More On My Mysterious Ailment...

Yes, I've used this image before, but it is too perfect for my current experience. I, of course, am the elephant (no surprise there, eh?). The blind chinamen are the various and sundry medical professionals I have encountered in the past couple of months.

The hand therapist and I decided not to continue beyond this week as it was not making a difference. He provided me with some excellent splints which are helping with the carpal tunnel symptoms and he has shown me some good stretching exercises to help with the range of motion and stiffness/pain. There seems little point in coming in for sessions that I can manage myself at home.

I bumped into a former co-worker in the cafeteria. She now works for one of the neurosurgeons. She thought it was likely to be my neck and I had had problems last November with my cervical spine. This got me all excited as I would rather have to admit to Type II diabetes due to my size and a coincidental problem with my extremities due to a easily repaired spinal issue.

However, the Rehab doctor squelched that rather quickly. He challenged me, and I had to agree, that the picture didn't indicate spinal problems. He's fairly certain this is some kind of rheumatology issue and is still pushing forward with having me see the rheumatologist.

However, he has warned me that she often leaves patients frustrated and angry because she often seems to deny that there is a problem. Nice, huh? However, before I can go to Mayo Clinic (or some other such place) and have the insurance pay for it, I have to use up our local resources. They only allow you to go outside the system if it cannot be provided here.

Meanwhile, every week that goes by I wake up a little stiffer in my feet, legs and arms, my fingers are curled a little more, my grasp is a little weaker...and I wait...and wait...and wait. (sorry, couldn't help a little Casablanca reference there for dramatic effect)

Just What The Bloody Hell Is Going On, Eh?

My heath crisis continues to be a bit of a mystery. Granted, from the point that my sugars skyrocketed, some were more than willing to ascribe it all to my weight - big is bad, don't you know? Now I'm the first one to realize that I need to exercise, but not to get smaller. I'm perfectly comfortable with my size. I do need to move this body in order to maintain an appropriate level of endurance, range of motion, and strength. Besides, there's something really embarrassing about being a couch potato without television.

However, further visits with additional doctors and medical testing is beginning to support what I suspected all along - that I'm having some kind of autoimmune episode. I will lay out my medical case for you here and you can tell me what you think.

My first symptoms (aside from being fat) occurred about three months ago. I began to have unusual pain in my finger joints and occasionally my thumb joints as well. I was also having foot pain, but at the time ascribed it to really beat up tennis shoes and poor arch support. The pain was arthritic in nature, though not reproducible (meaning that if I pressed and manipulated the knuckle joints I couldn't make the pain worse). I had no redness or warmth present either.

Of course then I had the episode where my blood glucose (sugar) skyrocketed to 526 and all the talk of diabetes began. From the beginning my presentation was unusual but not unheard of and the doctor (endocrinologist) diagnosed me as typical Type II (probably because I'm fat).

The pain in my hands and feet began to worsen and take on many of the characteristics of carpal tunnel syndrome (in my hands). Before I went back to my primary care doctor, I checked with the endocrinologist to see if there was a correlation between my blood sugar fluctuations and my symptoms. He said there was no connection, so I went back to my regular doc. He referred me to the Rehab doc with signs of probable carpal tunnel vs. diabetic neuropathy.

The Rehab doc initially concurred and told me he expected it to clear up within a month - just as the changes in vision cleared up in a few weeks. I was instructed to see him again in 4 weeks time and schedule 15 min if things were improving or an hour if they weren't. I scheduled an hour. My hands, by now, were mostly numb most of the time. My inability to fully extend my fingers was getting worse.

On Monday I had my first follow up appointment with the endocrinologist and he confided that he was completely surprised by how well my body was responding to treatment. He put me on a new injectable medication and told me to come back in 3 months.

On Tuesday I had my follow up with the Rehab doctor. He performed a nerve conduction study which conclusively showed that my problem was NOT diabetic neuropathy. This lead him to diagnose carpal tunnel without a clear understanding of the trigger. A complete history lead him to suspect that something autoimmune is occurring.

At 24, I was diagnosed with "asthma" though I never developed any allergy triggers. This has since resolved to the point that I no longer take any medications for the condition, though my lungs remain a bit hyper reactive.

