Category Archives: Life

Excuse me while I kiss the . . . ground?

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By nature I’m not a planner, so I didn’t have a definite schedule for the post-recovery part of my UFE medical leave: to hang around Bonjour, a rare pleasure on a weekday; to write reviews of two books I finished a month ago and which I hardly remember; and to catch up a bit on my current reading. That’s it.

So far, I am 0 for 3.

I did go to Bonjour Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday (closed Monday) and to the university bookstore on Monday. I’ve made a little progress in Mansfield Park, and I watched Pride and Prejudice (Olivier/Garson) on demand. Yesterday, however, I had a little setback. A painful setback, one that I have to get over.

Research shows that the elderly can stave off depression and dementia, and their effects, in a social, engaging setting. I believe this, and that it’s true not only for the elderly. In my current state of loneliness and withdrawal, I find that my mind tends to turn inward and that I feel fuzzy and unfocused, almost like my thoughts have to be retrieved from the depths and redeployed. If someone speaks to me, it takes me a while to process even that they are talking, let alone to form an answer.

This occurred to me yesterday for a couple of reasons. First, I had what appeared to be a duplicate charge on my debit card from a jewelry vendor, which seemed unlikely. The depths of my mind remembered that I had made a purchase since the jewelry, but I couldn’t recall where although it should have been obvious. All I could do was remind myself to check it again today, when it should have moved from “pending” to “completed.” It did. It was for the university bookstore, where coincidentally I had spent the same amount as I had on the jewelry. Oh. Now I remember.

Second, while I was sitting outdoors at Bonjour, an elderly woman, having difficulty holding onto a thought, finally remembered that she was looking for a place to make a copy, and a man had asked me about Alphasmart Neo. I had felt unequipped to engage either of them in conversation, so for the most part I had answered, “No,” and looked (and felt) confused. This same sense of muddledness was still plaguing me when, on the way back, suddenly and quickly, I fell smash on my face and front teeth on the sidewalk by the back door here. Miraculously (praise be) my teeth are intact, confirmed by the dentist today, and I’m okay except for a bruised knee and lips and some general soreness. Given how hard and where I hit, I was very lucky. But I’m not sure why I hit.

Even the trip downtown to the dentist disoriented me further. I felt like I was in the world, but not of it. Even when it turned out the digital X-ray was on the fritz and even as the assistant scrambled to borrow film, get the old machine to work, and take the film to be developed. I felt detached if amused. I even took the news that the nerve may die in time from the trauma with better grace than usual.

But when I came home, I ate and crawled into bed directly, which normally I hate to do. I couldn’t face going for an eight-block round-trip walk, which in this case is the equivalent of getting back on the horse. Involuntarily I cringe at the thought, seeming to relive the moment when I hit the sidewalk — which had been a waking fear-thought before the accident. I wonder if I will be able to return to work Tuesday and how coherent and functional I will be. I’ll regret that I didn’t enjoy my time off more. I’ll wonder where the time went — I already do.

Already, much of it feels like a dream that is happening to someone else — the time in the hospital, the recovery, even the weekend and the past few days.

As much as I love the summer weather and the freedom to do what I want when I want, I wish I were awake.

Day of reckoning for Ignatius: August 18, 2008

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What follows is more information about the uterine fibroid embolization (UFE) process from a patient perspective than you want or need to know, unless you’re considering it for yourself. You have been warned.

I woke up, packed in a daze, and arrived at the hospital early, closer to 6:30 than 7 a.m. After a 15–20 minute wait, I was escorted to one of three curtained areas in a “holding/recovery” room. I can’t say things happened quickly because it felt like time stood still, but according to the clock across the room in relatively short order I had been connected to heart-monitoring equipment and given compression stockings in sexy white followed later by boots.

The nurse asked me if I had any issues with an IV in my hand, and I replied that when I was 14 IVs tried in both hands had made them swell and that the night nurses had had to cut off my hospital ID bracelet. I couldn’t say why — whether it was from small veins or from my bad habit of flexing my wrist. After palpable indecision for a minute or two as she passed from hand to elbow to hand, she finally went for the left hand — and promptly told me to stop flexing my wrist.

I was also treated to what I most dreaded — the urethral catheter. By this point, I was in pain from lying on my back (albeit with my head elevated) — and the catheter sealed my sense of entrapment. Now, between the rigid arm tethered to the IV and the catheter, I wasn’t going to be going anywhere on my own. I began to wonder, not for the first time, if it were too late to back out gracefully, to say, “You know, I really don’t think I want to do this. Can I please leave now?”

In preparation for the epidural, the nurse checked the pulse on top of each foot and on the inside of each ankle. I passed muster because she said, “Your pulse is strong.” It’s always reassuring to hear that your heart beats and your blood flows. I suppose you wouldn’t hear the contrary. She marked each point with an X in what seems to be indelible marker — a week later, after several showers, I could still see traces.

The possibility of leaving was still a comfort to me even after Dr. Epidural had come in and worked his magic on my back. Dr. Atomic had recommended the epidural route, and it had been heartily endorsed earlier by the holding nurse, with much breathiness and many near-orgasmic sighs. She said she’d had one a few months earlier and added, several times, “Ohhh . . . it was nice. Ohhh . . . you’ll like it.” Later I saw her showing baby photos to her co-workers, so that confirmed my suspicion about why she’d had an epidural.

