Surviving a Knife Fight with a Zombie Biker Gang

I don’t often update my blog lately except for book reviews. Most of the time, it’s because I’m spending every free moment writing novels. (Writing blog posts takes longer than you’d think.)

But a lot of other things have been going on, so in the brief moment where I don’t feel like I’ve been beaten by a zombie biker gang and left for dead, I thought I’d write an update.

I’ve been having odd health issues for a while—okay, a year. But doctors haven’t been able to diagnose anything because my symptoms didn’t make sense. To make a frustrating story short, a spinal surgeon finally ordered an x-rayed and said, “Uh, wow…Are you sure you're not in a lot of pain? Your neck is really beaten up. It looks like the neck of an 80-year-old.” Gee, thanks.

So I found myself having surgery on a Saturday morning. I asked about recovery, medications, etc. The surgeon talked about how I might have trouble swallowing and talking, but he’d make sure I’d have this really great looking scar. And since I didn’t have folds in the skin of my neck, it would take extra surgical skill and coolness (my words, not his).

I am recovering and am the owner of two artificial discs, have had my vertebrae roto-rootered because of root nerve compressions, and have a very cool scar. Honestly, I don’t care if the scar looked like a railroad track disaster, but everyone else does. My chemist son oohs and ahs over the deep tissue sutures and especially the skin adhesive, waxing eloquent about plastic coating and hydrogen bonding (dipole-dipole interactions), London dispersion forces, van der Waal interactions, etc. (Yay! So excited about that, except, you know, not.) My husband’s retinal surgeon also took time to check out my scar and wanted to know who’d done the surgery since it was a class-act. (My husband had four emergency eye surgeries during this time. Neither of us was allowed to drive. So we are thankful to our daughter who came up from Atlanta—she and the chemist became the Patient Management Team.)

In the meantime, I try to write, which has been very difficult, especially on high doses of Percocet and Valium. However, the Valium dosages are going down and words are flowing again. I’m so very thankful. As is the rest of my family—there is no creature quite so difficult as a writer who’s not writing.

Yes, they often go in through the front of
the neck to do surgery on the spine.

Here’s a photo of my “very cool” scar. Honestly, right now it still looks a little gross—though I’m assured that won’t last. But I’d kind of like it to look gritty—because then I could make up this great story about how I survived a knife fight with a zombie biker gang using only my wits and a set of car keys. Alas, I had a very skilled surgeon.

Sadly, you can hardly see the scar. :(

Here’s me writing. It takes too much energy to get dressed first thing in the morning—so I write in my leopard pajamas. When I’m tired and my arms are burning, I get dressed for the day. Writers write—and you do whatever it takes.

A New Painting

I haven't been doing much blogging lately--or much of anything else. I had surgery. Yes, two cardiothoracic surgeries in the family weren't enough (see here and here), so I had major surgery too.

My husband Calvin took a week off from work to take care of me--my doctor's directions for home care were "stay in bed." That meant running the house was up to Calvin because our sons are in the middle of finals and their contributions to housework were putting their midnight snack dishes in the kitchen and throwing dirty clothes in the laundry room.

In the midst of playing nurse and maid (Calvin didn't need to cook much because our church brought us meals--thank you, Sally, Rachael, Laura, Karen, and Mom), Cal finished painting a watercolor. The photo isn't great quality, but you can see it on the left.

The painting almost makes my down time seem worthwhile. Almost, not quite.

For those that like to see what the painting looks like as Calvin works on it. Here are some "in-progress" photos.

This is early in the painting. 

Nearing the end.

N.B. The painting is from a photo I took on our Smoky Mountain vacation--the one where we saw a bear up close and personal--click here.

And if you'd like to see more of Calvin's watercolors, here are links to a few of the paintings I've shared on my blog: here, here, here.

You Know You’re Tired When…

My shoe is on the left. My daughter's
is on the right.

In case you haven’t read the last month’s blog posts, I’ve been taking care of my daughter who had cardiothoracic surgery. And I’m tired. I didn’t realize how tired until yesterday.