By around 30, I developed a metal allergy that has since prevented me from wearing any jewelry - even 24k gold. This is the same allergy that prevents me from using any deodorant products (probably the aluminum salts).

About 6-7 years ago, I developed a case of Sweet's Syndrome which is a skin ailment that usually affects women over age 50. There was a subgroup, however, where the syndrome is a precursor to autoimmune disease.

My brother, father, and paternal grandfather all have been diagnosed with autoimmune diseases (Ankylosing spondylitis, Myasthenia gravis, and Polyarteritis nodosa).

He is now trying to get me in to see THE rheumatologist (there's only one up here). He also ordered some x-rays and some blood work. Interestingly my glycosylated hemoglobin was almost normal, indicating that I have not had a prolonged period of elevated blood sugars, rather that the diabetes came on very suddenly.

On Wednesday, I saw a hand therapist. His full evaluation revealed that much of what I am experiencing in my hands is not carpal tunnel. There is evidence that I am ALSO having carpal tunnel syndrome, but the pain and decreased mobility, extension of my fingers is not indicative.

I went home and googled "autoimmune triggered diabetes" and found information on Latent autoimmune diabetes. Given the timing of the pain in my hands/feet and the sudden change in my blood glucose levels, I suspect that was is occuring here is some kind of autoimmune disease, which, if true, appears to indicate that my size is irrelevant to my health crisis.

I will keep you all posted on what I learn. More than anything, I want my hands back. I can handle the changes necessary for living with diabetes (of any variety), but having to deal with weak, numb and achy hands is tiring me much more than passing on sweets, candy, potatoes & pasta. Keep me in your prayers if that's your bag. Peace.

The Zen of Bunny Chores...

This is Louise. Yes, you are remembering correctly that her other half is named Thelma. How original? Well, Thelma is a boy, so it's a bit original.

I was finally motivated today to do full throttle bunny chores which involves letting them romp in the porch while I clean their cage. Under the right circumstances there is something wonderfully peaceful about sitting with my rabbits on the porch while they wander and explore.

Today is one of those rare days. It's about 58 degrees with filtered sunlight coming through the maples. There's a slight breeze. Out in the woods where I live it is often only the sounds of nature.

When bunnies are happy they leap up and kick out their heels to one side and then they race around. It is a profound expression of joy lived in the moment. As I sit in my hammock chair and watch them, I wistfully wish I could experience joy in living as simply as they do.

Of course as I sat with them this morning my thought began to wax philosophical. I had chosen their names, Thelma & Louise, after learning they were supposedly two females and not two males (they had been Adam & Steve). There was a similarity to the rhythm and sound of the names and there was paucity of female duo names. How many can you think of, hmmm? Lucy & Ethel? Others?

Today I began to think about those names, the characters, and their story. Two women trapped in their circumstances, desperate to maintain their freedom. As I thought about this I observed at varying moments Thelma and Louise checking out the perimeter of the porch for an egress.

Here they were for the first time in weeks in a space 50 fold larger than their hutch and their instinct was to still seek a way out. I'm certain they are motivated to do so more from curiosity than desperation, but the act itself caught my attention.

I have been rewatching Roots for the first time having purchased the series on DVD. In the second episode last night, one of the ongoing themes was that Kunta was different from the other slaves because he was born free. Fiddler warns the other slaves to stay away from "The African" because this made him wild. When Kunta escapes for the first time, Fiddler ponders on what it must feel like to be free - that it must be wonderful.

The masters and overseers have their opinions about newly enslaved Africans over slaves born into captivity. Those that have worked closely, namely the overseers, understand the effects of grieving lost freedom has on a new slave.

So as I sat there watching my rabbits I thought about being born into slavery versus being captured and forced into slavery. How interesting that my rabbits born into captivity still yearned for more, still tried to find a hole in the screen to see what was beyond the porch, just like their namesakes.

In the end this lead me to think about our own "slavery," or that which enslaves us. IMHO we live in a very sick (i.e., ill & unhealthy) culture. I have moved once again into the metaphorical, so understand that I am in no way making a comparison between 21st century middle class America and 19th century Southern slave plantations.

