A Scare, A Revelation, An Affirmation, A Ray of Hope

My Healing School had scheduled a 5-day retreat for us in upstate New York. Three full days plus an additional half day at each end. Folks who had been to last year's retreat spoke very highly of the event and strongly suggested that everyone who could attend should do so.

So I really wanted to go. But there was this one concern: did you notice the phrase "upstate New York" in the above paragraph? Yeah, thought you would. Driving there would be much farther than any single-day trip I've done since my diagnosis last year. And long drives are, for me, may cause blood clots. Which I've had enough of, thank you.

(As reported in an earlier posting, it's extremely likely that the 11-hour drive to South Carolina several months ago resulted in the formation of a clot in my left leg. One which was made worse by the 12-hour return drive. The difference between that trip and the one I contemplated? Back then, I wasn't on blood thinners, I wasn't wearing compression stockings, and we drove with minimal stops. A Bad Plan, as things turned out. This time around, I knew more and would be much better prepared. The question, unanswerable before the trip, was: would the better planning and a shorter trip be enough to avoid new clots?)

So I signed up for the retreat and promised myself that. in addition to the blood thinners and the stockings, I would stop every two hours during the drive; get out of the car for at least thirty minutes; and walk around and/or eat and/or read and/or do something else with my feet elevated. No getting back in the car for at least a half hour. (A bit of irony showed up here: all the stops meant that the trip took so much time that I was late in arriving at the retreat center. the more care you take, the longer the trip.)

If this plan worked well, it would literally "expand my horizons" as to what I might do in the future. Like drive with Deb to Massachusetts to see friends. Or fly with her to British Columbia for a vacation. If it didn't work well, there might well be additional medical procedures, more drugs -- including self-administered injections -- and goodness knows what all else. In short, the trip to upstate New York was something of a gamble with high rewards on the win side and heavy penalties on the lose side. Got it? Good!

So I showed up at the retreat center (Which was gorgeous! Ask me about it some time!) and settled in to the program set out for us. I was given the choice of sitting on a chair for the lecture parts of the program or sitting on the floor -- which is equivalent to keeping your legs elevated. So I chose the floor.

(Oh, one more piece of information you'll need to have this story make sense: the first indications of a blood clot in the leg is cramping in the affected area. Remember this, please.)

As the first full day of the retreat was unfolding, I got a cramp in my right leg -- the leg that had the big, threatening blood clot last year. I worked mentally and emotionally to pass this off as just simple cramp that would go away and not return. And sure enough, it went away.

In all honesty, I must tell you that it wasn't a severe cramp. Not one that made you hobble around the room or roll on the floor howling in pain. It was almost just a twitch. So from here on, I will call the phenomenon a "critch" -- something halfway between a cramp and a twitch. Because you might misunderstand if I called it a "twamp."

Think Elmer Fudd...

So the critch came and left. And I was delighted to have it go.

Now if you're paying close attention, you know what comes next, don't you? Sure! The critch was back an hour later. And it showed up in exactly the same place as the first critch, which happened to be in the meatiest part of the calf -- just where the pain of last year's blood clot showed up. And then it went away again.

I carefully thought back over the previous several days' activities, hoping to find a reason for a critch, but nothing came to mind.

Later that day, I got a very sharp pain in the same place that lasted for a few seconds, then went away. A super-critch. And all this was a repeat of the pattern established by the first two clots. And in each of those previous occasions, the pain worsened until I was on crutches. And I wouldn't be able drive my manual-transmission car home from New York if I needed crutches just to get to the car in the first place. And, the critch was in my right leg, so even if I had an automatic transmission in my car, I would be S.O.L.

During the late afternoon and evening, the less painful critch returned five or six times -- always in exactly the same place.

So by this time, I'm examining my options: I can assume that I'm in the early stages of a new clot, "pull the plug" then and there on attending the rest of the retreat and head home -- to the medical staff I know and trust -- or I can assume that the critch is meaningless and will disappear completely and forever after a good night's sleep. And I chose the latter option.