As we were walking to the car, my daughter said: You’re wearing my shoes.

Me (thinking she was talking about the new shoes she bought me for Christmas): Yep.

Daughter: I thought you were going to wear your new shoes

Me (wondering at the redundancy of her thoughts and chalking it up to heavy painkillers): Yep.

Daughter (confused): But you’re wearing my shoes.

Me (looking at my feet): These are my shoes.

Daughter: Where did you get those shoes?

Me: Out of your closet.

Daughter: So those are my shoes.

Me: No. They’re mine. I must have put them in your closet.

Daughter: But they’re my shoes.

Me (looking at the shoes again): I don’t know what—(gearing starting to turn). Oh, wait, these are your shoes.

Daughter: Yeah.

Me: Sorry.

Daughter: No problem. But don’t they feel big? (She wears a half-size larger.)

Me: They feel pleasantly roomy. My toes can wiggle.

Daughter: Ah.

Me: I think I need a nap.

Lessons from the Cardiothoracic-Surgery-Patient's Mom

 Because I’m now a seasoned Cardiothoracic-Surgery-Patient’s-Mom (yes, this is another medical post—they say write what you know), here is another post on the funny side of being a CSPM.

Chocolates photo courtesy of
Wikimedia Commons

 1. CT surgery patients are hot. I have no idea why, but they are. Thankfully, I knew this before my kids’ surgeries and was able to dress appropriately. But it has led to discussions like this:

Patient: This house is ridiculously hot!

Me (imagine this spoken with a long sardonic drawl.): Really?

Patient: Yep.

Me: Perhaps it has escaped your notice that while you are wearing a tank top and shorts and have a fan blowing on you, I’m am wearing an undershirt, long sleeves, a sweater, jeans, wool socks, slippers, and a coat—and not just any coat, my middle of winter in New England coat, a coat that rated to -20 degrees.

Patient: So…you’re saying it’s just me?

Me: I think so.

2. The “recliners” (and I use the word “recliner” very loosely) that they have in patients’ hospital room for family members are not built for small people. I get that they have to be built to accommodate all body types. But a major design flaw is that they do not latch in the recline position. So if you are a smaller person, your upper body does not have enough weight to maintain the recline position. Even if you are strong enough to force it to recline and quick enough to use your body as a wedge, the ill-designed chair will return to its full and upright position during the middle of the night. (Please note: it is possible to curl up and sleep sideways in these chairs. However, this does mean that you will waken cuddled up with your shoes come morning.)

3. You are your patient’s advocate.

Me (to new nurse): Um, I realize that you have to put in yet another IV line because my offspring is blowing through IV sites at a rate of one every 24 hours, but do you see all the massive, deep bruising all over the arms and hands?

Nurse: Yeah, that looks horrible. In fact, I’m not even sure where I could insert another IV needle.

Me: That is because my offspring’s veins are very narrow. And all the nurses and doctors thus far have had to do multiple sticks to get the needle in. Even the really tiny needles.

Nurse (inspecting veins): You know, I can hardly even see the veins, they dive deep into the tissue. I don’t think I want to put this in. I’m going to put in a call to the IV specialty team.

Me: Thanks!

4. Besides being your patient’s advocate, you are also their chocolate moocher.

Me: So, uh, don’t you think it’s time for tea and…chocolate? You have that really big box.

Patient: Not really. My stomach’s not settled.

Me: Oh….

Patient: But you can have some!

Me: Thanks, sweetie. (opening the lid) Now to decide between caramel-filled dark chocolate or hazelnut crème. Yep, caring for the sick is quite the burden. ;)

Things I Learned in the PICU

 Recently, my son Matthew had cardio-thoracic reconstruction surgery. Even though he’s almost 19, it’s considered a pediatric surgery, so he’s been in the PICU (pediatric intensive care unit) for eight days and counting. Here are a few things I’ve learned in the PICU.

1. PICU has the nicest nurses. Hands down. Bar none.

2. Laughter is still the best medicine.

•    Matthew asked me to call Miracle Max while Matt was still only “mostly dead.”
•    Matt got so tired of the respiration monitor alarming because he was breathing too slowly that he’d occasionally pant just to mess with the machine.