We all live in our own little rabbit hutches. If we are fortunate we occasionally get let out to run around on the porch. In most cases, this is the life we are born into - we are not "Africans" fresh off the boat in a strange land.

Rabbit hutches are not necessarily bad, mind you. My bunnies wouldn't last more than a couple days at most in the wild. Aside from the whole domestication thing, they have genetically lost the natural defenses of wild rabbits. Louise (mostly white) would not be able to hide in the summer; Thelma (mostly dark chocolate brown/black) would not be able to hide in the winter. The hutch provides them with security and food. The porch provides them with exercise.

Yet, like the bunnies, we can't help trying to find the hole in the screen, wondering what else is out there, eh? The key to all of this is that leap of joy, remember from the beginning of the post?

They are blessed with the ability to experience profound joy in the moment and can't help leaping to express it. How often do we allow ourselves to leap for joy because life is good, even in our porches and hutches? As humans it is much too easy to see only the hutch and captivity.

Peace.

A Modern Fable?

Once upon a time there was a man with five children. On this one particular afternoon, his wife was absent, having gone to visit her friends for a reunion, and would not return until the next day.

This left the dinner preparations entirely in his hands. Now this man valued harmony and rather than make the decision for his family, he decided he would speak to the children to get their input on what would be best for dinner.

He approached his first child, "Ralph, what do you think we should have for dinner tonight?" Now Ralph had some rather interesting views about food and nutrition, "Well, father, meat is evil and I won't touch food that has come from a factory farm - the only answer is to eat food from our garden."

Our father, considered this and found his next child, "Ann, your mother is gone until tomorrow. What do you think we should have for supper?" Now Ann was a bit on the greedy side and often would push for as much as she could get. "Father, we should have a wonderful banquet with roasts and chicken and sausages...oh and I think we should have five kinds of dessert. Father, you simply must cook a magnificent feast for us - we deserve it!"

He then found the twins arguing in the back yard (as they were wont to do). George, in the red outfit, and Bill, in the blue outfit, never seemed to agree on anything. Father approached them and they stopped their scuffling long enough to hear him ask about dinner. Bill shouted, "Pizza we have to have pizza, Poppa, with pepperoni and mushrooms." "No way!" answered George, "Poppa, we must have pizza, but with sausage and mushrooms." Well, the fighting started up again about pizza toppings.

Our father knew where he'd find his last child. It seemed that all Jane wanted to do was sit in front of the television day in and day out. When he approached her with his question about dinner, she didn't even look away from the screen, "I don't care. Whatever." So he told Jane about Ralph's suggestion. "No, I hate vegetables." So then he told her about greedy Ann's banquet idea. "No, I'm on a diet, I couldn't eat most of that."

Of course, she still stared at her television program the whole time. "Well, the twins suggested pizza." "We just had pizza! Yuck!" And so he once again asked her, "Well, what do you suggest?" "I don't care. Whatever."

By now our father was becoming frustrated. How was he going to serve up a dinner that made everyone happy? He pondered and thought and googled and flipped through cookbooks. The afternoon frittered away while he tried to please them all.

Before he realized it, the five children were standing in the kitchen doorway moaning about how hungry they were. He looked at the clock and it was hours past supper time. He told them he would bring some dinner in in a few minutes and told them to go sit at the table.

Well, in the end, all he could throw together was a weak flavorless gruel that he slopped up into some bowls. Perhaps that is what comes from spending all your energy on trying to please everyone.

Sunset Musings...

I have had a rather strange day. I have spent the day napping intermittently. Honestly, I mostly slept today. This, of course, triggered full throttle, neurotic, rumination that I am sinking ever more deeply into the morass. I also spent some time pondering how my favorite deadly sins appear to be sloth, lust and gluttony--well, not so much lust anymore.

Essentially I had to wrestle with myself for providing my body with what it was craving. It is so easy to beat ourselves up for our desires or for feeding those desires or for succumbing to temptation. Why do we do this? I was raised a second/third generation Polish Catholic - where does this Puritan shit come from?

The week started with unbearable humidity that made sleep last weekend difficult. In addition, my neuropathy is worsening. Since just before the whole diabetes fiasco began, I had started to develop carpal tunnel symptoms in my hands and feet (technically tarpal tunnel down there). Two out of three of my doctors believe it to be related to the fluctuating blood sugar levels.

