All I can think about this morning is Cheryl’s appointment with the neurosureon this afternoon. Sometimes I really hate afternoon appointments.
Category: Wellbeing
A better kind of blue
I’m happy to report the blue post is still on the back-burner. The weekend was just too good. Well, it wasn’t great. It wasn’t even very good. But you know what? Every day doesn’t have to be great. They can’t, not for me anyway. I grade days on a curve. Folks cringe when I say I’m ok, but that’s the meat of my curve. What’s wrong with ok? I’ll bet there are lot of folks who would give their left pinkie (assuming they’re right handed) for an ok day. So my weekend wasn’t great? Good is more than ok in my book.
It was one of those weekends where the blue skies complimented my mood, rather than mocking me. Beth got a ton of homework done (Imperial, not metric) without complaint. Adam muddled through extended periods without his best friend (Beth), with some help from Cheryl – who incidentally is getting pretty good at Lego Batman on the Wii. (Although she can’t play very long due to her injuries.) I got in a good hike to one of the nearby parks with the kids, and the weather was fantastic.
We were walking home yesterday afternoon and a deep blue, late afternoon eastern sky was staring back at me. The beginnings of a slight chill put a bounce in my step, born equally from ugency and thrill.
There wasn’t anything exceptional about it. It was just good, and that was more than enough.
Another sign of madness
I have the day off today. The day had many possibilities, until I felt guilty about taking so much time off for doctors’ appointments during work hours. This guilt made me schedule an appointment with my dentist for a filling this morning.
Worse, I made it for early in the morning. So now I have the rest of the day off, I’m tired, my jaw hurts from the constant requests to “open a little wider,” and I have a drinking problem.
In a way I’m lucky though. Unlike my wife, I’m not immune to the effects of painkillers. My dentist has this great stuff he swabs on the injection site that makes the novocane shot almost bearable. I’d be fine if I could just resist the temptation to look at the needle. Morbid fascination always wins out, causing a brief pause in my heart rate as the dentist prepares to go fishing for a rib, casting his LONG line into the soft tissue between my cheek and gum.
But even the big ass needle doesn’t do me in… ruin my façade.
I have a little bit of guy in me. He tries to play the part of cool customer, even as he’s hanging vulnerably from “the chair” (his feet several feet above his head). All pretence of coolness is lost when he’s made to open his mouth like a cartoon character, his jaw working at angles clearly well beyond factory specs, his mouth feeling like it’s approaching the same diameter as his head.
“Sir, are you ok? Are you in any pain?”
“Ugnh… nawh, eye feygnh.”
“Are you sure? You feel like you’re trembling.”
Yep. The gig’s up. I’m officially not cool.
Living in the not
Have you ever felt inexplicably irritable? For a week or month at a time?
Now it’s time for the truth. I have an explanation, I’ve just been reluctant to talk about it. It feels like an excuse. Part of me lives in fear… like if I say it out loud a mob of disturbingly happy people with “The Secret” will bombard me with platitudes. Then, on top of feeling grumpy, I’ll lose my lunch. The best damn yogurt I’ve had all day.
Oh, I’ve talked about the reason. I just haven’t copped to feeling run over by it. (At least, I don’t think I have.) Part of me feels shame – that my troubles don’t deserve the pity I heap on myself.
It doesn’t help that I know it’s all garbage. We all have problems, larger and smaller, and we’re allowed to be upset by them.
The good news is I’m sleeping better. A combination of advice from my doctor and friends seems to have my restless legs (somewhat) under control. The bad news is I’m still really tired. Worrying about Cheryl doesn’t help. We’re getting to the point where we’ve just about ruled in surgery. Now we talk about possible nerve damage and things that may never be fixed. Now we wonder how long her department will hold her job, or if they’ll let her work with any physical limitations.
The funny thing is, I don’t mind the extra work. I’m not a big fan of chores – as if anyone is, but doing a few extra things around the house hasn’t been a big deal. My part-time taxi gig (for Beth’s activities) started before the accident, so I can’t blame it on that. Besides, I kind of like going to Tae Kwon Do. I may grumble about it from time to time, but that’s just me being grumpy… hence this post.