 3. It is a truth universally acknowledged that the baker’s dozen of technological marvels that monitor and maintain post-surgical health will inevitably malfunction, but only between the hours of midnight and four am. Also, these wonders have alarms that squawk every two seconds and are only fixable (or mutable) by a specialist who lives 700 miles away.

4. Eye rolling is a good thing. The other day, the physical therapist said, “Sweetie, I know you’re feeling a bit better—you just rolled your eyes at me. Yay!”

5. Healthy hospital food isn’t healthy if it’s inedible. Nothing is as unappetizing as a plain, microwaved boneless-skinless chicken breast sitting on Styrofoam. (Except meals that don’t even arrive. Yeah, that happened more than once.) Eventually, we told them we no longer required their food, and we brought Matt food from home. The nurses apologized profusely for the horrid food. But it wasn’t their fault.

6. When a visiting great dane licks your hand, it’s better than morphine. A hospital employee (who will remain nameless) may have offered to get our black Lab Jezebel into the hospital to visit Matthew. We assured said employee that this would not be wise.

7. The ability to walk should never be taken for granted. Because the surgery reshaped Matt’s chest (and consequently his spine, giving him one or two inches in new height), it has completely altered his sense of balance. As Matt practices walking, Cal and I stand very close on either side so he can “ping-pong” off us as he moves down the hall. It makes him look like a drunken zombie. But as he lurches through the PICU, the nurses cheer as he relearns balance. (Like I said earlier, best nurses ever.)

8. One of the amazing things I learned is that aside from the single incident of eye-rolling, Matthew is the most gracious, patient person I know. He bore the pain, setbacks, and discouragement with quiet dignity that was a wonderful testimony to Christ’s strength. I know I wouldn’t do as well.

So now that we’ve learned these lessons, we’d really like to leave. Soon. 

Before surgery!

Several days after surgery with pain under control.

Matt's dinner. I don't think our dog would eat this.

Calvin and I having a picnic with good food.

 (Yesterday, I got a Mother's Day gift from the PICU. They gave gifts to all moms who were spending the day in the PICU. Did I mention how great the nurses are?)

Hurray! It's February!

First off, I want to say that I’m sorry I disappeared this week. It’s been a harrowing five days.

My mom had major surgery and my dad and I were with her for several days at the hospital. Thankfully, she’s recovering well and is back home.

A huge storm hit. And our sump pump died. Thankfully, it was only a partial death. So instead of bailing the basement with buckets (which we have done before), we had to plug and unplug the pump every hour. Yesterday, the new sump pump arrived. Yay!

When the huge storm hit, our city was spared tornadoes. But I was sitting with my mom in the hospital when I got the news that the manufacturing plant where the husband of my dear friend worked took a direct hit. Thankfully, we found out within the hour that everyone had survived. However, the plant was completely destroyed. And a lot of people are now without a livelihood--we’re hoping and praying that the company will rebuild and continue to provide some kind of work for their employees in the meantime.

And now that today is February, we can kick January out the door--it sure feel like it's been much longer than 31 days.

It's Never Good When the Mail Comes Early

Yesterday, the mail came early. It was not a good thing. There was a letter from my health insurance company in the stack of mail. I swallowed, took a breath, whispered a prayer that it wasn’t bad news, and opened the letter.

Of course, it was bad news. About three paragraphs into the letter, my insurance company announced they weren’t going to cover my recent surgery. My blood ran cold. Blue Cross claimed that there hadn’t been proper prior authorization. Now I broke out in a hot sweat. What had I missed? I’d made phone calls—I talked to the insurance company, the doctor’s office, I even talked to the hospital intake staff and each one verified that I was good to go. And now the insurance company said I wasn’t. (If I’d been five, I would’ve shouted, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”)

I called the insurance company. A woman answered. I explained that I’d gotten a letter saying that Blue Cross refused to cover my surgery. Actually, it never said that. It only said that it refused to cover a recent procedure—I only guessed it was my surgery because of a date in the corner.