I get up in the morning and walk like a very old man because of how my feet feel. Lately my shoulders and knees have felt the need to clamber for my attention as well. Worst of all are my hands, this week especially, they are at varying times numb, weak, and painful. This has been waking me up regularly around 3:30 AM. The point of this whining is that I have some damn good reasons to feel tired and so I spent most of the day in bed and in my pajamas.

I'm weird enough as it is, but all that sleep (and, yes, the bed felt simply wonderful each time) and no contact with the outside world - I don't have television and I had turned the phone off - by early evening I was feeling a bit strange.

I showered and got dressed around 6:30 PM, rustled up the dogs and got them lockec up downstairs and drove into town to get a cheeseburger. On my way home I snapped a few shots with my new camera phone.

I hope to begin painting and my good friend Mary is going to show me the ropes. I am starting to work with color and she has advised me to take snaps of images that I want to remember. She asked me what I wanted to paint and I thought immediately of layers of light and color. I love late afternoon horizontal light. I'm also fascinated by finding geometry and depth. Words don't really describe well what I'm thinking.

My strange day is drawing to a close. Trace bits of neurosis and guilt linger in the air. I have plenty to whine about, plenty to be thankful for, challenges to meet, and doubt, lots of doubt, over how I am living my life. My saving grace is being able to see that most, if not all, the people in my life have their own assortment of same.

Peace.

Ongoing Power Struggle Gets Bloody

First off, my thanks to Wishbone (one of my favorite restaurants in Chicago) for providing me with a perfect image for this post. They have a few locations now - the original, west of the Loop by Harpo Studios, one in Oak Park, and, I believe, another on the North Side.

Yes, I am sad to report that a major power struggle has been occurring here in the North Woods of Michigan, amongst members of the Shell Pack.

Sometime Wednesday morning, the venerable Senior Cabinet Member, Czar's Benjamin Franklin, known affectionately to the world as "Frankie," was brutally attacked while taking his morning constitutional.

Given his stoic nature and endearing humility, Frankie kept this attack to himself, returning to the house looking like he had decided to splash a bit in a muddy puddle, but giving no other signs that he was injured or distressed. However, later in the day his injuries had gotten the better of him and prevented him from greeting his Alpha (moi) when I returned home from errands. In fact, he was so quiet that I thought briefly that I had left home with him outside, and then I saw him curled up under the dining room table.

I still was unaware that there was a problem until later in the day when he appeared to be finicky about dinner - he did eventually clean his bowl, but he was very slow about it. His guarded behavior finally triggered enough concern that I put him up onto the ottoman and with a bright light was able to see what was going on.

I discovered two puncture wounds to his scalp between his right eye and ear and a tender/bloody spot below the right jaw. Clearly he had been grabbed by the right side and given a severe shake to the head. I initially freaked, but then I immediately calmed myself; he did, after all, eat his entire dinner, so he could not be feeling that badly, and, furthermore, he kept it down. I decided the best plan would be to simply keep an eye on his wounds.

My immediate suspect was Junior Minister of Defense, Madame Lola FaLana (a former show girl). Approximately a month and a half ago, Lola publicly berated Minister Frankie before witnesses, pinning him to the ground, and causing him to squeal like a little girl. When questioned for this piece, Ms. Lola replied, "No comment."

Things were going fairly well this week. Frankie continued to eat and drink without problems. Late this morning, however, I discovered significant swelling to his throat and the right side of his face. An emergency trip to the vet revealed an abscess that actually started to drain on it's own in the vet's office. The doc opened up the wound a bit more with hemostats and started Frank on some oral antibiotics.

All of this reveals that a major Coup d'etat is in the works, and Minister Frankie appears to be surrendering his top spot in the hierarchy to Madam Lola. When contacted for comment, Minister Frankie said, "Right now I just want to recover from my injuries in peace, thank you for your concern. I will have a formal statement to make in the not so distant future."