The curtained area to my left was hopping with visitors and chatter. I had seen the woman in the waiting room, so I knew she wasn’t Oprah, but still I marveled at her evident popularity compared to my lonelinessindependence. At last I discovered that she works at the hospital. Advantage; Lots of friends and support. Disadvantage: No privacy.

To my right was someone who sounded older and resigned. I began to see this as an assembly-line operation and tried to think about anything but the pain and pressure in my lower back as the popular woman was wheeled away. I was tired from lack of sleep and felt aware but not alert, probably more aware than I should have been.

Finally Ms. Popular was wheeled back into her area, snoring stertorously. The nurse told me in a confidential and reassuring tone, “See, she slept through the entire procedure, and she’s still asleep,” implying that maybe I would be so lucky.

My mind was at that state of exhaustion, disorientation, and nervousness that made that kind of relaxation impossible. Even her steady, deep, monotonous snoring on the other side of the curtain didn’t lull me to sleep, so I was wide awake when they came for me.

By now, my back was threatening to snap under the pressure and constraint — a situation that deteriorated when I helped to transfer myself to a flat table on which the procedure was to take place. One of the nurses, sensing my discomfort, asked if I wanted a pillow for under my knees, then, perhaps on cue from another nurse, added, “I almost forgot what procedure this is!” No pillow and no comfort for me.

I saw at least two nurses and a man I assumed was a doctor (he introduced himself, I’m sure) who I think later inserted the arterial catheter, but no sign of Dr. Atomic. One of the nurses shaved around the arteries on both sides, apologizing for some reason for the quality of her electric razor (I didn’t notice any issues and felt the moment a little surreal).

After this I don’t recall much except perhaps an occasional image or sense of people moving around. All I could see very well was an enormous device above, which I assumed was for imaging. Although I wasn’t fully awake, I wasn’t oblivious as under general anesthesia. This passing into and out of awareness is a deeply strange sensation; there is nothing to hold onto in either realm.

In what seemed like short order (perhaps under two hours), I was told to slide myself back onto the bed. “Don’t move your right leg. Don’t raise your head,” which made me bend my leg and raise my head. “Take your time — don’t bend your leg and don’t raise your head,” the voice said again. The voice resolved itself into the nurse who kept reminding me not to raise my head — in vain, because I could not stop raising my head. “Don’t raise your head — it puts pressure on the artery.” Forget the artery — I need to see something other than the ceiling!

The next stop was my room, which seemed to be ready pretty quickly, at least in my newly distorted time reference. I had mastered keeping my head down, more or less, but periodically my right leg insisted on trying to move. I was told that it wasn’t allowed that liberty for four hours, which I calculated to be at about 4:30 p.m. My. This was proving to be a long day.

By now, I was tethered to not only the IV/epidural and the urine collection bag, but oxygen as well (although I could at least remove this, which I did once or twice, probably to assert my independence). I figured out that I wasn’t going anywhere at any point soon and so I succumbed to sleep, left arm and right leg appropriately unmoving.

At last I was allowed to move my right leg, which meant only that I could bend it a little, flex my toes, and take the edge off its boredom. Now I was more interested in getting rid of the catheter, which I found out would be my intimate companion until the next morning. Every now and then I would feel a burning sensation centered on it and even told some of the parade of nurses that I felt like I really had to use the bathroom — a puzzling statement to me as well as to them. As hard to believe as it may be, it was only in the wee hours of the morning that I discovered that this burning sensation was really uterine cramping and pain and that using the epidural button (which I had not done much) would keep it at bay.

Trapped as I was, there was nothing to do but try to watch TV. Of course, nothing was of interest to me, and I’d given up finding anything other than the scenic slide show by the time the patient services person came by to explain the features, if I wanted (I didn’t). I wasn’t in the mood for sitcoms, news, or sports.

I called my cousin’s wife, then later let J. know that visiting hours were until 8:30 p.m., not that that was a hint. He duly arrived with flowers and the reassurance that I looked and sounded good (which I think he will still be telling me at my funeral). I don’t remember what we talked about, probably his work, only that I wanted him to catch his train, and so did he.

I’d been puzzled by a shrink-wrapped contraption sitting on my tray, but during the night one of the nurses unwrapped it and told me it was a breathing exercise device. I found that taking a deep breath and holding it kept a ball at the top of a column, while expelling the breath dropped the ball. I tried it several times, but was horrified that I simply couldn’t hold my breath long enough to keep the ball up more than a second. I don’t know if I passed. It was cute, and I wish I had thought to bring it home with me, perhaps to see if I can do better now.

When I was most fidgety, I was told that my body needed rest more than anything else. But “23-hour observation” doesn’t mean rest; it means 23+ hours of interruptions. Every time that I felt like I had sunk into a deliciously deep, pain-free sleep, I was awakened by one of the parade of nurses who took my blood pressure and temperature (it seemed hourly), emptied the bladder bag, replaced the IV solution and medications as necessary, and otherwise observed me highly efficiently. One even noticed that my compression boots had not been plugged into the machine, so overnight my legs received a wonderful, constant massage.

At least three times during the evening and wee hours, my blood pressure was low enough to set off the machine. All the nurses but one took my low, sometimes too low, blood pressure in stride, and I assumed that the epidural was the culprit (later confirmed when my blood pressure returned to normal shortly after it was removed). One nurse, however, seemed bothered by it and asked me repeatedly if my blood pressure is typically that low; I’m not sure she understood my tired, “I think it’s the epidural.” As I say, it was only during those hours that I discovered what I’d felt as an urge to urinate was really uterine cramping (I must have been more out of it than I realize) and that the epidural button became my friend.