The “helpful” agent at Blue Cross reminded me that I signed paperwork before surgery making myself financially obligated should there be any payment problem. She asked me if I remembered that. “Um, yeah,” I said. This wasn’t going the way I’d hoped. So I explained my situation—that I’d double-checked everything. She put me on hold so she could read a copy of the letter that had been sent to me. I waited a long time.

When she came back, she said, “That was a very confusing letter. (Uh, yeah.) But one of your procedures wasn’t preauthorized, so we won’t cover it.”

I was stymied. I did sign paperwork right before I was wheeled into surgery. Maybe I shouldn’t have signed it? Maybe the “happy juice” they put in my IV made me lose my vigilance.

But the doctor didn’t know what I’d need until he started the surgery. I explained this to the BC agent. She murmured that it was too bad—to be fair, I think she was sincere. Sort of. She informed me that I could appeal Blue Cross’s decision. Blue Cross’s letter also told me that I could appeal. It also mentioned my right to consult a lawyer for help in crafting the appeal. (Gulp.)

Then, the agent mentioned that the doctor’s office could appeal because it was actually their fault because the missing paperwork could only be filed by the doctor’s office anyway. I had a moment of sunshine—I didn’t screw this up. It wasn’t my fault. We might have medical debt for the rest of our lives, but at least it wasn’t my fault. Still, I wasn’t sure when the doctor’s office was supposed to do this. I asked her, politely, if Blue Cross required doctors to call during the middle of surgeries to get prior approval if things turned out differently than expected. (I can see an interesting comedy skit developing from this.). She merely restated that either doctor’s office or I could appeal. Then, she said, “Have a nice day.”

So I called the doctor’s office, which, of course, was closed on Wednesdays. I left a message. I called again Thursday. They didn’t pick up. I left another message. Just when I thought that they might be avoiding me, the doctor’s office called. The woman in charge of billing talked to me. You know, sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone who knows what’s really going on and actually cares about you. She assured me that I had no financial obligations in this case. That the hospital blew it by not filing the paperwork and that she had been on them since the Friday afternoon when my surgery happened. (I’m guessing that the billing people were too eager to start their weekend.) She assured me that she’d deal with the insurance company—she explained how they work, which is not too different than what you see in The Incredibles. Finally, she assured me that she would take care of everything. I could almost hear her cracking her knuckles. And she even promised to call me when she had everything “taken care of.”

Thank you, insurance-billing-lady!!

Not My Regularly Scheduled Blog Post

Today I don't have a regular post. Sorry. My new computer came--yay! But getting all my data transferred is way more complicated than I thought. (Thanks, computer-savvy minions, for all your help!)

In the meantime, I was interviewed by Kevin Domenic at the the Searching for Heroes blog. Check it out.

One more bit of information:  I got good news yesterday on my biopsy. Yay.

I Am Patient. Sort Of.

I consider myself a patient person. And I am really patient. Unless I’m provoked. Then, not so much. Of course, the definition of patience probably includes “even when provoked.” I like to forget about that part.

As a writer, I’m even more convinced that I’m a patient person—after all, writers can submit something and wait six months or more for a response. You see, I am patient.

But then the provocations happened. My computer is dying, so last week I ordered a new one (Costco had an amazing sale). And I didn’t find out until after I ordered it that it would take 10 to 15 days until arrival. But since my old computer is still working, most of the time, I tried to be grateful and tracked my computer via FedEx across China. (Which means, it was probably made by oppressed people in unsafe working conditions. Gulp.) Yesterday my computer made it to Alaska—now it’s on the same continent as I am!

So I felt like I was doing pretty well in the patience department. Until yesterday evening.

Multiple times before and right after my surgery, my doctor told me that I’d have all the biopsy reports on Tuesday. Great. I marveled at how quick it would be—surgery late Friday afternoon, results on Tuesday. I even Googled response times for this type of biopsy and discovered that a week was quick. I wasn’t going to have to wait a week. Yay! I could handle a couple of days. So I didn’t worry. I waited. And if I’m honest, I spent most of the time asleep. Who knew you could sleep 12.5 hours out of 16 without the help of medicine?

