat brown rice and vegetables from now on (since she currently lives on humus and pita bread  I think this is an improved eating plan). My husband can’t eat citrus, tomato anything, spicy food, and dislikes fish, peas, and anything yellow except for Kraft slices (which I guess are orange). If I serve hot dogs he will wolf them down accompanied by a diatribe about how awful they are for one’s body. Pass the Godivas. Between the two of them my menu choices are severely curtailed.

Oh, I do have rules starting with “I’ll whack you upside the head if you give me grief”  but apparently my loved ones are immune to blows to the head. I have tried going on strike but that only makes for a sulky evening and I do get kinda hungry. I have tried bribery — if you eat the semi-frozen spinach and hard-boiled egg casserole I will give you a brownie — only to discover that all the brownies were scorffed in the night. I have even tried to cook creatively, only to be teased about my efforts.

I think I will try one more time to be the dish washer instead of the cook. Dishes don’t give me grief and the family has never suggested that eating off the same old dishes night after night is boring. Plus, my husband is a far better cook. And, it will give me a chance to dish out some of my own restrictions –  “Sweetie, the doctor has put me on a pudding and ribeye steak diet. No, I can not have Lean Cuisine. I must have blue cheese dressing and a glass of wine. And sweetie, what’s for dessert?”

Go play with the fibreglass, kids

Those of you who follow my Breakdown blog know that my mother was not all that into parenting and took every opportunity to offload the kids onto my Dad whenever he set foot in the house (which was not often — I wonder why?). Dad, in turn, packed us into his tiny Messerschmitt bubble car (with me folded origami style on the back ledge) and drove us to the lab where he worked. My brother and I were given a dime each to spend in the vending machines (this was in the 1950s remember) and told to find interesting things to occupy ourselves with while he worked.

My brother and  I were very creative at keeping ourselves entertained. We would start out by wandering the empty halls trying all the doors to find the ones that were unlocked. We had a bet as to how many file folders we could find that were marked Confidential or even better Classified. We would go from office to office scanning the files and keeping a tally of scores. My brother, being older and more intellectually inclined, would pretend to read and understand some of them and say things like “Wow!”

When we got bored playing spy we would go to the lobby which had two enormous trees in planters. The planters were filled with decorative mica chips that could be peeled apart into dozens of layers. We would peel apart several thousand mica chips, creating a pyramid of the resulting mess. Once my brother brought in a tiny flag from his army set specifically to top our night’s mica peeling creation. If Dad was still working we would go to the employee cafeteria, get our snacks from the vending machine and then rifle the fridge for beers.

Having quenched our thirst and being a little buzzed we headed for the section of the lab that required security clearance to get into — unless you climbed in over the partition walls which did not meet the ceiling by about 18 inches. Once inside we would look for interesting office equipment — once we found a magnifying glass and spent the better part of an evening trying to set a desk blotter on fire by shining a light through the lens. We were not successful.  We were successful, however, in breaking into the part of the lab where they stored construction materials and had a “pillow” fight with pads of pretty pink stuff. We were unaware that we were playing with fibreglass and that as we played we were being sliced by thousands of tiny glass cuts. It was not until we finished playing that we began to itch like mad and an hour later were being rushed by our father to Emergency. I would have loved to have heard his explanation for why his charges were beer soaked and lacerated. Needless to say, Mother was not happy with Father for quite a few days.

We were allowed to return to the lab but were given harsh warnings. Luckily we discovered the mail room and found that the mail trolleys made excellent go carts. We spent endless hours careening through the halls crashing into each other. That fun ended too when my brother decided to copy the chariot scene from Ben Hur and leap from his trolly onto mine at 30 miles an hour. He landed on my arm, breaking it (the same arm he had broken two years earlier when we were playing tackle football in the kitchen). I cried quite a bit but he assured me that he knew how to mend a broken arm so we went back to the mail room where he used packing tape to make a cast. The Emergency room staff had quite a time unpeeling the tape while I snuffled in quiet torment.

We were not allowed to go to the lab for quite awhile after that. Dad had to take  us on real excursions. So we went to a whole bunch of museums for weeks — they were not nearly a s much fun as the lab. After pinky swearing that we would be good as gold we were allowed to return. That lasted a long time — until we discovered the lab had guinea pigs. . .

Audacious, omnivore, pout and other test questions

Yesterday I had a three hour neuropsychological baseline test of my cognitive abilities so that my functioning can be tracked over time. This is fairly standard stuff for people with Parkinson’s since one of the more lovely aspects of PD can be dementia. According to the testers I certainly do not have to worry about that for now. Despite the somewhat disturbing implications of being tested so that doctors can accurately track one’s decline, the test was fun.

But before the testing I was in the waiting room — it was just me and another lady who was scrunched down in her chair practically hidden by a baseball cap and down parka. She inquired “Whatcha here for?” I told her it was testing related to Parkinson’s. “Oh, my mother just died from Parkinson’s. Yeah. she had dementia and could not walk.” Greatly cheered by the conversation I attempted to look interested in my book. “I think you will like it here — they have great doctors.”  I explained that I was not planning on being an inpatient.  I was just here for tests. “Yeah, that’s how I started too” she replied. Luckily I was called for my test before massive depression set in.

