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13 Most Interesting Numbers, via the Presurfer

So I went out to my car, Zamba in tow, at 2:15 today to drive to Dr. Gatof’s office.  And I turned the key and … it wouldn’t start.  It turned over (i.e. the battery wasn’t dead), but it would not start.  Figures.  Ben was running errands down in Boulder.  I called roadside assistance, from whom I am STILL expecting help, and then Dr. Gatof’s office.

First, I got the nurse to fax me all of my records.  That was pretty boring.  I asked Dr. Gatof to call me.

Which he did!

Unfortunately — and this has been the case since I met him — I didn’t understand all of what he said.  I don’t know if it’s because I’m tired (because I am; I’m exhausted!) and when I’m tired I’m really out of it (it’s a stroke thing), he talks fast and uses big words (which he does), or a combination of both, but I didn’t get all of our conversation.  I forgot to ask about APS, Susie, and I almost forgot to ask the other important questions I had queued up.  Here’s the gist of it:

He doesn’t know what it is.  That’s why the repeat colonoscopy (I forgot that word; I was going to write ‘colonectomy’, but it didn’t sound quite right … I need more sleep!) is so critical.  He wants to see if my colon is still inflamed.  If it is, he says, then I’ve got Crohn’s disease.  He says that would fit my scenario best.  “But all the tests you’ve done haven’t supported that, and I haven’t had any symptoms other than a little bit of stomach pain back in 2002.  Can you really have Crohn’s without any of that?”  Yes, he said.  For example, there are some people who are generally healthy — a little bit of diaherra, maybe, but that’s true for all of us — who get a CT scan for something else, which elucidates a problem with their colon.  Then, the problem is what to do for them; do you treat them aggressively or not at all?

“What about an aspirin intolerance?” I asked.  “Is there a test you can do for that?” After a bit of discussion about why “aspirin intolerance” isn’t the correct term for it — apparently, “aspirin toxicity” is more appropriate — he said that no, there is no test.  “If I have an aspirin toxicity, would that prevent me from taking NSAID pain relievers?”  No, Dr. Gatof said; it’s the chronic use of aspirin that would have done this to me, not a pill once a month.  Also, other NSAIDs (like IBProfen) aren’t as bad as aspirin.  And yes, I do realize that I’m not supposed to take NSAIDs with Plavix; I was just curious.  And if Dr. MacDonald had me on Coumadin, Plavix, AND aspirin, I don’t see what harm an IBProfen once in a while could do.

I concluded with some questions about the colonoscopy on the 12th.  It’s fine to take Ducolax and MagCitrate; the reason he’d prefer that I take GoLytely is that there’s an ingredient in MagCitrate that can irritate the colon.  If it’s inflamed because of the laxative you take, it kind of defeats the purpose.

So that’s the scoop from Dr. Gatof.   Not terribly encouraging, but not a death sentence, either.

Zamba has started teething.  How can I tell?  She’s started chewing constantly.  24/7.  Jake and Kate have been favorite targets.  So have our SHOES.  She never touched them until about a week ago.  I’m going to block off our mudroom, where we discard our shoes, so she can’t get in there, but until I do, God help them!  I’ve been averaging three bones a day, but even those don’t tame her desire to chew.

Speaking of bones, Ben and I got kind of scared about leaving Zamba over Christmas and went mad on bones at the supermarket (”food store” to those New Jerseyans who say it right).  I went in and took the two bones available from the meat counter — clearly not going to cut it.  So I asked the butcher for more.  “I probably have three,” he said.  I frowned.  “How many do you need?”

“Umm … twenty or twenty-five.  But I’ll take whatever you’ve got!”  He went back to his butcher room to cut them up.  In the meantime, a man had appeared and was standing forlornely at the meat counter.

“I’d like one, too,” he said.  “My dog’s going to be very sad if I can’t get one.”  I glanced at the bones in my cart.

“Why don’t you take mine, and I’ll wait for the butcher to bring me some more?”