So Tuesday came. I made sure my cell phone was fully charged and the volume was turned up. I ordered the minions to pick up the home phone if it rang—they like to ignore the phone. (What is it with young people these days—they don’t like to talk on the phone? They only communicate through emails and texting.)  Fully armed with all possible communication devices, I waited. All day. At four o’clock, I called the office. I got the answering machine. Apparently, they don’t answer the phone after 4pm. And the recording announced that any messages will wait to the next business day. Oh, and by the way, they don’t work on Wednesdays. You know how they say when someone’s angry they see red? I think I saw pink.

In case, the doctor is confused, here’s some advice. You don’t say, “I’ll get the results to you on Tuesday” and then not call. Especially when post-surgery, the doctor discusses your problem and says to you, the patient, “Wow, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

You don’t say, “I’ll have someone from the office call and schedule your post-op visit for next week so you can be cleared for regular activities,” and then not have anyone call.

In all fairness, they probably didn’t call because the results weren’t back. I know when I worked as a cytogenetic tech while I was in college, anything that came in Friday afternoon waited until Monday. Not necessarily because we were lazy or were eating cake (though someone always brought cake, cookies, etc., on Fridays), but mostly because we were trying to get all the stuff that was already late finished before the weekend.

So I’m waiting. I no longer see pink. I’m having fun watching my computer travel from Anchorage to Memphis. And I’ve got my doctor’s office phone number ready and waiting. Because Thursday at 9:00am when the office is opened, I’m going to be their first phone call.  

Surgery

After the craziness of pre-op, I wondered what surgery would by like. It was totally different. I have only nice things to say about the staff at Parkridge East. I don’t even have a bruise where the nurse put in the IV, and I was even dehydrated. (I’ve been known to have my whole arm bruise when I’ve gotten an IV before.)

After the surgery, the codeine was lovely. That night, my wonderful husband set the alarm to go off every 4 hours, so he could give me another dose of pain killers. (Yeah, he’s a keeper.)

The weird thing is that I had a very vivid dream during the surgery. Or maybe it was during recovery. I didn’t think you were supposed to have REM sleep with surgery.

There’s also one more important thing I discovered. When the anesthesiologist noticed that I was a migraine sufferer, she left and came back with a patch of scopolamine. According to her, migraine sufferers have a lot more problems with post-surgical nausea. So the patch deals with that. And I must say, the patch was amazing. I didn’t get a hint of nausea. I’m so thankful.

The only bad thing is that I lost my voice. Which isn’t such a big deal. Except that I got a phone call from American Express. Someone was making fraudulent charges on my credit card. Some loser/thief was charging hundreds of dollars of perfume, etc., on my credit card. I was very pleased the AmEx called me and told me that they were suspicious. Obviously, they know I’m not a big perfume user—in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever bought perfume. But the craziest thing was that I had to talk to a woman from India or Pakistan about the problem. Have you ever tried to carry on a conversation with a woman with a heavy accent while you have post-surgery laryngitis? It doesn’t go so well. There are a lot of “pardons” and “could you repeat that please.” But in the end, we solved the problem, And since it was AmEx, I’m not responsible for any of the faux charges.  Yay, AmEx!!!

At some point, it would be great if some member of the gov’t would do something about all the identity theft.

PS For all that are interested, I should get the results of my biopsy on Tuesday.

PPS If any of you would like to read the Amazon Experts Reviews on my novel, which so far has made it to the quarterfinals of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest, here's a link.

Meth Queen

This Friday (March 30), I’m having diagnostic surgery. I’ve never had surgery or general anesthesia before, so pre-op was something of a “surprise.”

A better word might be shock. Don’t get me wrong. I have great love for modern medicine—the idea of blood letting is abhorrent to me. But when the intake administrator started “informing me about the procedure” and threw around words like resection and catheter, it sounds more like a medieval trial-by-ordeal.

