I am home. I am tired, and I am sore, but I am home.


Surgery went well, although I really did have to fight to get to come home yesterday instead of spending the night in the hospital. My newest battle scar is located at the base of my throat. I can't tell exactly how big the incision is -- my best guess is that it's somewhere between 3 and 4 inches long. Where the purple squiggly line is, there was a drain that was removed this morning. In place of the drain tube is a nifty little hole that the doctor filled with antibiotic ointment. Notice all the blue "shadow" in the crease above the incision? That shadow is actually swelling and bruising. The whole neck is swollen and bruised.

The good news is that only the right half of the thyroid was removed because the initial lab results showed a benign form of cancer. The tissue is still undergoing additional testing, so the final results won't be in for another few days; however, the surgeon didn't see anything that made him believe removing the left side was necessary.

The always Amazing Egyptian Dude earned props -- lots of them -- when, despite being utterly exhausted, he hauled himself to the market last night to get me some Diet Dr. Pepper and Butter Pecan ice cream. A tall glass of Diet Dr. Pepper on crushed ice did wonders for my sore throat. Chewing is not easy because it involves using the muscles in my neck that have been cut, so soft and squishy foods like soup and jello are it for a couple of days. Oh, and Butter Pecan ice cream!



I gots a owie. I'm sore. I'm tired. But I'm ok, and I'm home.

Before I start, I have to confess that the "photo" which is the subject of today's post is not mine. You'll understand why in just a few seconds!

Tomorrow, I will have the ninth surgery of my life. It's not because I think that spending time on a chilly stainless steel table in an eerily smelly sterilized room is the ideal way to spend a couple hours of spare time that I will embark on yet another surgical adventure. Trust me, I can find plenty of better ways to keep myself occupied! Nope, the time has come to remove yet another malfunctioning part of my body so that it will no longer interfere with those parts that do work as they still should.

The surgery itself isn't a big deal as far as operations go. In fact, compared to some of the others I've had, this one is as simple as a trip to the grocery store. The only hitch in the get-along, as my Papa used to say, is that the shopping list has a huge question mark right in the middle of it.

The right side of my thyroid gland (see "photo" to locate it) has a nodule about the size of grape on it. It moves around when touched and when positioned just right, can actually make it difficult for me to breathe or swallow properly. A needle biopsy taken several months ago showed changes to the cells in the fluid contained within the nodule, prompting the doctor to warn me about the big C -- cancer. The biopsy didn't get enough of the fluid or cells to determine which type of cancer, but that doesn't really matter because the nodule and the portion of the thyroid to which it has attached itself have to come out of my neck.

So tomorrow morning, my very own Dr. Oz will play slice and dice on my throat. He will remove the right half of my thyroid gland and send it off to the lab for analysis to determine just what those changed cells have done to it. Based on the results and what he sees, he will determine whether or not to remove the rest of the gland before stitching me back together. Honestly, it doesn't matter to me whether I have half a thyroid or none at all when all is said and done. I care more about making sure that what remains works the way it should and has none of those funky changed cells in it!

The surgery is supposed to be an outpatient event, and I anticipate being home in the early afternoon. There is, however, a slight possibility that I will have to stay in the hospital overnight -- something that will make me a very, very unhappy camper should it come to pass! I'll do my best to post a Twitter update as soon as I am able but if I disappear for a couple of days, you'll know that it's more than likely because I ended up having to stay at the hospital.

**Source for the "photo" -- I couldn't use my own thyroid gland because, well, I'm not about to slice open my own throat to get a bird's eye view not even for a blog post!

Just a few things I've been thinking about . . .


What makes The Brain think it's the boss?
Last week was a real humdinger from start to finish. With so much unusual excitement going on, I should have been prepared for The Brain to take control and to push me into the passenger seat. At least this time The Brain held off on the electrical surges until Thursday night; the only bad thing about it waiting so long is that the surges are worse than normal -- as if seizures are ever normal per se. I don't like it when The Brain takes over, but that's life; I'll continue to deal with it as best I can.


Why are people so willing to believe what they hear without bothering to investigate the facts?