Of course, just as I had mastered epidural pain control it was cut off at around 7:30 a.m., and an anesthesiologist and nurse came to remove it. No . . . Until then, I had been surprised by how minimal the pain had been, all things considered. Now I would find out just what I had been missing. Before they left, the anesthesiologist had me bend both legs and wiggle both sets of toes and seemed impressed by the strength of my performance.

Dr. Atomic arrived with another doctor, presumably a resident, whom he introduced. He gave me the rundown on the medications, told me that the worst part may be the constipation, and asked me to be “patient with the pain.” Easy for him to say. I remember staring at him, feeling like I was shrinking into the bed, and thinking completely irrationally, “YOU! YOU DID THIS TO ME!” If doctors only knew. He checked my feet pulse points and told me my pulse is strong. I get the impression the pulse in my feet may be strong.

Before or after this, I’m not sure which, a nurse had emptied the bag. Ten minutes later a different nurse came in for a urine sample, looked at the bag, and said, “She just emptied that, didn’t she?” I could only look apologetic. I certainly wasn’t in control of output.

Later, when I was free of the epidural, oxygen, and alarmingly pink catheter, two cheery assistants straight from a sitcom audition came and told me to take a walk or several around the floor. No problem. I’ll just head out the door here and . . . wobble like a baby taking its first steps. Well, looky at this handy handrail that someone set in the wall the length of the hallway. The handrail-less doors might be tricky. I made one circuit, took a break, made another, took another break, and may have taken a third. The comedians watched me, disappeared, came back, and suggested I might want to freshen up. That bad, eh?

It was now close to the 10 a.m. witching hour, and I thought I might be free to leave, so I asked. No, now they wanted a urine sample and proof that my urinary tract was functional. Alas, my first effort, 100 ml, was apparently not up to snuff. Next, I tried to fool them with cumulative efforts. Finally, I asked just how much they wanted. 600 ml. “Really, it may not be until later this afternoon,” the day nurse said. I drank as much water as I could stand — and later threw up for the second time. Where was the nausea coming from?

Meanwhile, the pain had kicked in. I rang for the poor nurse every time I used the “hat” in the bathroom, when I vomited, and when I couldn’t take the pain any more — which was horrifyingly frequent. Each time she’d call the doctor — I don’t know which one — and give me a shot through the connection in my hand. I’d lie down but couldn’t get comfortable. I’d walk but it would feel no better. I’d try sitting upright, but it still seized me. This pain was intense for several hours, and it may have been it rather than medication making me nauseated. Someone from dining services called around noon and helpfully asked if I would like to order lunch. No, I don’t think so. Meanwhile, I’d given up 300 ml over two tries.

This was when I asked the nurse how much urine they wanted, and she said, “It was really that it was cloudy, but it’s clear now, so that’s fine.”

Aha! So now I could go home.

“Should I call my friend to pick me up? It will take him at least an hour to get here.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Your pain isn’t under control.”

No, it wasn’t. By now I had learned to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10. On Monday, my answers had been mostly 4s. Tuesday morning and early afternoon, they were a shaky, white-faced 10. I wasn’t fooling the nurse, who had used her powers of persuasion to get me additional IV doses.

What it came down to, she said, was that my pain had to be managed with oral medication only, and I wasn’t at that point yet. It was hard to argue. To prove that I was improving, however, at around 2 p.m. I reported once that it was a 9.5. “That means a 10.”

I can’t put anything over on anybody.

By 3:30 p.m., I was too uncomfortable to sit, lie down, or walk. The hospital bed and chair were too confining, and I wanted to go home and sprawl in my own bed.

The nurse was not convinced. “You don’t have to leave, and I don’t think your pain is managed yet,” she said, accurately.

Each of us was right in her own way. My pain level was still high, despite the combination of oral and IV medications. I had a feeling, though, that if I could relax in familiar surroundings, the pain would resolve itself sooner. Reluctantly, she agreed to let me go. I called J., and at about 4:30 p.m. I tucked myself, my bag, and my flowers into the wheelchair, minding what the nurse had said. “You’d better take the basin with you. Just in case.”

I still felt miserable, but I could sense that I’d been through the worst of it. As I waited more than an hour, at least I was somewhat distracted by the happier patients in the departure lounge. One couple with a newborn struggled to rein in the exuberance of two older boys. Another couple, with a woman who was perhaps a sister or a cousin, emerged from the doorway with two carriers, two blankets, and two balloons proclaiming “It’s A Baby Boy” and “It’s A Baby Girl.” While I was killing Ignatius the feisty fibroid, others were clearly being more productive.

J. arrived, and the bumpy, stop-and-start rush-hour ride contributed to the fuss Ignatius was making in his death throes. I know I was irritable and disoriented, yet too aware of my burning belly.

I walked in the door and, after very few preliminaries, undressed and headed straight for bed. At around 8 p.m. I emerged, helped J. with the air mattress and sheets, took and ticked off all the medications on the spreadsheet, and collapsed again. At 11 p.m., I kicked J. out of the bathroom (he was just done). For the next two days, until Friday morning (he left Wednesday night), all I remember is sleeping and taking and tracking medications. By Friday morning, I felt relatively good. The cramping and bleeding seemed to have ended, and I was ready to return to normalcy — so I walked the half mile to Bonjour.

I’ve been very fortunate, both before and after. My symptoms were minimal in nature and impact, and after the UFE I was able to sleep away the pain in a few days. I’m not fully myself, and my lower back protests, especially in the morning. Mostly (not entirely), I don’t feel that constant “itch” to relieve myself. And I no longer feel a hard mass below my navel, which had become both repulsive and compelling. I’m not sure, but I think I might make the same choice.