“Oh, thank you!” he exclaimed.  “I only need one.”  I handed over a bone, and he walked away a happy man.  But that left me with exactly FOUR bones.  For a three week Christmas journey, this was clearly not enough.

The butcher returned five minutes later with four bones — more than he thought!  “Thank you,” I said to him.  “Do you have any of the smaller bones?  The ones that come four or five to a pack and look like a slice of these large bones?”

He thought for a minute, and then answered, “You know, I just might.  How about I bring them to you in about 15 minutes?”  We made arrangements to meet back at the meat counter then, and off I went to explore the rest of the grocery store.  15 minutes later, I returned, and watched rather sadly as the butcher brought out slices of beef for human consumption.  He noticed me and promised to get right on the little bones project.

He found me, 10 minutes later, at the orange juice.  In his hands he had a tray FULL of little bones.  10 packages!  I thanked him profusely.  “Take what you like,” he said, and I emptied them all into my micro-buggy (again, for all you New Jerseyans, that’s ‘little cart’).  He gave me a strange look.

“I have an eight-month old Newfoundland who’s started teething,” I explained.  He smiled.  Enough said.

Now our freezer is full of bones for Zamba to gnaw on while we’re gone!  If she stops going through two or three a day while we’re still here, that is.

On another note, I’ve scheduled a repeat colonoscopy for Monday, January 12.  This has led to an interesting series of phone calls with the nurse at Dr. Gatof’s office.  The first time, the nurse called to ask about antibiotics.  “You don’t take those before procedures, do you?” she asked me.  No, I’m not required to, I explained, but because of my PFO surgery I’d feel more comfortable taking *something*.  “OK, then I’ll phone in some amoxicillin along with the prep for your colonoscopy.”

“Well, at the hospital Dr. Gatof gave me some antibiotics by IV, and I’d prefer that.  I have a very hard time swallowing pills, and now I have to take them with food, which isn’t allowed before the procedure.”

“Oh.”  Long pause.  “Well, I’ll ask him about that.”

“And about the colonscopy prep … I gagged and threw up trying to swallow the GoLytely, so Dr. Gatof switched me to two Ducolax and some lemon-lime flavored soda.  I still gagged on the soda, but I was able to get it down.  Can I do that again, please?”

“OK, I’ll send you a prescription for something a little better than GoLytely.”  Cool.  Two days later, I get a letter from her in the mail with instructions for the prep — which include a clear-liquid diet the night before!  Yuck! — and a prescrition for HalfLytely.  Good grief.  There’s no WAY I’m touching anything with the word “Lytely” in it again.  Did the nurse not understand me when I said I’d “gagged and thrown up” trying to take GoLytely?

So I called her back.  “I’m not taking HalfLytely.  When I tried the GoLytely, I puked.  I have a very sensitive gag reflex.”

“But it’s only half a gallon!” she pleaded, exasperated.  Good God, I thought; this is CONCENTRATED GoLytely?  No way.

“I was able to get through about six sips of the GoLytely.  Half a gallon or a gallon, it doesn’t matter; I can’t do it.”

“OK,” she answered, giving up.

“Could I please take the two Ducolax and the MagCitrate soda I mentioned last time I talked to you?”

“I’ll ask the doctor,” she answered.  Then she remembered that I’d said that I couldn’t swallow pills without food.

“Yes, that is a problem,” I explained, “but the Ducolax are so small that I managed to get them down at the hospital.  The pills I’m worried about are the Plavix, Wellbutrin, and amoxicillin that I normally take in the morning.”

“OK, now I’m really confused!” she said.  I didn’t know how else to explain it.   GoLytely = bad.  Big pills without three pieces of popcorn to wash them down with = bad.  Ducolax and MagCitrate = disgusting but doable, and worlds better than the Lytely options.

“I don’t know what else to say.  I’m sorry.”  With that, we hung up, both exasperated.  I see the doctor on Monday; I figure I can talk directly to him about my concerns.  Goodness gracious!