Watching the debate over health care reform devolve from discussion to organized shouting matches has made me pull out my much used and well loved copy of John Stewart Mill's essay On Liberty and to reread his discussion of the Tyranny of the Majority, because I see its bud fully flowering on this single issue in a way that it hasn't for quite some time.

The "people" who exercise the power are not always the same people with those over whom it is exercised; and the "self-government" spoken of is not the government of each by himself, but of each by all the rest. The will of the people, moreover, practically means the will of the most numerous or the most active part of the people; the majority, or those who succeed in making themselves accepted as the majority; the people, consequently, may desire to oppress a part of their number; and precautions are as much needed against this as against any other abuse of power. The limitation, therefore, of the power of government over individuals loses none of its importance when the holders of power are regularly accountable to the community, that is, to the strongest party therein. This view of things, recommending itself equally to the intelligence of thinkers and to the inclination of those important classes in European society to whose real or supposed interests democracy is adverse, has had no difficulty in establishing itself; and in political speculations "the tyranny of the majority" is now generally included among the evils against which society requires to be on its guard.

When a group, whether numerically greater or not, gains enough power to assert its authority over others and uses that power to silence dissenting voices, we have Tyranny of the Majority. Since tyranny is the antithesis of liberty, and something that Americans take an inordinate amount of pride in "removing" from the world, why do we allow it to happen in our own back yard?

Among other things, controlled experiments on tyranny have shown that

• Tyranny can be implemented and exercised by normal people.
• Tyranny is more likely when people are competing for insufficient resources.
• Tyranny is more likely when the tyrants have little empathy for the tyrannized.
• Tyranny is more likely by stealth by those in power than by coup. (Source)
  

The folks who are showing up at town hall meetings with the sole purpose of shouting down their elected officials or acting as the spokeshole for a special interest group (insurance industry, pharmaceutical company, et al) are, for the most part, quite normal people, I'm sure. Yet once they have had their daily dose of Rush and O'Reilly, they feel empowered enough to behave like tyrants, silencing all who disagree with them, in a controlled environment such as a town hall meeting.

To say that people are competing for insufficient resources in these difficult economic times is, perhaps, to use an old cliche, the understatement of the century. Because of fear mongering further compounded by the fact that the average American is too lazy to search for factual information independently and thus, like so many lemmings, is willing to throw himself off the cliff without cause.

Empathy is having the capacity to understand, be sensitive to, and feel the experience of someone else. When the economy is bad and people are concerned about making their own mortgage payments, putting food on their own tables, and meeting the needs of their own families, empathy often gets lost in the daily struggle. The problem is that the same people who struggle to make ends meet but have health insurance are the very ones who ought to have the greatest empathy for their uninsured fellow Americans who find themselves having to choose between paying for a doctor visit or a prescription and making a house payment or buying groceries!

The special interest groups on both sides of the health care reform issue resort to stealth by spreading misinformation anonymously. It doesn't take long before the lemmings leap into panic mode and once they pick up the ball, the lobbyists can sit back and enjoy the show as they pat themselves on the back for a job well done; they know that to stage a successful coup, they need only to strike fear into the hearts of the lemmings who can be relied upon to take them at their word without ever bothering to research the facts themselves.

God protect us all from the lemmings of the world irrespective of the side of the political spectrum on which they sit!


What am I missing?

So my laptop is up and running again. All the software has been reinstalled, the file folders created, the desktop organized and decorated just the way I like it. It's even running much faster than it was pre-hacker / Trojan. I should be happy, right? Bleh -- that would work in someone else's world, not mine! Something is missing, I just know it! The problem is that I can't put my finger on what I've forgotten, and it's making me crazy. You know what it's like when you can't remember a song or movie title and it sticks in your head until you do? It's like that with the missing software. I know that I neglected to reinstall something, but what? I don't know! I guess it will hit me on the head like a sledgehammer when I go to use it and can't find it -- then I'll know what I forgot to install!



"Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph." -- Thomas Paine

Tired and REtired accurately describes me for the past couple of days. No sitting around munching on bon-bons and watching soap operas all day here. So much for the glory days of retirement!