That little corner of my mind – the selfish prick in me – was worried about picking up the slack. I’m happy to say I’m not quite as selfish as I thought. Much of the time the extra work feels gratifying – the one thing I have some control over, to make things a little better for Cheryl.
I feel like all of it is wasted when I succumb to a blue period. I want to be an emotional rock of support, not mud. I want to fix things, not make my own messes. Maybe fix isn’t the right word. I know I can’t fix everything. Maybe that’s my problem. I know but I don’t really understand.
Hah! Look who’s speaking in platitudes now?
Adding insult and injury to injury
Many of you know Cheryl was in a car accident a while back. A few of you know about the mess physical therapy made of her injuries. Only Cheryl and I know about our most recent adverures in the mysterious world of insurance, so I gatthered up all my frustration and this post was born.
Way to grab you readers, eh?
A month back Cheryl went for another opinion, seeking to avoid immediate surgery. This opinion not only said the first was a bit rash, but the physical therapy she’d been getting was a textbook example of what NOT to do in her condition, likely making her pain worse.
It goes without saying we didn’t go back to that first therapist. The new doctor had her assistant make an appointment with a new therapist on the spot, while Cheryl was watching. With her mother as witness (hearsay though it may be), the assistant asked “you do take AvMed, right?” (We’re rapidly approaching the limits of our auto coverage.) The answer was allegedly yes, so she made the appointment.
That’s where the really cool part of this story begins.
Two weeks later we got a bill from the first therapist, “reminding” us they didn’t take AvMed, and we’d be responsible for approximately x amount after we reached our auto insurance limit. I didn’t mention this, but Cheryl asked if they took AvMed before going there. If you’re keeping score at home, that’s one aggravated injury and one false representation.
Then Cheryl has her first appointment with the new therapist, and has a wonderfull run of sessions. Then a new therapist takes over (at the same office), and Cheryl’s back in agony. It turns out the new gal isn’t big on chart reading. THEN, Cheryl meets with the receptionist, and she tells her they don’t take AvMed, and reminds her we’re running out of auto coverage.
Score – two injury aggravations and two false representations.
I’m no attorney, but I wonder if we should offer to forget any thoughts of civil liability for her condition if they’ll forget about the bills.
Fortune slipping
First things first: I’m not destitute. My family has a roof and plenty to eat. Our house is an oasis of relative plenty, no matter what I say next.
You know how bankruptcy experts say most american families are one medical emergency away from financial disaster? We’ve had two in the last eighteen months. We came out o.k. from mine, but I’ve already talked about it so much it’s not worth bringing up again.
Cheryl’s accident is starting to worry me – both of us actually. My wife’s accident was more than a month ago now and her condition is worse (actually it’s been down and back up recently, but the trend line over time is still a falling slope). To put that in perspective, think about how long ago the elections were. Her accident was eleven days before Obama was elected. Put the two together and this summer seems like some odd, mixed up, alternate reality.
Her leave is running out. We’ll need to hire movers to transport the paperwork we need to apply for FMLA (job protection under the Family Medical Leave Act… so her department can’t fire her for absences), make a claim on our disability insurance, send insurance statements/bills to our attorney, and apply for any scraps that might be left over from her department’s leave transfer program (which has suffered a run on hours lately).
It’s my nature to consider the worst scenario… no hours left in the leave transfer program, disability insurance strings us along for a month or two before finally paying out their meager benefits (a fraction of her salary), the mounting medical bills end up far exceeding the virtually uninsured shit-head’s coverage and our “uninsured motorist coverage,” and our health insurance refuses to cover the gap. The bills, combined with the recent tanking of the markets, has left us in a situation that could get ugly if a few of these things don’t swing our way.
Add to that my doctor’s anxiety disorder diagnosis (no surprise, considering my DNA), and you can see why I might be feeling a little worried.
