Ouch

 

A recent, but distinctive sound...

 I was sitting in the living room today with the front door open to let in the sun when I heard the sound from outside. Maybe because I'd just seen Luke Bryant fall flat when he tripped on a tossed cell phone, I instantly recognized the sound as a cell phone being run over by a speeding car. (All cars speed past our house.)  I looked into the roadway and there it was, right in the center of the road, a black cell phone. I started to retrieve it, but another vehicle ran  over it again, with the same distinctive noise. 

  I waited for the all clear, grabbed the phone, a brand unknown to me. Of course it was somewhat cracked and mutilated. I put it on the porch railing. About an hour or so later, while I was sitting in my sunroom (car) working on the Cryptoquip, a car stopped in front of Nellie's house and a man got out, looked in their driveway and then walked along the roadside toward my house. I got out of my car and asked if I could help. Looking for my phone, he said. I pointed to where it sat on the railing told him it had been run over twice, at least. He picked it up and it did turn on and he said he was glad to at least know where it was. He lives right up the road.

Life presents me with so many unanswered questions:  How does a phone fly out of a car window? And how does the owner know almost exactly where? Maybe he could call it and trace its location? Ah, sweet mysteries of life...

Physician Ratings---

 Yes, from time to time I read doctors's ratings on HealthGrades. I think they can be unfair because patients can say almost anything, unless it's a threat or other unsavory statement. I don't leave comments, but  mostly read the ratings when I have an appointment with a new provider, as I did last week. It was a one-time visit but I thought I'd find out what his patients thought of him. One patient's comments convinced me not to say too much in the office of Dr. J. Here is the comment he left:  "I asked, Doctor, are you listening to what I'm saying? The doctor said, 'No.'  So I will not go to that doctor again."  Ouch!  

Random Medical Notations

 Dr. Alan Boulos, neurologist, is now the 18th dean of Albany Medical College. Last year, I'd had an appointment scheduled with him through a physician referral, but his office changed the appointment to another neurologist there. Dr. B. was out of office on another project.  (All went well without him.)

Columnist Gene Lyons, whose Commentary I read in the Troy Record, wrote that he recently became ill and thought he was dying. He awoke one morning too weak to move, couldn't get out of bed. He was resigned to his upcoming death more than frightened by it. A trip to the E.R. revealed he had COVID, serious this time as it had gotten into his heart, and despite  agressive treatment he was diagnosed with acute urinary retention, treated by catheterization. He developed pneumonia, treated by a course of antibiotics, but suffered weakness and depression due to his atrial fibrillation. A cardiac electrophysiologist stimulated his heart back to a normal rhythm. So far so good, he writes. He is 80 , but no mention of hospice.

At last week's office visit, I asked the cardiologist if heart stents would prevent a symptomatic patient from having a colonoscopy.  He said no; he is an interventional cardiologist and just cleared a patient for that procedure. He also said he highly recommends cardiac rehabilitation for his patients. He added that my account of an  MCI was a "good description." How would he know. 

My medical journeys have been so far successful, to the point that the nephrologist I'd been referred to several years ago said my last medical report shows no issues so I don't need to return to his office unless I wanted to. The urologist's office said I don't need any follow-up visits unless I develop a new problem, that tests were fine. And the cardiologist I'd been with for a number of years said he didn't think I needed cardio rehab.  The hospital's chief cardiologist, the surgeon and the hospitalist all recommended it though. Moreover, the gastroenterologist where I'd been a patient for about 20 years told me 2 years ago that he was unable to remove  "flat polyps"  and treatment would be surgical removal of that part of the tract. He was honest but wrong. (I guess he never heard of referring to another surgeon with more modern skills. 

   I could go on, but enough is enough. We all know doctors and medical staff in general are human, and make mistakes in judgment, and some are burned out and'or lazy and selfish, as we all are. We also realize that the aged and aging population are burdening the health care system and that old people account for an extraordinary percentage of medical care. ERGO---hospice enters the scene, but that's a topic for another entry or rant, Dear Blog.