Despite really looking forward to the Thursday Thirteen meme, I just didn't have time to get to it today. Not that this is necessarily bad; it just means that I'm having another good day and have the energy and concentration to get some more work done. I might could get used to this!

The visit with my wunnerful wunnerful neurologist, Dr. S, went well. We're changing my anti-seizure medications again as the Dilantin has never really reached the level in my blood stream that it should in order to work effectively. Instead of continuing to increase the dosage of a drug that just ain't cuttin' the mustard as my Grandma used to say, I'll go back on Topamax. I did have some issues with Topamax causing brain fog a while back; however, I'm no longer teaching and required to have unfailing mental acuity on demand. I'll take a bit of fogginess over clusters of seizures any old day. Besides, Topamax has three delightful side effects from which I gained some additional benefit in the past and hope to see again:

• it causes weight loss
• it is also used to treat and prevent migraines
• it will allow me to stop taking two, possibly three, additional medications

The next couple of weeks will be challenging as I take both the Topamax and Dilantin until I reach the previous dosage of 100 mg of Topamax twice daily and start to wean off the Dilantin. Been there, done that -- at least half a dozen times -- and will survive it once again.

Just a few things I've been thinking about. . .


With the recent changes in Betty's health, the debate between quantity and quality of life has been uppermost in my mind. The latest news about Betty is that she has pneumonia in her left lung, a pneumonia that is exacerbated by the fact that the fluid itself now has an infection in it. On Saturday, her breathing sounded terrible; yesterday, it didn't sound quite as bad. She has been moved to a different hospital where this afternoon she will have surgery to remove the fluid and pus from the lung and chest wall. The surgeon will try to get it all out using a laparoscope, which requires only a small incision in the chest; however, if scar tissue has developed already, he will have to make a much larger incision and, as he told me last night, "clean the lung by hand." I asked about the risks associated with both surgeries before giving permission to go ahead and once I felt comfortable with the answers to my questions, I authorized the procedure. Still, I spent much of last night doing battle with myself over it.

• Betty is 87 years old, has hypertension, an enlarged heart, diabetes, mostly atrophied legs, and almost no mental acuity. Considering the pain that this surgery will cause her, pain that she no longer has the ability to express except through a wrinkled brow and caveman-like grunts, is this the best thing for her? Diabetics, especially insulin dependent diabetics like Betty, have difficulty healing and since she cannot get up and walk, which is part of the healing process, her road to recovery will be very, very long. I can't help but wonder that by giving consent for the surgery, if I'm not setting her down a path of unnecessary misery and suffering. Aargh...this is a tough one!

Why can't one problem be solved before another one starts? My kitchen has been turned upside down since Saturday night thanks to a leak that was finally matched to the garbage disposal. The AED decided that since he already had to be working under the sink (which was actually removed because we couldn't get the old disposal out), it would be the perfect time to hook up the new fridge to the water lines so that we could finally use the water and ice dispenser in its door. Because we had to pull out the dishwasher to run the line behind it, we took the time to clean the area of dust and cobwebs that we wouldn't otherwise be able to get to. With the fridge hooked up and the dishwasher back in place, we put the sink back in, and the AED set about installing a new garbage disposal. Somewhere in the melee between moving the sink from the back porch to the kitchen, pulling out the dishwasher, and moving the fridge to and fro, a seal for the garbage disposal was lost. No problem. The AED has gazillions of parts and gadgets in the house and garage, so he sent me off to bed near midnight and said he could finish the job on his own. This morning I awoke to a newly installed garbage disposal, ice in the icemaker, and cold water filling my glass when I pressed on the appropriate lever on the fridge door. Life is wonderful! Or at least it was until I loaded up and started the dishwasher. Once it got to the first rinse cycle, water came gushing out of the garbage disposal and flooded the kitchen floor before I got there to turn off the dishwasher. The AED is now at Home Depot looking for the correct seal.

While I wait for him to return, I am happily filling a glass with ice cubes and the lemonade that I've been making from the lemons that keep magically appearing around my house!