As if anxiety by threat wasn’t enough, she told me that the nurse would take several vials of blood and asked to see my arm. I held it out. Her eyes went sparkly. She said, “Ooo, you have juicy veins. I’m going to do the blood draw.” I swallowed. Clearly, this woman had seen Twilight way too many times. Thankfully, the nurse in the room next door yelled, “I’m doing that blood draw.” Vampire admin chick yelled back. “But—” The nurse stuck her head into the room and said, “She’s mine.”

Having lost her venapuncture dominance, the admin started the pre-surgical questionnaire. “Have you ever had surgery before?” I said, “No.” Easy and simple. Of course, eight pages later my eyes were glazed. But we’d only just come to the interesting part. She focused on what non-foods I ingest. Medications, etc. It got a little old. One thing after another. My answers were “No, no, no...”  She scowled. Apparently, I was boring. And then she got a twinkle in her eyes. “What about herbs?”

Me: No.

Her: You don’t take chamomile?

Me: No.

Her: What about vitamins?

Me: Nope.

Her with accusation in her tone: You don’t take a multi-vitamin every morning?

Me: No.

She looked at Calvin, who shrugged and said, “No, she really doesn’t take anything.”

She sighed. “Okay.”

Then she giggled. “What about street drugs? Do you take any of those?”

I rolled my eyes. She and Calvin burst out laughing. Then they made jokes about me running a meth lab in my kitchen.

I survived the pre-op though I’m sure I’m known in the hospital as the Meth Queen. Then the other day, a post-it note showed up on my bathroom mirror reminding me “No meth before surgery.” Calvin has a bizarre sense of humor, but it makes me smile every time I see it.

Did I feed the dog?

Just so you know, never plan family surgeries back to back to back. And never do them just after you finish several weeks of chicken pox. Because if you did that, afterwards you’d be drooling on yourself.

In all fairness, I didn’t plan them. They were scheduled for me. But I was silly enough to think, “At least, we’ll get it all taken care of all at once.” After all, it’s just some down time and TLC afterwards. We could handle that.

But I forgot to consider that there might be the possibility of multiple special diets. I already have a child with a gluten-free, casein-free diet. Then add liquid diet. And a high fiber diet. And you end up with three people, none of whom can eat the same food. I spent a lot of time cooking. And I was tired, so things got confused. Like the blender whose motor I almost burned out making the smoothies with too many frozen strawberries. Or that batch of homemade cream of potato soup that I put in Tupperware and left on a hot stove. It didn’t fair well.

But I was over tired for a reason. Both post-surgical sufferees were on heavy duty narcotics, but not on the same dosage schedule. It wasn’t a big deal during the day, but nighttime was a different story. Especially when I realized that heavy narcotics don’t allow the proper decision making capabilities.

Me: Okay, here’s a list of your medicines and when you have to take them. See? So you need to take the Vicodin now.

Sufferee: Uh, did I just take it? Or do I still need to take it?

Me (realizing sufferee had narcotics brain): Right. Why don’t I be in charge of your meds?

So Cal and I are tired from getting up during the middle of the night for the first couple of days to prevent the sufferees from overdosing on narcotics. Of course, I realized the kids would have medicines, but I didn’t think one would have six and the other four. Managing ten medicines takes a spread sheet. (Another reason the person on Vicodin could not figure out what to take when.)

But I think we’re through the worst of it now. And no one has any lasting damage. Except maybe the dog. Though she’s not complaining. I suspect she whined her way into multiple meals—when you’re tired, you can’t remember if you fed the dog.

A Weird Al Treat

Today's the last surgery day this week. (My mom's surgery went well. And Ariel's recovering--though pain management issues made multiple trips to the pharmacy necessary.) We have to be at the hospital at 5:30am for Luke, so once again I don't have an exciting blog post. But I do have a treat. If you're my age, you may remember Weird Al. If you don't, you're in for a treat. Enjoy!