I got a call from Dr. Gatof’s office this morning.  My blood tests, for which I let a nurse pierce my skin FOUR TIMES on Monday, have come back benign.  It’s not Crohn’s Disease or an ischemic auto-immune disease (ulcerative colitis).  Which leaves an aspirin intolerence, unless Dr. Gatof can magically draw up something else from the second colonoscopy I scheduled for Monday, January 12.

All you doctors out there, feel free to speculate!  Kathie?  Susie?  Kevin?  Matt?  Nicole?  Please!

According to the radiologoist who did the ‘live x-ray’ portion of my small bowel follow through yesterday, “This doesn’t look like Crohn’s Disease.  Your intestines are appropriately squishy.”  =)

So that’s good news.  Aspirin intolerance?  Possibly!  Stay tuned …

Greetings from the radiology department at BCH.  I hadn’t appreciated until now how distressing it is to have GI issues until I had to do this “small bowel follow through”.

Do any of you know how I don’t eat many vegetables?  Take, for instance, canned green beans.  They’re disgusting.  They’re limp.  They have a very green-beany flavor that seeps into the water they’re cooked in.  I hate them.

Imagine, then, forcing me to drink a jug of barium sulfate solution.  At least, unlike green beans, you don’t have to chew it, but it’s still unbearable.  And they just made me drink some more.

I’m just warning you: keep this in mind before you decide to go and poo blood.  Barfing up this chalky stuff is even worse.

OK, one more whiney post before I banish the “Oh, woe is me!” attitude.

A week ago Tuesday, I was talking to my mom on the phone.  I was telling her how well I was doing.  I’m off Zoloft, Adderall, and Ritalin, and I was feeling pretty good.  As in awake.  Like, I would go to school and come home with enough energy that I felt I could teach TWO classes.  I was even considering going to medical school!  I hadn’t had any breakthrough career thoughts since my stroke (except for once, after my first round of hyperbaric oxygen therapy), so I was pretty excited about that.  I wasn’t hating the sunshine as much as I had been, either — literally.  It didn’t seem quite so blinding.  I drove around the neighborhood thinking, “Ooh, that’s a cool house!  I wonder what it’s like inside!”  Life was looking up.

And then I started bleeding out of my butt.

But being in the hospital wasn’t terrible.  I don’t hate hospitals the way some people do.  Chaco, Zamba, and Ben were there with me.  I wasn’t in any pain.  I left four days later, not bleeding and not feeling like passing out, in pretty good spirits.

And then I got a wishy-washy diagnosis.  I don’t know why, but it’s had me down in the dumps since it made its first unwelcome appearance yesterday.  I’m sick and tired of not knowing what’s wrong with me.  Furthermore, I feel like my healthy lifestyle is in the toilet.  It sucks.  I was exhausted this morning — so exhausted I didn’t go to work.  I don’t want to be tired anymore!  I’m tired of it!  Just kill me!  (And I mean it.  Yesterday, Dr. Gatof started saying something about, “If you have another neurologic episode, I’ll start testing aggressively to find out what’s wrong so we know if it caused your strokes or not.”  I told him if that’s your plan, let’s move it up; I’m not going through another stroke.  I don’t even want to go to the hospital.  Just let me lose consciousness at home.  This is not a suicide wish; it’s just the plain old truth.)

Medical school is out the window, BTW.  The hours seem impossible; why go into a profession that requires 24 hour shifts?  I’m not a masochist.  Teaching?  Maybe.  However, even that seems out of reach right now.  The investment in time neccessary to do it right seems too high when I can’t stabilize myself medically.  The kids don’t need a teacher who’s absent once a week.

In short, I’m pissed off.  I’m mad at the world for doing this stuff to me.  I’m angry that the world gave me strokes and then topped it off with rectal bleeding.  I’m angry at the doctors for not being able to figure out what’s causing these issues.  I’m mad at Ben for not feeling sorry (enough) for me.  And I’m mad at myself for letting myself get sucked down into this terrible pit of self-pity!

This concludes today’s episode of feeling sorry for myself.