And this was all before listening to the news today: job losses this last quarter (or was it month?) were the worst they’ve been in thirty-four years. The optimist in me says it’s not a big enough number to take us back to the FDR days, but the former math major in me is quick to point out that we’re talking about 1974; not exactly the glory days of the US economy. On top of that, my job exposes me to the large numbers of underemployed out there every day. Folks are showing up in court with documented proof they’ve been working their tails off to find work. Most Judges’ favorite line, “anybody can go out and find a job at McDonalds” isn’t entirely true anymore. That makes me grateful to have a job, but it also worries me – a lot.
I don’t know about elsewhere in the US, but it’s getting pretty freaking brutal here.
The mixed blessing is the inherent decrease in demand this produces, and some lower prices. But I keep reading economists who say deflation is an extraordinarily bad thing. Maybe the blessing isn’t so mixed after all.
It would seem we’re living the new american nightmare. Our earnings are decreasing, our debt to asset ratio is… well, bad. The economy is in the shitter, and our state legislature is poised for another session faced with trying to find another few billion in spending they’ll need to cut (they’re a cabal of right wing-nuts who’d sooner carve out a testicle with a dull spoon than raise taxes). In case you’re not following FL politics (and I wouldn’t blame you, with the fascinating events north of the border), this is the same exercise they’ve undertaken at least two or three times in the last year to eighteen months. Heck, what’s a few billion between friends? If memory serves, the state budget is only around 50-60 billion, so that 2-4 cut a pop is starting to hurt.
Again I remind myself that it could be much, much worse. I could be working in the auto industry, or for a bank.
Good times
It’s in the low 60s and the kid in back is a little hyper from an hour of running, leaping and kicking. What better time to roll down the windows and sing Feliz Navidad (complete with musical flourishes in between lines) at the top of your lungs as you drive through the neighborhood.
Some might call this behavior a touch unstable. I prefer to think of it as loving being a parent.
Breathing easier, for now
We’ve officially shunned the ortho guy, and the surgery set for this week has been cancelled. Cheryl made the decision after speaking with one of the medical experts in the family, and a local neuro gal.
The family connection is a neuro guy and not local. I’m not trying to be sexist, just a little cute… and I want to make sure you know I’m talking about two different people… in case you’re still reading.
Most importantly, the new doctor has prescribed two drugs that have made an immediate improvement in Cheryl’s quality of life. Translation: she can sit up, stand, move around, and most encouraging: she can laugh. It’s a little chilly out on the front porch this evening, but saying that last phrase warmed me right up. Next up on the medical calendar of events is a “selective nerve root injection,” designed to ease the pain in the hope that everything will calm down enough for the disk to heal itself. (At least I think that’s the idea.)
I’m just happy we’re not jumping straight into surgery and Cheryl’s feeling a little better.
By the way, isn’t it cute the way I refer to what “we’re” doing?
State of mind
I’m not afraid to admit I’m feeling a little tired right now. First there was the whole holiday that wasn’t, then there’s the first day back at work that feels depressingly like I never left.
Someone please save me from myself!
You know how when you’re tired or depressed and every other little setback feels like you’ve dropped off an emotional cliff? This morning I became one of those people that checks his email in the bathroom (pathetic enough all by itself), noticed I wasn’t getting a signal, and felt like crying.
So what if I was surrounded by rebar and concrete, in the bowels of a government office… this is a fracking iPhone, for the love of Jobs!
And if it doesn’t stop auto-capitalizing the first word after every stinking one of my il-conceived ellpsis, I’m going to go out of my freaking mind (that or do something completly irrational like turning off the auto-correct “feature”).
The internets strike again
Cheryl’s been off the computer for most of the last week due to the pain she’s in when sitting up. But tonight she decided to do a little research on spinal surgery, stopping by a few discussion groups along the way.
Danger, Will Robinson! DANGER!
Predictably, the discussions are filled with horror stories too terrible to repeat on a family web site. I told her the folks who are happy with their surgery are probably getting on with their lives, not spending time obsessing over it with discussion groups. People still talking about it afterwards are more likely to be those unhappy with the results.
I can come up with this kind of bull-shit all day, I just hope it’s true.