I don't think that I have ever talked about the fact that I am the conservator in charge of the care of an elderly neighbor and friend. And if it weren't for the fact that I am currently totally stressed over a member of her family and her current health, I wouldn't say anything; however, I really need to vent in a big way.

The Amazing Egyptian Dude and I bought our home from my dad, so except for a few years when the AED and I lived in a neighboring city after we got married, this place has been my home for close to 30 years.

My whole family befriended a delightful retired couple who lived across the street. For the sake of their privacy, I'll call them Bob and Betty. The AED always started his day by having a morning cup of coffee and visit with Bob. Our daughter headed straight across the street as soon as she got home from school for an afterschool snack and lots of fun before starting her homework. Two or three times a week, she watched The Wheel of Fortune with them, competing against Bob to see who could solve the puzzles first. Betty took a daily walk down the street and stopped at my house for a cup of coffee before returning home; she loved to share the neighborhood gossip with me. At sunset, Betty and I chatted from across the street as we watered our lawns. Not a day went by that they weren't an integral part of our lives the way that grandparents who live close by would be.

When Betty developed diabetes and a few years later, dementia, Bob resolved to care for her himself, with a little help from friends. The AED did their grocery shopping, played Mr. Fix-It when needed, and drove them to doctor's appointments; I bathed Betty, cleaned up after her when she had difficulty controlling her bowels, and assisted Bob with her care; our daughter helped to clean up when Betty had accidents, washed and brushed her hair, and continued to make the weekly visits to Bob for Wheel of Fortune. Through all of this, we saw very little of their children.

Bob and Betty had both been married previously and had children from those marriages. Bob had two daughters, and Betty adopted her first husband's son. One of Bob's daughters lives in another state and visited once every 2 or 3 years for a week or so; the other one lives locally but because she didn't grow up with him, they didn't really have much of a relationship. Betty's son wasn't around much, unless, as she said, he was in trouble or needed something. He has lived in another state for as long as I can remember.

As Bob and Betty grew older, sicker, and more frail, they came to rely on us for assistance. We did for them the things their children should have been doing. Bob asked me to be the conservator of a living will and trust because he was concerned that if something happened to him, Betty would not be cared for properly. I agreed. I knew that it was a big responsibility, but I also knew that they couldn't depend on anyone else to take care of them.

Betty's dementia worsened to the point that she repeated the same two conversations over and over again. One was the story of how she and Bob met and eloped to Vegas, the other was what a great life they had. Blissfully, her mind had frozen in her happiest memories. When she became combative about taking a bath and keeping herself clean, Bob knew that he could no longer care for her adequately, even with our help. Although her pension would cover the cost of a nursing home with no out-of-pocket expense involved, Bob refused to place Betty in one. After speaking with their social worker about other options, I found a fantastic assisted living facility close enough to our homes that we could drive him to see her every day. Bob was absolutely dedicated to making sure that Betty got the best of care and was willing to pay for it; the assisted living facility is not covered by her pension or insurance and costs approximately $3000 per month. She has received excellent care there for the past 7.5 years.

Six years ago last month, Bob took a fall that required an ER visit. He hadn't broken any bones but was bruised and in pain. Two days later, when the AED made the morning trek across the street for coffee and a visit, he found Bob on the floor in the den. He called me to come help him because, as he said, Bob wouldn't wake up. I knew what I would find before I ever left my house. Bob had died in the night. And with his death, my responsibilities and nightmare began.

Almost immediately, the vultures began circling overhead. I notified the daughters that their father had died and that as soon as funeral arrangements had been made in accordance with his wishes, I would let them know. The one who lives out of state said she couldn't afford to come, so after checking with the estate lawyer, I arranged for the trust to buy her a plane ticket so that she could attend her father's funeral. The one who lives here expressed upset at the cost associated with giving Bob the Catholic funeral he wanted. "Nobody will be there except us," she said, "so why spend so much money?" I made sure that our friends and neighbors knew about the funeral and attended. Betty's son didn't have the money to afford a plane ticket to attend, but he was sure quick to ask about property and finances and who was in charge of them. He was quite vocal about his objections to me being the executor of the will and conservator of the trust.