It’s been at least 33 years since I spent a night in a hospital and four years since I was under general anesthesia. As I lay in pain, or watching the nurses about their work, or listening to Dr. Atomic assure me all had gone as expected, I realized that my hospital experiences, positive as they had been — on the whole, I’d received good care on the three occasions, at three different hospitals — had made me feel violated. In some way, it’s the loss of control; in another, for me, it’s the nearly instantaneous disorientation I feel in such a strange, modernistic environment. More than a week later, I still feel like a Star Trek character might whose cells have been rearranged and are out of sync with the universe. Now I imagine how strange I will feel when I return to work next Tuesday.

Footnote: I must not be 100 percent. I just fell flat on my face on the sidewalk — interestingly, a dream-fear I’ve had for a few days.

Bristol Renaissance Faire, with rain

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Just in case I wasn’t up to a post-UFE trip to Bristol Renaissance Faire, we went back on Sunday, August 17. This time J. succumbed to the claw game at the Tri-State O’Hare Oasis. Seeing that he was determined, I contributed $5 and five moves. After I had set it up, with a cue from me he got the drop on a furry, fuchsia, “Flirt” flower. There’s nothing like spending $12 on a $2 toy to make the male of the species feel good.

We arrived late enough to avoid the parking fee, but too early to get a pass on admission. Although the weather was perfect, to my untrained eye the clouds seemed to be moving in from the west in a determined way, and I wished I’d brought an umbrella.

While we were shopping — I for a wizard-style walking stick, he for CDs and later for a similar stick — the skies darkened abruptly. Just as we had recombined and were looking at beads under a couple of inches of awning, the downpour came. It rained, and rained, and rained. Suddenly there was great interest in beads [shelter], and we kept being nudged gently aside.

When there seemed to be a slight letup we ran across the way, only to find that the “awning” was really a trellis for plants and as porous as could be. Time for Plan C — dashing to a sheltered footwear store, where the amply bosomed matron informed all that dry shoes could be had and offered plastic bags as a practical headdress. Outside the opening, a few young people, already drenched, gave in to their inner child and danced in the puddles while their friends called out to them from the surrounding shops. The rain didn’t cease for more than a half hour.

Food was next on the agenda — shepherd’s pie for J., spinach and cheese calzone for me. It’s not easy, I assure you, to eat a very hot calzone with a plastic fork on wet table while standing in mud. Throwing all proprieties to the winds (or rains), after I dropped the fork in the mud I wiped it off with a dry paper napkin — and lived to tell of it. Let that be a lesson to the over fastidious.

After the rain stopped, I don’t think we did much except stop in at more shop. I haven’t felt brave enough to try to throw knives, battle axes, or brass stars this year, although I’ve done tolerably well in the past (the battle axe man once giving me a look of respect not to mention space).

To J.’s dismay, I wouldn’t let him stop anywhere to eat when we left a little after 7 p.m. We’d eaten enough, and I’d taken into account that he had to work the next day and that I had to be at the hospital by 7 a.m. It was also easy for me to decide, because I wasn’t supposed to eat anything heavy.

And so to bed around 11:30 p.m., wondering what tomorrow would bring . . .

Sand Ridge Nature Center

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Saturday J. and I headed to the Sand Ridge Nature Center, another part of the Cook County Forest Preserve District. This one is close to the train station in Homewood, which is why I suggested it. Of course, we took several detours and didn’t go there directly, making the convenience moot. My mood improved when I saw a bumper sticker in the parking lot that still makes me giggle: A cartoon pig says indignantly, “No, I don’t have any spare ribs.”

First, we walked through the building, which has a number of educational exhibits and herpetologic and fish inhabitants. The educational information was punctuated by “Fun Facts,” for example, the saying, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat” refers to catfish. I had never heard of one of the species on display, a musk turtle or “stinkpot.” Nearby in the same aquarium, a painted turtle sprawled catlike on partially submerged rocks. It had extended its front legs straight out, as relaxed cats do, and pulled its head into its shell so that it looked like a comfortable headless turtle.

A woman who had been cleaning offered to help us. She gave us a map of the trails and samples of insect repellent to get us through our walk.

Cook County government has a poor reputation, and I developed a poor opinion of government employees based on an experience years ago at the State of Illinois Secretary of State’s Office downtown. I went with a friend who needed something and who was the only person there on business. A woman came to the window and told us to form a single-file line. I said, “Oh, I’m not in line; I’m with her,” to which the woman replied, more firmly, “Form a single-file line.” It soon became apparent that she would not assist my friend until I was standing precisely behind her in line. Her behavior and attitude clearly didn’t make her happy. I could picture her at home, telling her family about the difficult person who made her day hellish by not cooperating instantly and forming a single-file line of two, and her family commiserating with her about the horrors of coping with John and Jane Public every day. Today, she would be a natural for the TSA.

All of this is to highlight that the Cook County Forest Preserve District employees we’ve met have been eager to provide a good visitor experience. They have seemed to like, even to love, their jobs, with no inclination toward mindless bureaucracy. I noticed, too, that the District promotes a new Chicago Wilderness program of which I heartily approve: “Leave No Child Inside,” which tries to get children away from their electronics into the great outdoors. (My proposal: A similar program for adults.)

The sky was overcast, so the butterfly garden wasn’t buzzing with activity. J. did try to get photos or video of a red damselfly that posed for him for several minutes.

