I had lunch today at the Pita Pit. You may recall this dining establishment from a posting last year. It's the place that my Coach, my Angel, (I've called her both from time to time.) found me sobbing into my sandwich shortly after I was informed that I had cancer.
And on that day, my Coach gave me some of the best advice that I got throughout my treatment: Don't let yourself become your disease. No matter what, never stop being Randy.
I've been back to the Pita Pit several times since my treatments ended. It was the place I discovered late last year that, yes, I can eat sandwiches again. And life -- and my dining choices -- have been expanding ever since.
Anyway, I had a True Opening in the Quaker sense of the words today over lunch. I recalled that, shortly more than a year ago, I was eating at the Pita Pit and fretting that I might die in a year or two. Or less. And today at lunch, I was eating at the Pita Pit and fretting that my piano lesson had not gone well.
Wow.
So, what hasn't changed is that I still fret about stuff from time to time.
It's just the subject matter that changes...
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
A Touch of Genuine Humanity
Deb and I visited my radiation doc a week or so ago. Just a routine visit: "How are things going?" kind of stuff. And the doc gave me yet another assurance that everything in my head/neck area looked and felt perfectly fine.
I took the occasion to ask him about these vision issues that I blogged about in "Adventures in Modern Medicine." I wondered if the radiation treatments from last year might be responsible. (This seemed a bit more likely to me, since the vision issues occur most often on my left side -- the side where the cancer had been; and therefore the side that received the most intense radiation dosages.)
He assured me that the amount of radiation used in my treatments was well below the level that the optic nerves can tolerate. Also, that the pinpoint accuracy of the radiation delivery system kept that radiation well away from my eyes. All of that, as you might expect, was good to hear.
At the end of the visit, he paused a moment and then said: "I have a number of head/neck cancer patients just now. And when I work with them, I think of you."
I was stunned, then deeply moved by this. It seemed so out-of-character for the person I thought he was.
Thinking back on the episode, I suppose I could have asked him why he thinks of me when working with other patients; but at the time, I was so touched by the intimacy of his comment that it didn't occur to me to do so.
I took it as meaning that I was (and still am) a human being for him -- and not just a collection of symptoms and charts and plans for therapy. That my treatments have been a success and that he celebrates this. Like me. And Deb. And you, dear reader.
Sometimes we forget this. That the doctors in our lives might know us as real human beings -- and care about us that way.
I took the occasion to ask him about these vision issues that I blogged about in "Adventures in Modern Medicine." I wondered if the radiation treatments from last year might be responsible. (This seemed a bit more likely to me, since the vision issues occur most often on my left side -- the side where the cancer had been; and therefore the side that received the most intense radiation dosages.)
He assured me that the amount of radiation used in my treatments was well below the level that the optic nerves can tolerate. Also, that the pinpoint accuracy of the radiation delivery system kept that radiation well away from my eyes. All of that, as you might expect, was good to hear.
At the end of the visit, he paused a moment and then said: "I have a number of head/neck cancer patients just now. And when I work with them, I think of you."
I was stunned, then deeply moved by this. It seemed so out-of-character for the person I thought he was.
Thinking back on the episode, I suppose I could have asked him why he thinks of me when working with other patients; but at the time, I was so touched by the intimacy of his comment that it didn't occur to me to do so.
I took it as meaning that I was (and still am) a human being for him -- and not just a collection of symptoms and charts and plans for therapy. That my treatments have been a success and that he celebrates this. Like me. And Deb. And you, dear reader.
Sometimes we forget this. That the doctors in our lives might know us as real human beings -- and care about us that way.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Aventures in Modern Medicine -- Chapter Eight
Or nine or six or something... I guess it depends on who's counting.
A week or two ago, I noticed that the number of "floaters" in my vision (that is, those little dark spots that show up and eventually drift out of view) seemed to have increased and that I was seeing bright flashes of light 'way off to the left in my field of view. Also, a light gray film was showing up and disappearing from time to time. Finally, I kept seeing a black "something" at the left edge of my vision that seemed to fly past me quickly. Like a bird or a bat. But there was never anything "real" to see when I turned my eyes to look directly at where the "something" had gone.