Recurring thoughts

   When Dorothy Bartholomew learned she had cancer and with a bad outlook, she wrote me a letter meant for "all her family." I still have it. 

When my friend Barbara Schoen learned she had terminal cancer, she wrote and told me about it. When she died, her daughter called to tell me. 

ELO wrote me a 5 page letter detailing his health struggles just a few weeks before he died, in retrospect an alert ot what was to come.

I  don't mean to overinflate my sense of importance, but am at a loss to understand. She had put my name as one of her health care proxy agents, so I don't think she meant  to exclude me . But what do I know, really.  (And why did hospice let her die alone; was it a surprise?  I've been at a number of hospice deaths, and usually there was a type of controlled notification. (Excluding Don's death, that is.And, as it turned out, I was called first then, in the early morning hours, because B. didn't hear her phone ring. I called her to tell her to call the nursing home.

The Dance----Not.

 My mother's family moved to Melrose after her brother Timothy died in an accident. Mary then attended the Cooksboro school as a very tall for her age young girl, and therefore felt self conscious and awkward in new school surroundings. Shortly after her arrival at the school, the teacher engaged the class in what was presumably a recess activity. As I recall being told, the teacher played the piano and when the music started the students found a partner and danced. The student left without a partner was to Dance With The Broom. That was the activity, and the name of the game.  My mother was the new kid, knew no one, and she was left standing alone. Teacher said, "Mary, you are to dance with the broom."  

   That would have happened no way in hell, and led to further disobedience and bad student-hood on the part of Mary Donovan. 

Exclusive Group? Not so much.

 Picked this card up today in a medical office:  "When To Call Hospice."  It seems an awful lot of people who've been in my life for the last decade or so would qualify for contact, including myself for sure.

Eureka!

 I found it!  The exact descriptor for the  unusual sensation that has been spordically affecting the outside of my right leg for some weeks now. I mentioned it to my primary care doctor and she said she has the same thing, that painless sensation. I am somewhat dubious. I googled and found it is evidently not rare at all, as manifested by several explanations and descriptions. One source calls it "formication," yes, spelled with an M. Others report those experiencing this creepy-crawly feeling believe that there are bugs beneath their skin.  

  I pretty much put it on the back burner of  my mind and gave up trying to give it a name. Then last night, out of the blue, the precise  term to describe it  suddenly flashed into my mind. The sensation is exactly like that of the motion of a lava lamp. 

The Best Day of Your Life

 If you are one of the very rare individuals gifted with the highly superior autobiographical memory recall ability known as Hyperthymesia, possibly you could sift through all the days of your life and, in almost photographic detail,  identify which of all the days you have lived would qualify as " the best day of your life."  MariLu Henner claims to have this ability, which would put her in an elite group of only about 100 persons who were ever so identified. (I have seen her demonstrate this phenomenon   several times on tv shows where the host would pick a date purportedly at random,  and she would describe all the events of that day. I was not convinced, but that's just my opinion.)  

  Anyway, if ordinary people were to name the best day of their lives, I suppose many would say graduation, wedding day, births of a child, meeting first love, attending first prom, buying first house, winning some trophy or contest, traveling to some beloved country or venue, maybe even viewing an eclipse or other natural and rare event.

 In my own experience and observations, the memorable days like those above were always accompanied by some outlying factors which introduced a certain measure of uncertainty and stress into or onto the occasion.

  If I could review all my days and try to ascertain what was the best day of my life, I think it might be a very simple and unremarkable day, easily and quickly forgotten unless resurrected by a thought such as this:

  It could be one of those chilly but sunny spring days or a warmer summer day, a day like this: As too  rarely  happened when we were kids, my mother was done with her chores and housekeeping. It was probably a weekend and the family car, a big old Hudson or Nash or something, was parked in the driveway outside the garage. My mother would sit in the front seat and my sister and I would climb into the big  roomy back seat, with a kitten or dog on our laps. My mother was not a storyteller per se, but there would be talking and warmth and comfort. One of those rare days could have been the best day of my life. Except that it ended too soon.