We didn’t have much time and my natural bent is toward water, so we took the Redwing Trail that skirts a man-made pond. Around this pond were large, showy orange and pink flowers of a variety we had never seen before. We also spotted tiny powder blue flowers whose little protruding centers fascinated me.

From the direction of the pond I heard a bird calling and saw a flash of gray and white. Although I couldn’t recall the sound, I remembered that belted kingfishers call in flight and was pretty sure that that is what I’d seen. J. also got a quick look at it on the return trip. As always, I wished I had brought binoculars.

As it was a cloudy, humid, relatively still day, the mosquitoes were out in force in the woods. J. offered me insect repellent, which would have helped with my arms and legs, but a large proportion of the bloodsuckers chose to bite my posterior. Next time I’ll know to spray my pants ahead of time.

Apparently, the forest proper, or portions of it, is fenced, so when we went through the gate beyond the pond, I had to pay attention to the amount of time it would take to return before it would be locked at 4:30 p.m. The fence may be intended to keep humans out when the preserve is closed, but it serves another purpose — a sign asks you to close the gate behind you to prevent white-tailed deer from destroying the gardens.

The forest preserves may be overrun by deer, but the only wildlife we saw was a rabbit sitting in the middle of the trail. More skittish than its Flamingo relatives, it dove into the cover when it realized we’d spied it. I saw a few birds, but not many — generally, most birds prefer areas that are more open.

The sun made an appearance just as we came to an open space next to the trail, and J. took a photo at my request. On the return trip, I explained that one fantasy of mine is to live in a clearing in the deep woods, not unlike Hansel and Gretel’s witch. Slapping himself, J. commented, “If you could keep the mosquitoes under control . . .”

Despite his discomfort, when we came to the Lost Beach Trail J. wanted to continue. I demurred because it was close to the time I’d decided we needed to turn around and backtrack to avoid being locked in with the unseen and unheard but voracious deer. This proved to be a good call, because when we were about halfway past the pond it began to drizzle. Shortly after we returned to the building, the skies poured in earnest. I wondered if the cheerful woman we had met as she headed out had been caught in it and if she were still happy.

We looked at the animal posters on the wall by the offices. In one, a green heron was doing what green herons do so well — taking a frog for dinner. “Poor frog!” J. exclaimed. Indeed. In this particular photo, the frog, its midsection trapped between the heron’s upper and lower mandibles, faces the camera and sports a facial expression eerily like that of Kermit the Frog.

Outside again we watched a couple of male goldfinches in the prairie garden area. One alighted on a tall plant that slowly dipped under its weight while J. again tried to capture the Kodak (Nikon) moment.

In the parking lot, impressive amounts of steam wafted up from the pavement, drawn toward the sun that had reappeared after the hard rain. After a brief detour to Hammond, Indiana, as far in ambiance from Sand Ridge as it is possible to conceive, we ended up at a Fuddruckers for a meal that probably negated any good we had done ourselves by walking. J., along with some seven-year-old boys, had his fill (or at least of taste) of video games, then we returned to The Flamingo. I admit I teased Hodge with the salmon that J. had picked up on the way at Treasure Island.

The poor, tortured cat.

Jolted

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When I noticed darkness descending at about 7:30 p.m. on Monday, I didn’t know that I “ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Darkness had fallen 12 hours earlier, at 7:30 a.m. As I was getting ready for work, the clouds moved in, the wind picked up, and the downpour began. Fortunately for me, the worst of the wind and water was over by the time I left at 8 a.m.

When I returned in the evening, I thought about relaxing outside for a bit or even going to the stores for the walk. There was some sun, but it wasn’t the gentle, soft summer evening of my dreams. I didn’t feel very good, either, so I stayed in and felt guilty.

Then it was “déjà vu all over again.” I marvel every time at the speed with which a storm can appear to darken the world.

By 8 p.m., the thunder and lightning had begun, the clouds had opened up, and the skies were as dark as though it were hours after sundown, not minutes before. I love storms, so I watched the nearly constant lightning and waited for it to pass in due course.

It didn’t.

As the clouds lit almost like strobes with an occasional streak down to the horizon, I distracted myself by looking up the different types of lightning. I remembered being afraid and my parents talking about “sheet lightning” that wasn’t anything to worry about. I realized how comforting it can be to remain ignorant and to be reassured.

By 9:45 p.m., I had had enough. I tried to read, but was too tired and even too worn out to stay awake. As I dozed, I sensed the storm abating.

The reprieve was brief because at some point near midnight, I perceived flashes. More than that, I heard rain. Rain like I have rarely heard or seen before. It hit the windows in solid sheets. I thought about the young rabbit, which I’d seen in the garden earlier in the evening after a week’s disappearance, and worried that he was not only frightened and soaked, but that he might drown. In a half stupor, I imagined the wall of water coming through the bricks and running down the interior walls.

In east Hyde Park, a lot of tree limbs, some large, some small, were torn off. One tree’s secondary trunk was split off; I’m not sure if that kind of injury leaves it salvageable. My initial reaction to seeing the limbs all over the street was an odd, involuntary one — irrationally I thought with a sickening feeling that vandals were somehow responsible.

The Chicago Tribune reported that conditions sparked more than 9,000 lightning strikes in a four-hour period — not a typical midsummer’s eve storm. Knowing that now, I’m not surprised that this constant onslaught wore on me. But I was less frightened than by the October storm a few years ago in which the wind uprooted thousands of trees while I cowered.