I haven't heard anything from the daughters since their father's funeral. Betty's son, on the other hand, has been a thorn in my side more than once. He had a fit because I decided to rent Betty's house instead of selling it right away. I figured that by renting it, the property would generate the additional income needed to pay for her care because her pension and social security don't cover it completely. He wanted to know exactly how much money Betty had and how much her care cost. For the past six years, he has been waiting for his mother to die and hoping that her money isn't all gone by the time that she does. After not hearing from him for more than a year, he called on Monday. His financial circumstances are dire, he's had hip replacement surgery, and he demanded that I send him copies of his mother's bank statements. The AED, who spoke to him, told him that those requests had to go through the attorney. He became enraged and said that he would overturn everything that Bob had set up. We wished him luck. What we know that he doesn't is that anyone who contests the will or the trust inherits only one dollar. Good luck to him.

Still recovering from the son's latest tirade on Monday, I got a call yesterday from Betty's caregivers to tell me that she was at the ER. Her blood pressure was high and was she mostly unresponsive. I zipped over to the hospital, which is just a couple of blocks from my home, and talked to the treating physician. Betty has pneumonia in one lung, so they will be keeping her for treatment. But when he asked me to verify that she has a DNR (do not resuscitate) order, also known as an advance directive order, I lost it. Why would he ask me that if she weren't in really bad shape?

As I drove home, all I could think of was something that the AED calls "the evil eye." Basically, it's a belief that people can wish bad things on others that actually come true. The Bible mentions it a few times, and it's talked about in the Qur'an, too. I don't like to dwell on superstitions, but it seems so ironic that the son, who needs money and is anxiously awaiting his mother's death so that he can cash in on his inheritance, called me on Monday with a demand for her bank statements and Betty falls ill enough on Thursday that she needs hospitalization. And worst of all, the doctor asked me to verify that she has a do not resuscitate order.

Am I being paranoid? I don't know. I'm worried about Betty, angry at her son, and praying that she lives long enough to spend all the money she has even though I will inherit 1/3 of it. I don't want her money, unlike the ingrates who can't be bothered to take care of her!

• Gawd, the heat is back! Camry, the otherwise loveable kitty, is in heat again. This time, though, she's gone beyond the chirping of a week or so ago and has moved up to the full on cat calling. She rolls all over the floor, yowls at my feet, and walks with her hind end up in the air as if it's on display for every Tom in the household. Unfortunately for her, the only Tom is Marlowe, who was neutered several years ago and would rather play chase the mouse than set up house. I keep telling myself that it's only a few more days until her spay appointment, but I don't know if I can last that long. I had completely forgotten how utterly obnoxious female cats in heat can be!



• The Brain is still throwing its weight around. I spent much of the weekend fighting off headaches. Sunday looked really promising, as I didn't wake up with a headache as I have been; however, the headache's kissing cousin showed up after I had been awake for about an hour. Same thing on Monday. I woke up with a headache shortly after one, had a seizure at 1:24 a.m., then another at 3:48 a.m. Although I had been headache free since about noon, another seizure came at 7:16 p.m. You know, The Brain is beginning to remind me of those crazy dictators in North Korea and Iran -- throw its weight around long enough to make me nervous, then slink away to watch the worry that follows. Thankfully, Dr. S will be on call for a week starting on the 19th, and that's when she's going to do her best to squeeze me in to see her.
  


• I'm not a big fan of Western movies. Never have been. I wasn't inspired to watch them when, as a kid, I learned that the Red Ryder Round-Up, the annual rodeo in my dad's hometown of Pagosa Springs, Colorado, was held in honor of Fred Harman, an elderly man I knew who also happened to be a famous author and illustrator of a comic book series of the same name. Heck, Mr. Harman's creation has maintained its fame thanks to one young boy's obsession with getting a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas. Still, I wasn't interested in watching cowboy movies. Even when John Wayne filmed The Cowboys in Pagosa and my grandmother called to tell us that she had lunch with him, I wasn't really interested in seeing the movie. I've seen it since then, though. Anyway, the only Western movie that I can honestly say I feel is worth watching is Lonesome Dove, based on Larry McMurtry's novel of the same name. I saw the movie when it first aired on television, then bought and read the book. It was every bit as awesome as the movie. So when I learned that a 20th anniversary airing of Lonesome Dove was on this weekend, I watched it twice -- between naps!
  