***THIS JUST IN***

Not to be outdone by all the attention paid to Ministers Frankie and Lola, Cultural Attache Zoe "Hey What About Me--Is That Food?" Shell made a melodramatic attempt at suicide by consuming a Raid Ant Trap. Apparently all the attention over Frankie was causing her to feel neglected - that or she thought it was a highly unique chew toy/treat left for her in the guest bedroom closet.

Calls to the Vet and the dogs' Uncle Leighton in Berwyn, IL, revealed that though labeled as hazardous to children and pets, the ingredient is essentially non-toxic and may have the added benefit (according to the vet) of worming Minister Zoe.

Throughout all this, Director of Homeland Security Cosmo remained calm and was allegedly quoted as saying, "Hey, can I go outside again? Can I? Can I please? I really want to go outside! Can I, huh?" while rapidly turning circles.

News at 11...

The Picture of Dorian...Fish

The fish died.

What the bloody hell does that mean, you might ask, as well you should.

Well, this fish tale begins with an explanation of my tendency towards the mystical - seeing meaning and patterns in the world around me - making strange and bizarre connections. It's probably because I was an English Major.

As has been quite evident both here and on Facebook, I have been in a royal funk. I realize that this particular blog post will now seem suspiciously manicky (?) maniacal? How about just plain crazy? ...it will seem suspiciously crazy, and leave you all wondering on my state of mind.

Anyway...

The image is representative of The Picture of Dorian Gray, a novella by Oscar Wilde, about a man who's debauchery leaves him physically unscathed, while a portrait of him, hidden in the attic, bears all the signs of his horrid life, so that by the end of the story, the portrait is particularly rotted and hideous.

So what the heck has this to do with a fish? Well, this is a representative picture of what my fish Akbar looked like. Akbar was a Black Moor Goldfish, may he rest in peace.

My good friends, Georgie and Mary, have some awesome fish tanks - big, huge ones - like 90 gallons with live plants. I almost went out and invested in a big tank so I could have one too. Thankfully, I got wise at just the last moment and decided that I had to properly care for my 10 gallon tank for at least six months before I would let myself spend money on a bigger tank.

So I purchased Akbar to join my other fantail goldfish who I then decided to call Jeff. Akbar and Jeff? Get it? No? OK, well first off I wanted to remember the name of that guy from the Star Wars movies who looked like a fish - turns out his name is Admiral Akbar and this is what he looks like.

You see the resemblance immediately, I'm certain. My fish HAD to have the name Akbar. It just made good fish sense. So what of his partner's name? Jeff?

Those of you who have lived in Chicago and peruse The Reader are familiar with a particular comic strip - that is to say, "Life In Hell." I'm not certain where it is published in other cities, but it was a favorite of mine when I lived in Chicago. Here below is a picture of Akbar and Jeff, who just happen to be gay, and are two of the characters at times featured in this strip by Matt Groening of The Simpsons fame.

For more information about his comic strip, you can check out the write up at Wikipedia.

OK, so that explains about how I ended up with Akbar and Jeff, but remember that this is about Dorian Gray, a dead fish, and my foul mood, so bear with me, ok?

The fish died. Akbar, that is. Just before I went to Chicago, I made sure that I thoroughly cleaned the fish tank. The vacuum method just wasn't cutting it - goldfish are just too damn dirty. They crap all the time!

Right about this time I also noticed that Akbar was apparently changing color. Goldfish--or Koi as they are called when they get big and live in fancy ponds--are known to change their color, particularly as they get bigger, and Akbar had grown somewhat since I purchased him a few months back. He was shedding his black tone and turning silver on his upper torso - do fish have torso's?

By last week in the midst of my mood though I realized that something else seemed to be occurring as the top edge of his torso went from silver to almost transluscent and then I saw tiny nasty white fuzz on him as well. The poor bastard wasn't changing color - he had a wicked, wicked fungal infection.

I finally made it to the store and picked up some medicine that turned the tank neon green. By this point Akbar wasn't doing very well and was mostly just hiding in the plastic foliage. He was, however, still floating in an upright position.

By the time Georgie and Mary came over for dinner on Sunday, the tank was entering it's third day of treatment and the fungal growth was starting to peel away. I thought for sure that Georgie and Mary would order me to give the poor fish the flush immediately, but they thought that the fungus/dead part was clearly peeling off like a sun burn and that perhaps he would pull through. He didn't.