Immediately upon entering the testing room my eyes began to itch and tear — the window ledge was lined with jade plants, the one thing I am allegic too. I had to explain that I was not crying but we had to either move to a different room or move the plants. We moved to a different room, rejecting several because someone appears to have  given the entire staff and jade plant at some point.

We started out with the testers telling me two detailed stories and then asking me to repeat them with as much detail as I could remember. Three hours later I was asked to recall the detail of the stories again. Oddly, I could remember more after three hours than I could immediately after I  heard the stories. One story was about poor Ms. Thompson from South Boston who was  robbed of $56 dollars, had four kids who were starving and was about to miss a rent payment. The other story was about Joe Ortez from San Francisco who was dressing to go out but changed his mind when he heard the weather report. I suggested that perhaps Ms Thompson and Mr. Ortez should get together since they both seemed kinda lonely. I was told not to add to the stories.

A third of the way into the testing they had to abandon the test and start again with a new one because they could not find a test word that I could not define and because I could finish the test that was not supposed to be finishable. So they brought out the “challenging” test — and indeed it was challenging (but I still knew all the words they asked me to define). My favorite test was reading from a page that had the words green, red and blue appearing in random order in columns on the page. However the word green would be in blue or red ink, the word red in green or blue etc. I had to look at each word but say its color not its word. Talk about interference!

The easiest tests were the “what is next in sequence” ones. Also easy were the timed “say as many words as you can think of that begin with the letter “A”. I love word tests and had fun coming up with Appease, Aggregate, Aerodynamic, Apostle, Attitude, and Amphibian. I missed Apple but did include Aardvark and Amnesia. The hardest tests were listening to a string of eleven mixed letters and numbers and then saying them back but giving the numbers in ascending order first and then the letters in alphabetical order. And harder than that was being given 10 seconds to look at nine geometic complex shapes and having to reproduce them (including which lines went over and which lines went under other shapes). It took me four exposures of 10 seconds each  before I could reproduce them perfectly. I had to reproduce them again at the end of the three hour testing. Being a quilter helped alot!

I will go back in a couple of weeks and they will go over my scores and tell me what it means.  I can already predict: “Mrs. Shaolin, when you are in the Home you will have no problem letting the staff know what you want. Until then, stay away from any activities that require any level of mathematical skill except for shoppping. You scored 100% on the questions involving discounts and spending money. You scored 0% on all other number-related questions.”

Now the question is, how will I react when I am restested and score lower? In hindsight I realize I should not have tried so hard — I should have done poorly and then improved! That would feel a lot better. Too late now. How many retests will it take before they go back to the standard test and keep the “challenging” test in the drawer. I don’t want to know!

While I was waiting . . .

There is only one thing that drives me out of my mind and that is waiting. I am punctual and I expect everyone else to be as well. Waiting equals waste of time. Oh yes, I am always prepared to make the best of waiting — I have a good book with me at all times. But 15 minutes is my limit and that is reserved for doctors who are in the midst of delivering a baby or priests who are delivering the last rites. All others get 10 minutes max. Maybe if I manage to get to the Pearly Gates and have to wait for  St. Peter to open up, then I’ll tolerate 20 minutes or even a half and hour — longer than that and I will use a skeleton key and let myself in. It might be fun to amble about Heaven unescorted for awhile. But I am getting off track . . .

There are different kinds of waiting with the irritation ratio oddly out of synch with the situation. Waiting for the waiter’s attention triggers quick and irrational irritation. Waiting for the results of a biopsy causes a tension much like being exposed to a high frequency alarm system that humans are not supposed to be able to detect. But for those of us with acute hearing it is almost unbearable. I was waiting for double-barreled news: the results of my thyroid biopsy and to have a CAT scan to see how much my lung tumor  has grown.

I got the results of the thyroid biopsy after a week of waiting. Yes, they found a  tiny cancer and yes they took it out. No more treatment except watching. I got the results of my lung CAT scan after two days of sweating bricks. Slow growing tumor warrants a lung biopsy — probably a carcinoid tumor. I am seeing the lung guy in a few hours. I have killed time waiting by a) doing my nails b) trying on three different outfits — I must look nice after all c) looking through my handbag collection for  just the right bag. Here is a whole new way to market accessories — perfect for that pulmonary oncologist visit! Be the envy of the waiting room . . .

I don’t want a needle biopsy — the idea of a long needle being  inserted into my lung makes me hyperventalate. I want them to whack that sucker out without stopping at Go. All the steps in between will mean more waiting. I want to get on with life. My husband has a play being produced in New York, my daughter is about to graduate from college in a few weeks, my sewing is languishing on the table. I want to be able to concentrate on the six books I am reading. Hanging around under the Sword of Damocles is the pits.

But this is just the beginning of waiting. People with illness are always waiting — I should be used to it. However there is a qualitative difference between waiting to slowly become totally disabled from Parkinsons and waiting to find out if you are going to die soon. Being familiar with the first, I thought that was the total worst — I was wrong. People being  treated for cancer wait on a different timetable that keeps being reset.

Deep in my heart I am optimistic — I will be fine. But I don’t want to waste a lot of time in the journey to being fine. I will find a way to lead a rich, productive life under any circumstances — what I have achieved so far is not enough. I want more and I don’t want to wait for it.