• I've been itching to change my blog template and design. I really want a 3-column design that has the post portion sandwiched between two sidebar columns, but I haven't found one that I like yet. If only I weren't graphically challenged, I'd design one myself! Alas, until I overcome the challenge of the puny-pixelled or win the lottery and can afford to pay for a customized one, the quest for a freebie continues.


• Am I the only one who thinks the whole David Letterman vs. Sarah Palin, et al is ridiculous? Considering that the economy is floundering, we're fighting a couple of wars in foreign countries, North Korea is issuing thinly-veiled nuclear threats, Iran is in an upheaval over the possibility of a rigged election, and we can't figure out how to ensure that all Americans have access to affordable medical care, don't you think that Governor Palin's rhetoric would be better served addressing some of these issues instead of a couple of jokes made by a late night talk show host? If this is a taste of what's to come should she become the Republican front-runner for the next presidential election, I want to buy stock in the production company that handles the soap opera version!
  

Just a quick update to let everyone know that I have survived the day so far. My neurologist is wonderful, I swear. I got an appointment with her on July 22, the soonest one available, but I emailed and asked if she could get me in sooner. Because I'm not really a complainer, she knows that if I want to be seen, I'm miserable.

Part of the problem I've been experiencing with the headaches is that I have medications for each of the different kind that I get. Over the past week, they have been alternating from one type to the other which makes choosing the proper medication at the correct time difficult. The end result is that I suffer because when the Ibuprofen doesn't work, I don't know which medication to take.

I've been given the go-ahead to skip the Ibuprofen and go straight for the Cafergot. It's straight caffeine and works on "the hair of the dog that bit you" principle. Now you'll know why that idiom just had to be on my list, LOL! Dr. S said that it won't hurt me to have a couple of doses more per day than the bottle says. She asked if I wanted something stronger for the pain and when I said that I did, she knew that I was in trouble. Peeps, I am so afraid of using pain killers that I have had 6 major surgeries without ever using anything for pain besides Tylenol or Ibuprofen.

So now I am happily caffeinated, headaches under control for the time being, and waiting for Dr. S to squeeze me into her schedule as soon as she can. I should be bearable again soon enough.

Back in the days of grad school, I took a Chaucer class. My area of specialty was Renaissance Drama with an emphasis on the portrayal of the "Moor" in the Early Modern period. Chaucer belongs to the High Middle Ages, but I felt the need to delve into the work of the best known medieval writer in order to examine the depiction of the Islamic Other in Middle English literature. What better way to trace the evolution of an idea than to start at its root?

While I found the readings tolerable, the tapestry of Chaucer's world and the colorful threads that informed his work interested me much more than his poetry. My professor had a penchant for medieval medicine and was especially interested in the advances made in the Islamic world; I wanted to see how those Islamic medical practitioners were portrayed in the literature of the time. We were a match made in heaven.

Although often overlooked in the Western world, much of what we now take for granted in the medical field began in the Islamic world. Hospitals, for example, are among the greatest achievements of the early Islamic culture (see National Library of Medicine's "Islamic Culture and the Medical Arts" for further details). During the course of collecting research for a paper that I wrote for the Chaucer class, I learned a great deal about the Islamic hospital system:

• Hospitals were divided into wards according to illnesses, with patients who had contagious diseases separated from others.
  
• In 872, the first hospital known to identify and treat mental illness was built and operating in Cairo, Egypt.
• Physicians who treated patients in hospitals were required to pass competency examinations.
• I could add dozens more bullets to this list, but you can read more about the topic from any of the articles located here.
  