On the fifth day I removed 1/4 of the water from the tank, replaced it it with clean water, and returned the charcoal filter to the tank. By this point Akbar was really starting to look like - you got it, The Picture of Dorian Gray - and as the surface layer peeled away, I could see deep pockets of fungal infection imbedded underneath. Sure enough I found him floating sideways and no longer breathing the next morning and gave him a quick flush, relieved that I did not have to send a dying fish to his doom.

That Dorian Gray image stuck with me though and I began to see little Akbar as a metaphor for my situation - mystical remember? As my life spiralled more and more out of control, Akbar's little body slowly rotted away. As things progressed, I began to assume, like Newland Archer, that my fate was to be determined by a fish - if Akbar pulled through and successfully shed the fungus, I would be making a change. If, however, he went belly up, I'd remain in my current situation.

I found Akbar floating yesterday morning, the same day I called HR and learned that the position I was to interview for had a starting wage HALF what I am currently earning. This meant that the top of the scale for the job was likely to be several dollars an hour less than what I am currently earning. There was no way I could work more hours and bring home less money.

So I am resolved to remain a Home Infusion Coordinator for now. I will be changing my schedule after Labor Day and working Wednesday through Saturday, and Mary Ann and I will split call differently so that, at least, I will always have my "weekend" call free. As I am long past worrying about partying and clubbing on Friday or Saturday nights, it makes no mind that my weekend will actually be Sunday, Monday & Tuesday (Monday & Tuesday will always be call free).

How can my mood change with the death of one little fish? I told you, I'm an English Major.

Peace.

I'm Tempted To Hit The Road & Not Look Back

My recent status updates on Facebook have provoked a variety of responses, as well as a couple of messages--a few thumbs ups, some "I understand stand"s, some concerned questions...

Somewhere I wrote that recently nothing seems to fit right - my job, my home, my body, my life. I am left uninspired and mildly irritated most of the time.

The hospital continues to come up with new and wonderful ways to demonstrate how much we are appreciated as employees. They gave us a whopping 2% raise last month - the first in a couple years. However, immediately following that surprising announcement they came up with some wonderful cuts in benefits. For example, my current job requires that I be on call 1/2 of the time - that would be six months of the year basically. What made that tolerable was that we were given a minimum of two hours time and a half call back if we had to work beyond our shift or were called in on the weekend, further we were paid door to door.

That's gone now - they have eliminated call back and now will only pay straight time, not door to door, but will pay a minimum of 2 hours. As for having to stay late, that's just straight pay, real time now. Further, they changed my status so that I don't get overtime until I've worked 40 hours in a week. As I'm scheduled to work 32 that means I could stay after work for another 8 hour shift and still only be paid straight time.

This is how you are rewarded in this brave new world.

As much as I love my house, the cost and upkeep ensure I am a slave to my employment. Yes, it is a beautiful log home - but it is also a big trap. There really are no other employment opportunities in the U.P. so my house is part of the siren song that keeps me gritting my teeth and putting up with treatment at the hands of management.

For the few of you who haven't noticed, health care in this country isn't what it used to be and the same can be said for working in health care.

Which leads me to the point of all this. I am tempted to sell it all, give away what I can't sell and see what's left in my pocket at the end of the day. Hopefully there will be enough to purchase a camper or a motor home and then I can hit the road and see where life takes me or maybe to become a novice in a monastic order in Canada.

The rabbits and fish would definitely have to go and possibly some of the dogs, or maybe not, I don't know if I could part with any of them.

I know this much - I have a job interview at the hospital next week - it is full time (which sucks) but has no call and no weekends. I'm sure that it is mine for the taking. I'm fed up enough with my current position that I just might make that change.

I will also spend the better part of the next week or so checking out other places around the country - Juneau? Billings? Cheyenne? Portland? Fairbanks? I would consider taking a nursing job to get settled but make sure that my living situation is as cheap as possible so I could give up health care for good in a year or two.

That, my friends, is an attempt at explaining what is going on. Kate asked if I'm ok - and I suppose I am - but I am feeling very unsettled. Thanks for all the love.