Good News

Today was a good news day, sort of. Many of you remember that last December Matthew had oral surgery, a triple frenectomy. (If not, you can read about it here.) He was told it wouldn’t be a big deal and that he’d up and running around later in the day. After the surgery, he was told “this is a very painful procedure—you’ll be on codeine for 3 to 4 days.” And, in fact, it was painful, especially when we discovered that because of Matt’s autism he doesn’t process pain killers normally. And not only did the codeine cocktail not totally knock him out, as the pharmacist claimed it would, it barely took the edge off the pain.

So with great trepidation Matt, Cal and I went to the surgeon to see if Matt needed more surgery. If he did, they’d need to do skin grafts, etc. And, in the meantime, Matt’s been pondering which was worse: donor skin (akin to becoming a zombie) or his own skin (meaning more slicing and dicing). Matt was sweet enough to volunteer for which ever was cheaper since insurance didn’t want to cover this because it was “oral” surgery.

Since December, Matt and I have careful inspections for his mouth. We both had decided he’d need more surgery. Last night, I spent part of the night praying for God to work this out, especially the finances. He’d always provided before, but...

After we arrived at the surgeon’s office, the nurse ushered us to the consulting suite. Matt waited in the chair, shivering. (It was very cold. They should have handed out blankets to the patients. I could have given Matt my sweater, but I was cold too. Besides it was way too girlie and he’d never have taken it.) The doctor came and examined Matt’s mouth. He told me to swab the sites twice a day with an antiseptic, healing rinse and bring Matt back in June. In other words, Matt dodged a speeding bullet, at least for now, and I learned a bit more faith.

A Big Lump of Coal

I think Dante should have included a ring in the Inferno for people, especially health care professionals, who lie to children. Or at the very least, to mix my metaphors, they should get coal in their stockings.

Our dentist should have a fifty pound lump of coal in his stocking—he lied not only to a child but also to this child’s naïve parents.

The Dentist Who Shall Not Be Named In This Blog, (DWSNBNITB, DW for short) because I can’t afford to be sued for libel, told Cal and Matthew that Matt needed some minor surgery because the roots of his two lower bottom teeth were exposed. DW went on to explain that it was very minor, that Matt wouldn’t be in any pain, and that he’d be running around right after the surgery. Yeah, right.

Matt was a little nervous beforehand. After all, he doesn’t like people poking around in his mouth. But Matt knew it was no big deal—the dentist told him so.

Yesterday Matt and I went to the consult, which was scheduled immediately before the procedure. This is a clever trick because if the procedure was several days after the consult, you’d never come back after the periodontal surgeon told you what was going to happen.

Matt had three frenectomies, which means they cut three frenum along the lip-gum line. This really doesn’t sound bad. But the entire procedure took about an hour and I lost count of how many stitches Matt had. Then came the list of post-surgical care. It started with “This is a very painful procedure—he’ll need to be on codeine for 3 to 4 days.” Hey, what happened to this isn’t going to be painful?! The nurse continued, “Matt needs to stay in bed for 24 hours. He can’t do any running, fast walking, etc., for 3 to 4 days.” What happened to running around right after the surgery?!

Of course, it only got worse. Apparently, the success of the surgery isn’t guaranteed—and the periodontal dude didn’t even give me odds. Grr. If this doesn’t work, then Matt has to have skin graft surgery with either his own keratinized skin or donor skin. (Imagine Matt coming unglued at the words “donor skin”—he’s thinking flesh off a rotting corpse. I assured him that wouldn’t be the case, but I don’t really know.)

After the “procedure,” I took my darling home and went immediately to the pharmacy because I was ordered, in no uncertain terms, to get codeine into Matt ASAP. I went to go pick up the meds. The pharmacist told me, also in no uncertain terms, that Matt ought not to take the full dosage of codeine.

Me: "Uh, the doctor told me to give him 1 to 1 ½ pills."

Pharmacist: "No."

Me: "Why not?"

Ph: "Because he doesn’t weigh enough for that dosage."

Me: "Oh. So what do I give him?"

Ph: "One half of one pill."

Me (weighing the thought of Matt in a lot of pain from this “painless” surgery): "Can’t I give him one whole?"