One of the most interesting things that I discovered was the emphasis that Islamic physicians placed on the connection between emotional and physical well-being. Patients in these early Islamic hospitals were visited by people whose only job was to provide positive feedback for the purpose of boosting the patients' sagging spirits. For example, a small group posing as doctors, nurses, or even visitors, would pass by the bed of a patient and make comments such as "Look at how much rosier his complexion is today!" or "The swelling on her cheek is really getting smaller!" or "That incision is healing quite nicely!" or "When eyes shine as brightly as hers do, we know that a patient is healing well." No matter how unpleasant the wound or symptom and irrespective of the gravity of the illness, these traveling do-gooders were forbidden from making any negative comments. And although some of the commentary would be classified as white lies, physicians noted its positive effects on patients.

I can personally attest to the benefit of hearing positive comments such as those used in the early Islamic hospitals. On days when sleep has been especially elusive, I know that my eyes are red, weepy, and swollen, and that I look every bit as horrible as I feel. With nary a prompt from me, Ali will say something about how my eyes look much better than they did a day or two before. He may gloss over the reality of my appearance but in doing so, he also eases my emotional distress. It's become a joke between us that if I want to know how I really look, I need to ask our daughter because she pulls no punches. I'll take Ali's compassionate white lies over Iman's brutal honesty almost any time!

Yesterday, a two sentence email from my neurologist asking how I'm doing had the same uplifting effect on my psyche. I've had a tough week thanks to seizures and headaches, so her message couldn't have come at a better time. I'll have to ask Dr. S if she knows about Islamic medicine because she sure has the same level of compassion required of early Islamic physicians.

I remember watching Sybil, starring Sally Field, way back when I was in high school in the 70s. Sybil, the victim of physical and sexual abuse as a child, developed a multiple personality disorder as a result. She didn't know why, but Sybil often lost track of time -- whole days, sometimes several at once, went missing from her memory and left her confused -- when an alternate persona took over to help her deal with whatever crisis she faced. I'm beginning to feel a bit like Sybil.

For the past several days, I seem to have lost the ability to keep track of the day of the week and the date. On Saturday, I called my dad, who was scheduled to have hip replacement surgery on January 19. I don't know why, but I thought that Sunday was the 19th and was shocked that my dad would be having surgery on a Sunday. Nobody has surgery on Sunday unless it's an emergency! Dad set me straight on the day and date, and I made a mental note of the correction. At least I thought I did. . .

I've been waiting a few weeks to see my neurologist. I even mentioned it in my last post. Armed with my list of concerns, I waited in line for my turn to check in. Imagine my surprise when the receptionist, with a surprised look on her face, said, "Ma'am, you have an appointment with Dr. S, but it's not until tomorrow." Tomorrow? Ironically, as I left the reception area and headed for the car, the reminder notice that I had set on my iPhone calendar flashed across the screen.

As I looked over my last post, I see quite clearly that despite my dad setting me straight about the day and date on Saturday, the confusion continued. For God's sake, I've even got the day of the inauguration all wrong!

Is this what happens when one suffers from sleep deprivation?

With the wedding nearly here (one part this afternoon and the other tomorrow), let's just say that hectic has taken on a whole new meaning around my house. As a result, I haven't had time to check my email as often as I normally do. So yesterday afternoon, in a brief moment of respite from the whirlwind while Ali went to pick up his suits, Magdy went to fetch his tux, and Iman went to get her wedding gown, I took a moment to check my personal email.

Like most people who use the internet far more than they probably should, I have email addresses for different things: one for work related matters, a personal one for family chats, one for groups, etc. To coordinate these various email accounts, I rely on Gmail to pull all of the messages into one single account which makes it much easier to manage them all. And while Gmail does a great job of sorting and filtering all the messages, the majority of them end up in a folder called ALL MAIL. I don't always remember to check this folder because most of the mail that ends up there is junk anyway, but for some reason I decided to check it yesterday and much to my surprise, I found a message from my department chair asking if I could take Tuesday/Thursday afternoon class.

Excuse me?! Can I take the second class that I was begging, and I do mean literally


for so that I don't lose my health care coverage? The one class for one semester that I begged for just so that I can retire at the end of the semester with my benefits and never have to worry about being able to afford medical treatment and medication ever again? You're kidding, right?