As with many of my fears, nothing came to pass — rain didn’t stream down the walls, and I’ve spotted the young rabbit enough times since Monday to be convinced he didn’t die of fright or drown.

And neither did I.

Ignatius the friendless fibroid

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Like me, Ignatius is a loner.

As I reported earlier, I decided to explore the possibility of a UFE, or uterine fibroid embolization, procedure. On Tuesday, July 22, I took the first step with an MRI scan and a consultation with Dr. V., an interventional radiologist.

Despite my best efforts to be late, I arrived a little early. After I’d been chided for standing in the wrong line (I was supposed to intuit the process) and after being asked for the insurance card I’d handed over three minutes earlier, I found myself with a pager. I wondered if I was in a hospital or the Cheesecake Factory.

I’d settled into a chair and cracked a book for the wait when it dawned on me I didn’t know where to go when called (in hindsight, it was very obvious, but I wasn’t thinking straight that morning), so I backtracked down the hall to the information desk. Just as I was asking, the pager buzzed and lit up impatiently. That was quick! Mr. Information told me to retreat the way I had come and to go to the double doors. “If you don’t respond to the pager, they call you, and then . . .”

I was slightly panicky because, according to the paperwork, I should have verified with the [new] insurer that the MRI scan had been pre-certified. Now they tell me. Or remind me. I think that I will never master the art of adulthood and responsibility, and wonder how many hundreds this particularly dimwitted oversight will cost me.

A young man, the first of many people whose names I didn’t catch or remember, told me how and where to undress and stash my stuff. When he called me, now fashionably dressed in matching back-and-front gowns and green booties. I called back for help. He found me wrestling with the locker key, which it turns out requires a token that had fallen to the floor. My blood was definitely bypassing my brain.

Next stop: Blood tests and IV needle. This MRI scan requires the use of contrast dye, which in turn requires healthy kidneys. I acknowledged that I’m not on dialysis (“that I know of”). After running my contribution through a desktop gizmo, the cheery nurse reported that my kidneys are “working well.” “Too well,” I muttered, as I was hit by another urge. (This proved to be a day of frequent urges.)
Next, I was taken to a waiting room where I had just about enough time to notice the House Beautiful pile before another woman came for me. I don’t think it was even 9:30 yet, and already I was in the MRI room.

She plugged in the IV tube, gave me a cool rush of saline, and told me what to expect:

  • The MRI scan would take 30–45 minutes.
  • I should lie as still as possible.
  • I would have a squeeze ball to alert her if I needed anything (I took this to mean, “If you become claustrophobic and panicky”).
  • She would be able to see and hear me (camera).
  • The table would move, but I shouldn’t.
  • During the scan, she would tell me through headphones to hold my breath until instructed to breathe again. Oh, the power!

I lay down on the table like a sacrifice as she and another woman put a heavy band across my mid-section, stuck a cap on my head, and propped my calves over a large pillow (even a sacrifice needs blood flow).

All set?

Let the games began.

I’d read that the technology has improved since my last MRI scan (of my head) and that the equipment is larger (obesity epidemic) and more open. Previously, I just fit, with my arms pinned to my side, my nose nearly touching the top, and no leverage to back out. It was like being in one of those coffins with the split top, only with the head covered and the legs exposed. I’m not particularly claustrophobic, but that time I did start feeling trapped and unable to escape at about the 25-minute mark.

By comparison, this was great. My forehead was sticking out one end so I could see a bit of the ceiling, I had room to move my arms (even if I couldn’t), and I didn’t feel like there was no way to get out without help in an emergency. (With a lot of effort, I think I could have backed out because more of my legs were free.) The squeeze ball nurse call is a bit of comfort, I suppose.

The hard part was holding my breath as many times as she asked me to, for up to 20–25 seconds. It wouldn’t be bad sitting up, but it’s a little problematic at my size in the prone position (one of the forms had a question about breathing issues lying down, but I didn’t think it would be one — but then I didn’t know about holding my breath). When I did hold my breath, loud, rhythmic sounds would kick in — not the same sound or rhythm, but different ones at different times. I distracted myself from the feeling I was suffocating myself by counting to the rhythm and trying to visualize it. The mind has many coping mechanisms, even for coping with something as unnatural as an MRI scan.

Finally, she told me that this was the last time I would have to hold my breath and that they were almost done. The timing was perfect, because I imagined I was feeling the effects of diminished oxygen.

After completing a survey, dressing, and asking Mr. Information the way, I made it to the next stop: the heart/vein area, because, I suppose, that’s where most embolizations are performed. I checked in with my insurance card and received another pager, which buzzed and lit as soon as I had settled on a seat. Such efficiency!

I’m not sure who picked me up; she may have been one of those mentioned on Dr. V.’s Web site. She confirmed my information and left, to be succeeded by Dr. V.

Dr. V. asked about how and when I discovered Ignatius and the grief he gives me, and how much I know about UFE. He gave me a folder with more information. I asked if fibroids were causing my urinary problems. “I think so. Look at this,” he said, as we got down to the business of checking the bastard out.

It turns out ultrasounds aren’t very reliable for pinpointing fibroids. There, on the computer screen, was Ignatius, a single 13-centimeter fibroid perched on top of my uterus, not far from my spine. There were no others. Just Ignatius. His weight is pressing down, flattening (“pancaking,” as Dr. V. put it) the oval of my bladder so that it’s a little bubbled on one end. Dr. V. said, “Here’s a more dramatic view,” adding, “There’s not a lot of capacity there.” He can’t be sure, but agreed that Ignatius could be affecting my lower back.