Ph (trying to hide a scowl): "I guess. But it will completely knock him out for the whole day."

Me: "That’s okay."

Ph: "But four hours later, only give him half a pill."

Me (meekly): "Okay."

Back home, an hour and thirty minutes after Matt’s had codeine not only is he wide awake, his mouth/gums/teeth hurt. I notice his face is pasty white. I placed a phone call to Perio Dude.

Me: “Matt’s in pain.”

PD: “Give him more codeine.”

Me: “The pharmacist said that I can’t.”

PD: “Oh.”

Me: “You understand that Matt’s a high functioning autistic person, right?”

PD: “Yeah.”

Me: “A percentage of them don’t process medication like other people do. Matt’s one of those people.”

PD: “Oh.”

Me: “So...”

PD: “Why don’t you wait another 20 minutes or so, and then if it’s not any better you can bring him back in and I’ll inject him with more anesthetic.”

Right. That’s going to work. I relayed the suggestion to Matt who intimated that he’d rather die than go back. At the four hour mark, I gave Matt another whole codeine pill. (However, the PD gets only a small lump of coal in his stocking because he did call back at dinnertime to ask how Matt was doing. I told him under the watch of Matt’s glaring eyes that Matt was doing fine.)

The day, actually night, was saved by a neurologist friend who understands Matt’s neurotransmitter issues. She told me he could take ibuprophen on top of the codeine. It didn’t relieve all the pain, but it allowed Matt to sleep. Our friend should get all the Christmas gifts that Santa intended for the Perio-dude and the lying dentist. Maybe I’ll write Santa a letter—there’s always next Christmas.

Poor Luke!

Surgery. This morning Luke is having his four wisdom teeth removed. In preparation for this, he had to do the normal things like not eat after midnight, etc. He also had to take a diazepam (Valium) an hour before his appointment.

About twenty minutes after he took the pill, Luke got the giggles. Now if you don’t know Luke, he’s mellow. He doesn’t giggle. Until today. I asked him what was so funny. He told me, “Nothing.” So I asked, “Why are you giggling?” Luke said, “My muscles feel really weird.” Not too much longer and he started to slur some of his words. Matt and Jacob elbowed each other and laughed behind their hands.

Soon Luke began to wander through the house. I said, “Luke, get your shoes on.” Luke found his tennis shoes and tried to put them on. The problem was that his foot missed the shoe. Completely. Matt and Jacob were nearly on the floor with laughter.

So now I’m in the waiting room. I asked the receptionist how long it would take. Apparently, slicing the gums, burrowing down to the four teeth, ripping them out, stitching things back up and waking from the anesthesia takes only 45 to 60 minutes.

I can hear the sounds of machines making nasty noises. Ugh—shivers. I hate dentists. Though I guess this isn’t a dentist but an oral-maxillofacial surgeon. If that weren’t bad enough, the TV is set to Regis and Kelly. Ugh--completely vapid. And the office has some kind of scent machine pumping out an odor that’s a cross between soap and perfume. Maybe it’s supposed to cover the reek of people puking after anesthesia, but it makes me want to turn on a HEPA filter.

Okay. I didn’t think anything could be worse than R&K TV show, but now there’s some bizarre show where pregnant women are making casts of their bellies so they don’t “forget” (uh, hello, most people don’t want to remember) and they’re having their tummies painted—“it’s relaxing.” Another reason I’m so glad we don’t have television!

An hour’s come and gone. Poor Luke!!

After an hour and one half, the surgeon came and got me. Luke’s case wasn’t as smoothed as they’d hoped. His roots were in the same “canal” as his blood vessels and nerves. He ended up bleeding quite a bit and may be in for some nasty pain. We went home with four prescriptions—the pharmacist told me the hydrocodone and ibuprofen combo should knock him out.

The nurse told us that Luke can’t have meat for two weeks. The problem is that Luke’s not retaining that information. His biggest concern seems to be how long before he can have meat. Each time I tell him that he has to wait two weeks, he becomes mortally offended all over again.

Poor Luke!!!