So I've added a ophthalmologist to my battery of medical specialists. Nice guy. Seems quite competent.
During my first visit, I got the obligatory drops that made my pupils dialate to the size of quarters, an impressive list of questions about my vision, and a thorough examination of the insides of my eyeballs. The eye doc dictated his findings to an assistant as he went through the process. (Never seen that before! Had no idea what he was talking about.)
Afterwards, the doc had me watch a DVD about floaters and a variety of retinal issues (which was interesting to watch through my blurry eyesight -- thanks to the aforementioned eyedrops!). He seemed to feel that I was quite smart in coming to him as soon as these symptoms showed up -- that they could be signs of something serious. Then he had me make an appointment for a week later. To see if there were any changes.
During this second visit (with more eyedrops, of course), the doc said he saw a small tear (as in dislocation rather than lachrymosity) in the retina of my left eye. Small and located well off to the side. But something that should be fixed before it got any larger.
Having watched the aforementioned DVD, I knew that the process involved tack welding the dislodged portion of the retina back in place with a laser. And I expected him to tell me to make an appointment to have the procedure done. But no! He was ready to do the deed then and there. And who was I to argue?
So I got moved to another examination room and received yet another type of eyedrop. And waited for some time (Who can tell time when waiting for the doctor in an examination room? Why haven't more playwrights done dramas and/or comedies about people stuck in a medical examination room? Samuel Beckett, where are you when we need you?) for the doc to show up.
He turned the lights way down low and put the most amazing contraption around his head. Looked something like a dressed-up version of that colander thingy from Back to the Future.
He told me that he would be hitting the area with twenty or so laser shots. In fact, it seemed like a lot more than that...
You do, of course need to keep your eyes wide open for this sort of thing. And for goodness sakes, keep looking at exactly the same spot on the ceiling that the doc says to look at!! If you move your eye and the laser shot hits someplace it wasn't supposed to...
The laser produces a bright green "image" when it hits. I think it announces the death of the rods and cones in the area that the laser hits, but I'm not sure about that.
Afterwards, my left eye didn't work at all for 5 or 10 minutes, but the doc said that was perfectly normal. I considered this an interesting use of the word "normal," but didn't say anything. When my eye returned to service, everything looked very purple. I guess the green sensors were overloaded and had decided to take a break. In 20 minutes, my vision was back to normal -- in the usual sense of the word "normal." Floaters and all.
In answering my questions about this procedure, the doc informed me that the torn retina probably had nothing to do with the symptoms that had brought me to his office, but that the two test procedures he had prescribed for me at the local hospital should shed some light on why these symptoms had shown up.
I had the first procedure today: a carotid ultrasound. The doc thinks the blood flow to my left eye may be inadequate or interrupted from time to time. And since the left side of my neck is the one that had the major surgery last year, that might make sense.
The other procedure happens on Tuesday morning. It's an echocardiogram. I hope to be able to explain what that means by Tuesday afternoon.
I feel caught between two very different places on all this. On one hand, I continue to feel that I'm getting excellent treatment from wonderfully competent medical personnel. On the other hand, I'm getting tired of my body producing new things from them to work on. I don't see that any of these issues is directly related to any others -- which is good news and bad news all at once. Which I think you can understand without explanation...
Oh yeah! Nearly forgot to mention! The doc says that there are two things I need to avoid doing for the next ten days to two weeks. He says "Don't lift anything heavy," and "Don't bend over." Because either of these activities would put additional pressure on the eyes and possibly dislodge the retinal fix. (Now, why would a juggler ever want to -- or have to -- bend over?)
So I try to take all of this in good humor, being deeply grateful for my fundamentally good health and great support from family, friends, medical professionals, and -- to be sure -- readers of this blog. Who by and large fit into one of the aforementioned categories.
I can see to write this. You can see to read this. There is much to be grateful for.
