I just got back from the infectious disease doctor’s office and wow, what a visit. What a day. There’s not enough champagne in the world to soothe this jangled mess of nerves. I don’t know where to start, so buckle up and bear with me.
It started with a phone call this morning from Rhonda from the infectious disease team’s office. She said hang tight, they weren’t going to start any new antibiotics until Wednesday when I have an office visit scheduled. I registered my discomfort with waiting 5 days, and hung up wondering what to do next about a 2nd opinion, when Dr Grimes called me back himself to explain.
It was a bit of a misunderstanding: he didn’t realize I was having symptoms in the newly created breast, which is the site of the original infection (the dreaded mycobacterium, which has waaaaaaaay overstayed its welcome). Once he realized we weren’t talking about a problem with the drain site from the belly incision, he got busy and ordered IV antibiotics and said come in today and start the first infusion in my office.
But first, I saw my plastic surgeon for my weekly post-op visit. He was in an effusively good mood, and entered the room smiling from ear to ear. He was at least 30 minutes late, and came in fully loaded: the first thing he said was, “I’m making up for the fact that last week you were late.”
Uh, yeah, I was 5 minutes late. I said as much, and he started to say something along the lines of it’s ok for him to be 6 times as late because he’s the doctor and I’m the lowly patient, but I cut him off and said, You are NOT that much more important than me, so zip it.
He did. I filled him in on the infection scenario and he had some things to say. He’s persnickety, and I love it. From his standpoint, things look good physically and he’s not super concerned about the new infection but was in agreement with Dr Spiegel that a visit to the ID docs was necessary. He said he wanted to talk to both Dr Spiegel and Dr Grimes today to make sure they’re all on the same page.
So off I went to the med center, again. The one time I don’t have any of my handlers present was, natch, the one time I needed them. More on that shortly.
Dr Grimes, who I adore for his problem-solving skills, rejiggered his schedule to see me so he could get the full story and examine me. Since they worked me in, I was in the secondary infusion room, which is little more than a broom closet. There are 2 recliners and 2 IV poles, a desk & computer and mini-fridge (which had nothing of interest in it, and yes I checked). There were 2 nurses in this tiny space and they and Dr G were stepping all over each other while I was comfy in my recliner. But without a beverage equal to the stress of my day. This room is so crowded that if both recliners were reclined, the people sitting in them (across from each other) would be tangled up. Oh, how I hate small spaces and crowded rooms.
Dr G needed to take a look at the original infection site, now home of the newly created right breast. The older of the 2 nurses, who is mid-50s and easily 100 lbs overweight, said, Oh aren’t you lucky to have gotten new boobs.
That would be my patience coming to a grinding halt.
I said, yeah, that’s what everyone says, which sounds great, but they look like this: and I took off my shirt.
What I see as scar-ridden and jam-packed with misfortune and hardship and pain, medical professionals tend to see as pretty amazing. And yes, going from a completely flat, sunken, and concaved on the right side to two round and realistic breasts is pretty amazing. But I don’t want to hear the “yea, new boobs” line ever again.
The older nurse actually said, in front of Dr G, “Well, at least they’re perky. Mine haven’t been perky in a long time.”
Again, that sound you heard was my fuse erupting and the final straw shattering into a million pieces. I’d trade perky boobs for my old life in a heartbeat. One thing I’ve learned in all this mess: boobs are overrated. Especially the ones that try to kill ya.
I kept my composure, and so did Dr G, because I suppose she was trying to be positive, and Lord knows that’s a tall order in my situation. So, long story short, Dr G ordered yet another culture and said to get started with the infusion.
I’ve had vancomycin a lot. As in, in each of my hospitalizations, and at home. I’m tight with the vanco. Because I still have my port, it’s easy to administer the IV antibiotics, which is good because via IV is the only way to get vanco. It’s a wonder drug that in the past has worked for me, and worked fast.
Can you guess where this is going?
Because my body can’t do anything the easy way, or without complications, or absent drama these days, I had a reaction to the vanco. My old friend coursed through my bloodstream faster than it ever had in the past, and my body said, whoa, slow down this is creepy and we need to take things down a notch.
And by take things down a notch, I mean I started itching like crazy, felt like I had bugs crawling, in my hair, felt my skin burning, and my hands swelled up.
I’m not allergic to anything, and I’ve never been stung by a bee. Before breast cancer and infections entered my life, I had a pretty strong constitution and a cast-iron stomach. Now, however, I’m reduced to an itchy, burning, swollen, bug-infested mess.