Most of the next morning went without a critch, and the prepared contents of the retreat were truly moving and revelatory. So I felt I could just settle back into the retreat.

And you know what happens next, don't you, you clever person? Of course you do: the critch showed up again three or four times before lunch.

Now the deal about treating a blood clot is that the sooner you start treating it, the less threatening it is and the more likely that it will clear relatively quickly. And the longer you wait to get treatment, the more likely it is that the clot will break loose and head for your lungs, your heart, or your brain.

Which is what happened to my nephew a month ago. An event that killed him.

Okay, I tell myself, it's time to pull the plug. So I call my family doctor to try for an appointment back in West Chester the next day, but she tells me not to drive home wait, but go to a hospital immediately.

"But I'm in rural New York! What kind of medical treatment can I expect around here? What are the chances of getting a sonogram today?" I ask myself.

With the help of the school staff, I get a recommendation for a hospital located roughly 25 miles away. And Mildred (Have I told you that I've named my GPS? A constant travelling companion, the name "Mildred" fits nicely with the calmness and absolute assurance that the GPS voice provides.) knows the hospital by name and the quickest way to get there.

(All of the above was part of the "Scare" mentioned in the title of this posting. You probably figured that out, but I thought I'd just confirm that.)

So Mildred and I and all the belongings I brought with me head down the road to the hospital. And here's where the Revelation takes place. The hospital was located in a very small town, but the experience there could not have been more reassuring. Everyone seemed professional and prepared to take excellent care of me. And everyone I came in contact with did take excellent care of me.

And here's an indication as to how positive the experience at the hospital was: I hadn't brought any light reading material, which is a highly recommended asset for the hours of waiting normally associated with an Emergency Room visit, so I purchased a murder mystery at the hospital gift shop. The sonogram was over and done and I knew the results -- and I was only on page 32 of the book!

Here's another example of how good the care was: one of the ER staff overheard a phone call I made to tell the Healing School staff that things were okay, but that I was going to find a hotel locally and head home the next morning for a follow-up visit with my family doc. And that person took the initiative to call several local hotels that he personally liked to determine which one had space for me. I mean, how sweet and thoughtful and helpful is that?

(So in summary, the "Revelation" part of this experience was this: it is totally possible to get excellent care in a small-town hospital. And I realized that I had become so mentally and emotionally attached to and dependant on my West Chester medical support team, that I did imagine that was possible.)

Oh yes! The results of the sonogram! You'd probably like to know that...

The sonogram techs (there were two of them -- one was in training, but both were thoroughly prepared and professional) told me that they could clearly see the remnants of last year's clot, but that it wasn't occluding any blood flow. And there was no sign of any new clotting.

Hey.

(And the Affirmation? That my preparations for avoiding new clots had worked. That I could consider similar -- and longer -- trips by car or plane. That my body is working pretty well, thank you. That my self-imposed horizons can, in fact, be expanded.)

I was fortunate to get an appointment with my family doc on the afternoon of the following day. And after a bit of back-and-forth (thanks to the new HIPAA regulations), we obtained copies of the sonogram's report to look at during this follow-up visit.

My doc has great hands for this kind of exmination. She gently felt, pressed, and prodded my calf down to and including my ankle and foot. She told me that there was a strong pulse everywhere she felt, which helped confirm the sonogram results.

Okay, so all this is wonderful and stuff, but what about the critches? Her suggestion was "Your body is still healing -- recovering from last year's blood clot. Maybe what you're feeling is simply part of the healing process."

I still get a critch every now and then. But welcome them as a sign of health rather than a threat.

(So the Ray of Hope appeared as I stopped focusing so strongly on my medical problems and opened up my mind and heart to the potential for healing. Replacing fear and doubt with a renewed awareness of my potential for recovery.)

Since it turned out that I didn't have a new clot, the question might be asked: Did I make the right decision in leaving the retreat early? But for me, the decision was obvious, and the discoveries that came my way make the question a non-starter.