A week or two ago, I noticed that the number of "floaters" in my vision (that is, those little dark spots that show up and eventually drift out of view) seemed to have increased and that I was seeing bright flashes of light 'way off to the left in my field of view. Also, a light gray film was showing up and disappearing from time to time. Finally, I kept seeing a black "something" at the left edge of my vision that seemed to fly past me quickly. Like a bird or a bat. But there was never anything "real" to see when I turned my eyes to look directly at where the "something" had gone.
So I've added a ophthalmologist to my battery of medical specialists. Nice guy. Seems quite competent.
During my first visit, I got the obligatory drops that made my pupils dialate to the size of quarters, an impressive list of questions about my vision, and a thorough examination of the insides of my eyeballs. The eye doc dictated his findings to an assistant as he went through the process. (Never seen that before! Had no idea what he was talking about.)
Afterwards, the doc had me watch a DVD about floaters and a variety of retinal issues (which was interesting to watch through my blurry eyesight -- thanks to the aforementioned eyedrops!). He seemed to feel that I was quite smart in coming to him as soon as these symptoms showed up -- that they could be signs of something serious. Then he had me make an appointment for a week later. To see if there were any changes.
During this second visit (with more eyedrops, of course), the doc said he saw a small tear (as in dislocation rather than lachrymosity) in the retina of my left eye. Small and located well off to the side. But something that should be fixed before it got any larger.
Having watched the aforementioned DVD, I knew that the process involved tack welding the dislodged portion of the retina back in place with a laser. And I expected him to tell me to make an appointment to have the procedure done. But no! He was ready to do the deed then and there. And who was I to argue?
So I got moved to another examination room and received yet another type of eyedrop. And waited for some time (Who can tell time when waiting for the doctor in an examination room? Why haven't more playwrights done dramas and/or comedies about people stuck in a medical examination room? Samuel Beckett, where are you when we need you?) for the doc to show up.
He turned the lights way down low and put the most amazing contraption around his head. Looked something like a dressed-up version of that colander thingy from Back to the Future.
He told me that he would be hitting the area with twenty or so laser shots. In fact, it seemed like a lot more than that...
You do, of course need to keep your eyes wide open for this sort of thing. And for goodness sakes, keep looking at exactly the same spot on the ceiling that the doc says to look at!! If you move your eye and the laser shot hits someplace it wasn't supposed to...
The laser produces a bright green "image" when it hits. I think it announces the death of the rods and cones in the area that the laser hits, but I'm not sure about that.
Afterwards, my left eye didn't work at all for 5 or 10 minutes, but the doc said that was perfectly normal. I considered this an interesting use of the word "normal," but didn't say anything. When my eye returned to service, everything looked very purple. I guess the green sensors were overloaded and had decided to take a break. In 20 minutes, my vision was back to normal -- in the usual sense of the word "normal." Floaters and all.
In answering my questions about this procedure, the doc informed me that the torn retina probably had nothing to do with the symptoms that had brought me to his office, but that the two test procedures he had prescribed for me at the local hospital should shed some light on why these symptoms had shown up.
I had the first procedure today: a carotid ultrasound. The doc thinks the blood flow to my left eye may be inadequate or interrupted from time to time. And since the left side of my neck is the one that had the major surgery last year, that might make sense.
The other procedure happens on Tuesday morning. It's an echocardiogram. I hope to be able to explain what that means by Tuesday afternoon.
I feel caught between two very different places on all this. On one hand, I continue to feel that I'm getting excellent treatment from wonderfully competent medical personnel. On the other hand, I'm getting tired of my body producing new things from them to work on. I don't see that any of these issues is directly related to any others -- which is good news and bad news all at once. Which I think you can understand without explanation...
Oh yeah! Nearly forgot to mention! The doc says that there are two things I need to avoid doing for the next ten days to two weeks. He says "Don't lift anything heavy," and "Don't bend over." Because either of these activities would put additional pressure on the eyes and possibly dislodge the retinal fix. (Now, why would a juggler ever want to -- or have to -- bend over?)
So I try to take all of this in good humor, being deeply grateful for my fundamentally good health and great support from family, friends, medical professionals, and -- to be sure -- readers of this blog. Who by and large fit into one of the aforementioned categories.
I can see to write this. You can see to read this. There is much to be grateful for.
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