In a short time, Dr. Brian has spoiled me by acting as a partner to my care. He encourages me to print what I've found on Medline or the Mayo Clinic site so that we're on the same page. He listens. But most important of all, I can tell that he trusts my judgment. I may not have had eight years of medical school, but I'm on something close to even footing with him. He isn't shy about admitting what he doesn't know, which is disconcerting and comforting at once. But as he put it, "I shouldn't have come across a case like this in my practice... ever."
If you wonder at the ease of familiarity I have with Dr. Brian, consider that he is also, more or less, my neighbor. We live in a very small town in rural western Texas. Population 1,611 is what the sign says, but with the new census numbers coming out we're sure to strike a few off that number. Cotton farming doesn't exactly have the draw it once had, and our other major industry, gypsum wallboard manufacturing, has gotten so good at eliminating extraneous personnel that two jobs are eliminated roughly every year. I know this because Chuck works at the "gyp mill." For a quick Dirty Jobs rundown: gypsum rock - actual rock, mined from a nearby gypsum seam - is crushed and reconstituted into a slurry. From there it is poured onto huge rolls of paper and run through the kiln where it re-crystallizes and is cut into sheets of now-wallboard (you may know it as SHEETROCK® - we never call it that, as he doesn't work for the trademark-protector of that name, USG). It's hard work, with good insurance. Thank goodness.
After my meeting with Dr. Baker, I am quick to schedule an appointment with Dr. Brian. For a woman who had last been to a doctor for a muscle spasm some six years prior it's a bit overwhelming how quickly I became accustomed to the offices, the lab techs & their quest to find a good vein, the smells. (Before you ask, yes, I should've been in for at least a PAP. I will schedule one soon. That's my personal litany: "I will schedule one soon..." just as with any other prayer I feel the mere mention will stave off trouble.) With my health suddenly the primary focus of everything and everyone I begin to feel... old.
Awaiting my followup with Dr. Brian I google. Transverse Myelitis (TM) is a condition in which the immune system attacks the myelin sheath. Essentially a protective coating, the myelin sheath's job is to buffer the nerves in the spinal cord. TM causes this sheath to wear thin, exposing the nerves and allowing damage. I am nothing less than terrified and shocked to learn that TM can cause paralysis and permanent long-term damage. Once that sheath is gone, it's gone. And TM is frequently a precursor to an MS diagnosis. There is nothing here to soothe my fear. The best news I find is that of those who suffer from TM, about 1/3rd recover fully, 1/3rd recover to some extent, and 1/3rd see no significant recovery. I also learn that roughly 1,400 cases of TM are diagnosed each year in the United States. Surely, surely that stacks the odds against my having this disease.
My body has never gone off the beaten path before, always churning and chugging away at doing what it's meant to do so I turn my attention fully to B12, the e-cigarette, and the upcoming MRI.
Showing posts with label Chuck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chuck. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Pins & Needles, pt. 3
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Pins & Needles, pt. 2
January 19, 2010. My neurologist (the words fit around my tongue as awkwardly as this new second skin) seems startled to find my husband, Chuck, in the exam room with me, commenting that she likes to know who's in a room. Take it up with your nurse, lady, and let's get on with the $540 consultation, shall we? The first impression doesn't bode well.
Like Dr. Brian, she is younger than I. She does not exude a Dr. Krystin vibe. She's Dr. Baker, all the way, but it feels forced. To be honest, we find her a bit precious. Well, if by "precious" I can convey a bit of a God-complex wrapped into a light blue cashmere twinset. But it's her hair that bothers me. It is bright, shimmery and untouched not just by dye, but from the dulling effect that time has on natural blondes.
I know she is asking me questions, I hear myself answering them: yes, I can feel that perfectly, no, it doesn't hurt, yes, it's the same at all times of the day... so college at eighteen, four years pre-med... Well, it is a little different in the shower, come to think of it, as if it's stronger... then, what, another four years of medical school? Six years of residency, isn't that what it said on wiki? Good Lord... Oh, I almost forgot, this is new - now when I bend my head toward my chest I get an electric shock feeling down my legs (which I later learn is called L'Hermitte's Sign or Phenomena). Thirty-two. Ok then. That doesn't sound so bad after all. She chastises me for not making the appointment sooner and I stifle the urge to argue with her, to tell her that I'd tried, but her offices were closed due to the holidays. I'm working at being mature and friendly in an attempt to... what, get her to like me? To bring me into the loop of my own care?
She wants schedule an MRI of my cervical level spinal cord immediately. She isn't thinking MS yet (the elephant in the room, I wonder how she feels about it being present?), but is looking at Transverse Myelitis. Conferring with Doctors Brian and Google are heavy on my mind as we both shake her (tiny, too-soft?) hand and thank her for her time.
As I question the things she didn't seem interested in I think that maybe she just hasn't gotten used to her new second skin, either.
Like Dr. Brian, she is younger than I. She does not exude a Dr. Krystin vibe. She's Dr. Baker, all the way, but it feels forced. To be honest, we find her a bit precious. Well, if by "precious" I can convey a bit of a God-complex wrapped into a light blue cashmere twinset. But it's her hair that bothers me. It is bright, shimmery and untouched not just by dye, but from the dulling effect that time has on natural blondes.
I know she is asking me questions, I hear myself answering them: yes, I can feel that perfectly, no, it doesn't hurt, yes, it's the same at all times of the day... so college at eighteen, four years pre-med... Well, it is a little different in the shower, come to think of it, as if it's stronger... then, what, another four years of medical school? Six years of residency, isn't that what it said on wiki? Good Lord... Oh, I almost forgot, this is new - now when I bend my head toward my chest I get an electric shock feeling down my legs (which I later learn is called L'Hermitte's Sign or Phenomena). Thirty-two. Ok then. That doesn't sound so bad after all. She chastises me for not making the appointment sooner and I stifle the urge to argue with her, to tell her that I'd tried, but her offices were closed due to the holidays. I'm working at being mature and friendly in an attempt to... what, get her to like me? To bring me into the loop of my own care?
She wants schedule an MRI of my cervical level spinal cord immediately. She isn't thinking MS yet (the elephant in the room, I wonder how she feels about it being present?), but is looking at Transverse Myelitis. Conferring with Doctors Brian and Google are heavy on my mind as we both shake her (tiny, too-soft?) hand and thank her for her time.
As I question the things she didn't seem interested in I think that maybe she just hasn't gotten used to her new second skin, either.
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