The images were fascinating. How often do you get to see your own innards? There mine were — dominated by a chunk of slowly growing muscle tissue.

Dr. V. told me what to expect from the procedure, described the pain management options, and talked about the logistics. He was open about the risks, mentioning “death” first, and covering infection requiring hysterectomy, premature menopause, and so forth. He answered the questions I remembered to ask about UFE (I forgot several) and reminded me to read the material and the Web site. I asked him about particle migration, and he told me a joke about why doctors cost so much. I must have been distracted and not laughed, because he told me it was just a little joke, and the point is that, having performed more than 3,000 UFEs, they are experienced, and that a complication like that is usually the result of inexperience.

He thinks I’m a good candidate and that infection is unlikely because of Ignatius’s location. (Apparently, the combination of his size and location is a bit unusual. Typical.) I asked about the likelihood of recurrence given my age and proximity to perimenopause (I don’t think I’m quite there yet, but am probably close), and he said that Ignatius didn’t happen overnight — he’s been growing, in his estimation, at least 10 years. Ten years! 1998 was a bad year in many, many ways.
He told me to contact his patient access representative to schedule the UFE. I checked out then, hoping that the last person I talked to really did change my status on the printout from “self-insured.” Yikes.

I’m still mulling and still looking at discouraging photos, still thinking that my symptoms aren’t that bad, still thinking that it’s possible I could feel a lot better with a tamed and reduced Ignatius.
To celebrate surviving the MRI scan and the consultation, I splashed boiling water on my bare stomach above the navel and then did everything wrong, from not applying a cool cloth and then opening the blister to using antibiotic and an improper bandage. Now I have a lovely second-degree burn that, fortunately, is healing in spite of my ignorance.
And a little decision.

At Morton Arboretum

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Late yesterday afternoon J. and I finally made it to the Morton Arboretum — finally, because he has wanted to go for a couple of months. After a morning of solid rain, the weather brightened but remained humid.

On the way, I noticed several electronic signs that read, “State police enforcing motorcycle reckless driving,” which of course implies that reckless motorcycle driving is required by a law that state police enforce. I imagined the scene for J.: A state trooper pulls over a motorcyclist and says, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ticket you. You could have weaved in and out of traffic in that jam a mile back, but you stayed in your lane and, even worse, you rode at a safe speed for conditions. Next time, drive recklessly, okay?”

A car in the parking lot was sporting a “Cthulhu for President” bumper sticker, complete with a red, white, and blue, stylized, round-headed octopus. Later, we spoke to a priest or minister whose bumper sticker advertised, “Rev for hire.”

He was there because, like the Chicago Botanic Garden, Morton Arboretum hosts weddings, receptions, and other events, This day’s events imposed some restrictions (no conifer way), but we managed to get into the visitor center just before it closed to the public. A man at the counter helpfully lent J. a pair of scissors so he could open an over-packaged camera card. We also raided the gift shop before it closed (in J.’s case, also after it closed because he’s hard to budge from any store or spending opportunity no matter the hours).

The “Big Bug” exhibit by David Rogers closes today, so we saw the welcoming praying mantis as well as the ants, grasshopper, daddy longlegs, and dragonfly, all crafted from various woods. While we were admiring the dragonfly and the scenery around Meadow Lake, I heard a boy, probably 11 or 12 years old, complain repeatedly about the exhibit. “What kind of gratification are we supposed to get out of wooden bugs?” Clearly, he is one of those sadly cynical children who have much and appreciate little. One of the two girls with him, probably a sister, replied disgustedly, “Why are you being such a p . . . p . . . pe . . . pessimist?” After all my observations of poorly behaved or out-of-control children who seem alien to my own experience, it was a relief to see that sibling relationships haven’t changed. Charlie Brown’s Lucy lives.

Even better than giant insects are the real thing. I spotted a monarch flitting among the trees on its remarkably rich orange-and-black wings. Then we found a patch of prairie flowers buzzing with bumblebees of all sizes — some almost as small as the few honeybees among them, and a few robust giants whose wings even I could hear with my better ear. They scrambled quickly and deftly over the purple flowers, their pollen baskets loaded and their legs busily rubbing. Tomorrow when the destructive vortex of human ego threatens to suck me into its evil core, I must fight to remember the lovely, poetic toil of dozens of beautiful bumblebees.

Closer to Crowley Marsh, we encountered real dragonflies darting about like insect helicopters. Like butterflies and hummingbirds, dragonflies move so quickly and erratically that the beauty of their colors can be seen only in painfully brief flashes that leave you longing for move. I attribute this to Nature’s sadistic sense of humor — the same sense of humor that makes the stationery and easy-to-observe fly unappealing in appearance.

The other insect in abundance made itself felt when J. tried to take a photo of me with the “tree of the day” along one of the hiking trails. He had no idea why I was hopping from foot to foot, twisting, and squirming; he couldn’t see (or feel) the mosquitoes that were attacking my face, hands,legs, and rear. It will be interesting to see how those photos turn out — and I meant to be cooperative for a change.

Although we didn’t observe any birds of note — we saw mainly healthy-looking robins, including a young one posing on a sign — we did witness a turf battle between two male red-winged blackbirds. I imagine the secretive, demure females were watching the skirmish from hidden branches and saying apologetically to one another, “Boys will be boys . . .”