I was about 40 minutes into the hour-long infusion at this point, so the nurses paged Dr G from his hospital rounds and he said finish the dose but administer some Benadryl and then start a second, replacement antibiotic, Cubicin. It’s new, similar to my old-friend-but-now-enemy vanco, and supposedly less likely to cause a reaction.
I need a lot more things like Cubicin in my life. The only drawback to it is that it takes about half an hour for the in-house pharmacist to mix up because it’s a giant molecule that takes a while to dissolve. So I had to wait. In the tiny little room. With both nurses, plus another patient who had joined us. He got hooked up to whatever drugs he needs (I tried to read the bag hanging from his IV pole but couldn’t), and promptly went to sleep. And snored through everything. Man, he looked peaceful.
The Benadryl made me kinda sleepy, but I only took half of what they offered because well, I knew it would make me sleepy, and I had driven myself there and had to get myself home. With my hands so swollen I literally couldn’t make a fist.
Luckily, the reaction didn’t progress beyond the itching, burning, swelling and buggyness, and the Cubicin infused without incident. Finally, something goes right today! And of course, now I know why they wanted the first infusion to take place in the office. Being the impatient old pro with home-health issues, I had lobbied to just run over to my oncologist’s office around the corner to have my port accessed, then have the antibiotic delivered to my house and get cracking. Luckily, Dr G is a lot smarter than I am.
So with the second drug infused safely, I was free to go but first had to go drop off the sample of the drain fluid at the lab. Now, “at the lab” at Methodist in the med center means in a different building and a long walk. Half outta my head on Benadryl and still swollen to the point of really wondering if I could get my credit card out of my sling bag to pay the valet, I left Dr G’s office.
With a good-sized box of drugs and supplies to haul with me.
Yep, they sent me home with a party favor: a box full of Cubicin, saline syringes and heparin flushes. I got to carry the box, and my lab specimen, across the Methodist campus.
Did I mention that this is the one appointment I attended unaccompanied? Rotten luck, that. Not only did I have to operate the giant sausages that were my fingers, I had to find my way with my Benadryl-addled brain limping along.
I went to the place I thought I was supposed to go, and tried to leave my lab specimen with a receptionist. She smiled broadly and did a fantastic job of disguising her disgust as I handed her a pee cup full of drain fluid. Kind soul that she is, she redirected me and sent me on my way to the lab, not the registration desk.
Trekked my way to the lab and found it with no wrong turns (hallelujah! this piece of junk day is turning around!) only to find that I was expected to fill out a form and list all the particulars of my insurance card. Which I did not have.
I explained as nicely as I could (which I admit, wasn’t very nice), that I’ve spent more than two weeks hospitalized in the Methodist system, both at the med center and in Sugar Land, and see no less than 4 doctors who are affiliated with said system, and if she can’t find me in the system then she could take the lab specimen and shove it.
Not really, at least not the “shove it” part but I was tempted. I told her I didn’t have my insurance card because I was still attached to my surgical drains and can’t carry my normal purse, blah blah blah. She said whatever, crazy lady; just fill out as much as you can and be gone.
And that’s exactly what I did.
And I managed to find my way back to the other building, to the valet. But on the way, as I was calculating the best way to make these giant fingers work to open my sling bag, I realized I didn’t have a valet ticket. The little blue slip that the valet always hands me in exchange for my wheels. Never got one.
Or did I? Just because I don’t have it doesn’t mean I never got it, and my mind was clicking along frantically trying to remember if I got the blue slip. I really didn’t think so, but clearly after the day I’ve had, I can’t be trusted and need adult supervision.
I remembered something odd about dropping my car with the valet: he asked how long I would be and if I wanted him to park it close. I said, probably 3 hours and I don’t care where you park it, whatever is easiest for you. That’s an odd thing because the valet usually doesn’t say much but hands over the blue slip. So I hauled myself and my box o’ goodies to the cashier to confess that I don’t have a ticket and was about to launch into a rousing speech of, I don’t care how much it costs to get my car out of hock, I just wanna go home and I wanna go now. I was a little worked up. Thankfully, the speech wasn’t necessary, and when I told the cashier my tale of woe, i.e., that I never got a ticket, she simply said, go on outside.
I guess sometimes the valets give ya a freebie. But then I’m left with the quandry of not exactly remembering which valet took my car without giving me a ticket, and not knowing for sure if he was giving me a freebie or if he forgot or I lost it or what. And the bigger question was: how do I let them know that I have no ticket, haven’t paid, but still need my car?
Again, I needed my handlers. In the worst way.
After a few minutes, the valet that I suspected was the one but I wasn’t 100 percent sure motioned to me and asked if I was ready for my car. Um, sure, yeah, that would be why I’m standing in the valet pick-up/loading zone area. He said navy Tahoe, right? I said yep, and he fetched my car, which sure enough he had parked close, as in right around the bend–not on the roof, or across the street, or wherever they usually park. He is officially my new favorite, and I’m very glad that when confronted with the choice between a single $1 bill and a $5 bill, I gave him the 5 for a tip. Still made out like a bandit since I didn’t have to pay for the parking at all. And it’s a small miracle that my over-inflated fingers were able to work at all, but thank goodness they did so that nice man could get his tip.
The ending to the whole saga came once I was in my car and on the road home, finally. Still a little itchy, really sleepy, way exhausted, fingers at least 5 times their normal size, but on the road home. The phone rang, and it was my plastic surgeon’s nurse, calling to tell me that he talked to Dr Spiegel and they both agreed that it was ok for me to go ahead and get the IV infusion from Dr Grimes.
Uh-oh. Were they expecting me to wait and get their permission or blessing on that? I had no idea. Good thing they were all on the same page.
Suffice to say, I came home to an atrocious smell and found a gigantic pile of mess in the dining room.
Thank goodness the entire downstairs is tile. Otherwise, I’d be ripping up carpet and throwing it on the front lawn instead of typing this right now.
After a long day at the hospital, this wasn’t what I would have liked to find.
Poor Harry. He’s always had a nervous stomach. His tummy gurgles a lot, and he’s had some issues with his backside off and on. Some sort of doggie IBS, I guess. He’s high-strung and can be quite grouchy, and the retired neighbors who walk up and down the sidewalk in front of our house multiple times a day really set him off. Maybe he needs more time lounging on the couch. That’s relaxing.
I found this when I came home one day a couple of weeks ago. Harry had gone into the pantry in my absence to look for a snack. He lucked out, and found about 2 dozen rice krispie treats within reach. Score!
He picked the wrappers clean. There wasn’t a speck of krispie to be found in all that mess.
He knew he’d been bad, but he just couldn’t help it.
His sweet tooth is a powerful force.
Curiously, he never gets sick after his thieving.
He’s eaten an entire loaf of whole grain seedy bread from Whole Foods more than once. I’ll never forget the infamous Christmas cookie incident, in which he unwrapped and consumed 2 platters of homemade cookies that were intended to be gifts.
When we adopted him from the SPCA four years ago, we had no idea that he’s psycho. They don’t seem to advertise that at the SPCA. But he is psycho.
He was so happy when we built him a real pool, and he swims a lot.
He swims alone, with the kids, and with his friends.
No matter the weather, he will swim. If there’s a leaf in the pool, he won’t rest until he fishes it out. Same goes for bugs.
Harry has a major oral fixation. He has to have something in his mouth all the time. Preferably a tennis ball. We have about 100 tennis balls in the house and in the yard on any given day. That boy is crazy for tennis balls. If we throw two balls in the pool at the same time, he’ll put them both in his mouth. At once.
I told you he was psycho.
He loved this jolly ball so much we ended up having to hide it from him. It was hard plastic, and just big enough that if he held it in the right spot, he couldn’t see where he was going with it in his mouth. He crashed into a lot of walls, and people, before we hid the jolly ball.
He loves to carry his collar in his mouth, and shake it like a small animal destined to die a slow death at his hands. He usually ends up whacking himself with the metal ID tags, but he’s gonna kill that collar.
Sometimes he can’t find his collar or a tennis ball, so he’ll grab whatever is handy.
The bath mat will do. And if he can’t find something to put in his mouth when we get home, he will go crazy looking for something, anything. Scraps of paper, dirty socks, kitchen towels. Nothing is off limits for Harry.
He’s also really lucky that Macy loves him so much. She picked him out, and he is definitely her dog. He sleeps in her room, and no one commands his attention like her. Well, except for maybe a tennis ball.
He loves her a lot in return.
She organizes a birthday party for him every year, and sometimes there’s entertainment, like the cascarones. He wasn’t too interested in the confetti inside, but he did eat the eggshell.
Sometimes he looks like he’s going to dislocate his neck, with some of the positions he settles in, but he always manages to go to sleep, even if his head is twisted.
He’s crazy, but we love him. Even when he leaves a huge pile of nastiness on the floor.