At about 7:45 p.m., an employee discovered us resting on a bench and let us know that closing time was nigh. I told J. that he’d found us so directly that I wondered, somewhat seriously, if there are strategically placed cameras. Even in a peaceful arboretum, I feel surrounded by the prying eyes of civilization.

Confusing construction threw us off our route, so we were at O’Hare before we knew it. The plan was to go to the Silver Palm, which J. had gotten into his head was near North Avenue and which I thought was closer to Chicago Avenue (judging by the address). During our rambles, we noticed Exit Chicago, a windowless punk and rock club painted black and sporting studs around its forbidding door. I envisioned a tough, intimidating, scary crowd. Look up their Web site and judge for yourself.

After a lot of driving around and a little tension fed by growing hunger, frustration, and, in my case, pain (Ignatius and fibroid friends were making their constricting presence felt), we finally found it — only to learn that the server he knows there had changed shifts and had the night off.

The dining part of the Silver Palm is an old rail car, which seems to me to be the place’s main attraction (the food being average). Nearly everyone, however, had opted to dine al fresco, which in Chicago is usually not as charming as it may sound. The Silver Palm’s outdoor clientele were seated on a cracked, uneven sidewalk just feet from busy, noisy Milwaukee Avenue. At least I could imagine the glorious days of train travel and service — or try to.

After J. left me with a pile of gifts (T shirts, note cards, postcards, a wooden spoon, etc.), I stripped and lay down, feeling tired but very relaxed despite pain and discomfort. Just as a feeling of well being and peace was threatening to take over, I heard an explosive sound and wondered if the end were nigh and whether I should get up to be sure. More followed, and then the lightning arrived — a 1:30 a.m. thunderstorm. At last it put me to sleep.

Christmas in July

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Monday, July 7, 2008, was like Christmas in July at the house of Slywy. I came home to four packages. I’d ordered all of them, but it’s always fun to get mail — even if it weighs more than 30 pounds.

The biggest and heaviest box was not for me, but for Hodge — 24 cans each of chicken and turkey cat food. He can take comfort in knowing that he’ll be fed for another 48 days, at least.

A second heavy box contained a case of Bob’s Red Mill Kamut hot cereal and an electronic pedometer. I had given up the hope that Treasure Island might carry Kamut, which is more flavorful than your ordinary whole grain cereals. The pedometer, which counts steps, distance, and kilo calories whether you clip it to your waistband or carry it, is part of my effort to walk more and to track how much walking I do.

A smaller box from Amazon held another health-related item, Insulow, which purports to help shuttle carbohydrates into your muscle cells instead of your fat cells by increasing insulin sensitivity and the uptake of glucose. I haven’t tried it, yet, however. I’m almost afraid to.

Finally, the first book I’d ordered last month during a buying spree on ABE was the last to arrive, on the last day of its expected delivery range — A Celtic Childhood by Bill Watkins.

Eat, walk, read. Life.

19 July 2008: Miscellany

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  • The landscaping at the Hyde Park Shopping Center was changed earlier this week, and I haven’t see Peter Cottontail in the three times I’ve looked since. I’m hoping that he left on his own or, at worst, the landscapers humanely trapped and relocated him to a better habitat. I was moved to see that someone had thrown baby carrots into the planter on the off chance he was still around.
  • It was an interesting week, but not in a positive sense. Fondly do I recall the days when I was blissfully unaware of the “control freak” type (there must be a psychiatric term and diagnosis code). Once I met one and began to understand the affliction, I realized how rampant among those least qualified or able to manage or control this is. It’s disturbing.
  • I have lost the equilibrium and sense of well being I had after my four days away.
  • That it should rain on the day J. wanted to visit Morton Arboretum fits in with the general tenor of life these days.
  • On the other hand, I did get an outdoor table at the bakery, and it’s soothing to see and hear the rain from the shelter of the overhang.
  • I am afraid of losing my intellectual, creative, and managerial talents and skills through disuse and misuse. I feel have regressed 20 years and lack the energy, confidence, and hope to try to recoup what I have lost.
  • I have to measure the exact length of my stride, but even if it isn’t yet calibrated precisely, the new Omron HJ-112 digital pedometer shows that I walk more than I thought — often more than two miles a day. Four would be better.
  • Two weeks ago when I was walking around Promontory Point a little after sunset, I looked up and beheld the crescent moon overhead and to the west and remembered that in some ways that that beautiful soft glow and what it represents make life worthwhile. I wish others could understand that.
  • The people who bring their children to The Flamingo pool leave a lot of stuff behind — noodles, toys, floats, goggles, towels. I think of a photo of a baby, under a year old, surrounded, almost crowded, by his roomful of toys. I recall my toy box (actually a tan plastic washtub) in which most of my toys fit with room to spare. I loved everything I had, perhaps because I had so little. All of it meant something — a gift from my aunt, a surprise from my parents. Once I experienced the purest joy when a tiny glow-in-the-dark skeleton came with a necessary bottle of school glue. As small as it was, I treasured it for years. Now children are so used to having so much that they leave things behind or lose them as though they were no more than used paper towels. We and our children falsely believe that things can be replaced infinitely. Do we believe that about our world, our environment, and our wildlife? Is the culture of consumerism and waste etched on our psyches? And are there left any middle-class children who still feel a thrill over the smallest of things?
  • I must stop procrastinating about getting my nearly 35-year-old bike fixed. Returning to the road, even if only around here, might give me a boost and help me put some of the issues into perspective. As for the bike, it is heavy, rusty in spots, and not entirely straight, but I don’t think I could ever discard my old friend.