I responded with a single word: "Gladly."

Pull out your violins and prepare to play the saddest song you know. I need it. I've earned it.

The health insurance issue is hitting home in a big way. Stress is the primary trigger of my seizures and like my neurologist said, "If you're alive, you have stress." I just seem to be a lot more alive than usual these past two days, as the seizures are coming on full force. On the bright side -- yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and a bright side to this otherwise crappy situation -- the seizures are not coming in clusters, and that makes them easier to deal with. For that, I am genuinely grateful.

While there is a bright side, I would be remiss to ignore the dark side of this force that grips the electrical system that controls my body. The nausea that accompanies seizures and often lingers long after, has intensified incredibly. Same for the need to sleep afterward, although I won't complain about that one. With the nausea comes drooling and the stronger the nausea, the more I drool. I'm thinking that a bib would be a nice thing to have right about now.

As I write, I am coming out of a seizure that happened 2.5 hours ago. I slept for 40 minutes and am fighting sleep now in the hope that if I can stay awake for a little bit longer, I might actually sleep through the night. Wish me luck!

"From where you sit, the inside of the White House may look as untidy as the inside of a stomach. As is said of the legislative process, sausage-making and policy-making shouldn't be seen close-up. Don't let that panic you. Things may be going better than they look from the inside." -- Donald Rumsfield

Just when I thought I could relax a little and enjoy what's left of the break between the fall and spring semesters, I received a bombshell in my email box yesterday afternoon. And it wasn't just any old bombshell, either -- it was the bombshell, the one big enough to cause me to reach for the panic button.

Due to a combination of low enrollment (more than likely caused by the declaration of impaction from the CSU chancellor in response to the fiscal crisis) and further budget cuts, my teaching load for the spring semester has been reduced from 3 classes and an independent study to 1 class and an independent study. Don't get me wrong, please-- I am grateful that I still have a job for one more semester, I really am. What has me reaching for the panic button is the fact that my greatest fear is now a reality: I will soon lose my health care coverage.

A California Carol nicely sums up the situation.

Sometimes I think that if it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. Where's Rodney Dangerfield when you really need him?

I was supposed to have surgery last Tuesday morning to remove the right half of my thyroid because it has a growth on it. But over the weekend, the Chiari decided to give me some serious grief and sent me to Urgent Care for a check-up. Last Monday morning, my surgeon called to ask if I had an infection anywhere because my white blood count (WBC) was elevated from the 8-9,000 norm to 16,000. I felt fine and had no clue where an infection could be.

Add insult to injury here. While my WBC is elevated, the Pheonytin (Dilantin) level, which is always lower than it should be anyway, is at 1.2 instead of the lowly 14 that it normally is. Of course that means a greater risk for seizures. Dr. Oz asked if I would be okay with having the surgery performed under a local instead of a general anesthesia, and I said that I would. Makes no difference to me to be honest. With that settled, I was instructed to show up at the hospital between 6:30 and 7:00 in the morning, prepared to get my blood drawn and tested again. Sounded fair to me, so I agreed.

Not two hours after speaking with the surgeon, I got a call from the surgery scheduling staff who told me that although I was scheduled for the morning, I may not have surgery at all if the WBC is still elevated. Not wanting to hang around the hospital all day only to be told that I still had an infection, I asked to do the blood work right away. After all, how much could change between late afternoon on Monday and early morning Tuesday? Turns out that was a smart move on my part -- the second blood test showed that the WBC was still elevated to a level with which the surgeon was uncomfortable. So no surgery for me until we can figure out where the infection is.

On Thursday morning, as I am doing the Thanksgiving cooking, I start to feel the signs of a cold. By the afternoon, it was obvious that a cold was what had elevated the WBC. I felt terrible and ended up not eating or enjoying the Thanksgiving dinner I had cooked. Totally sucks!

Colds and Chiari simply don't get along well together. Sneezing and coughing trigger some of the nastiest headaches a person could ever get and because all the gunk was tightly packed in my chest, I was coughing like mad with no results. Add to this a seriously stuffy and running nose that led to sneezing, and I was doomed to live in the land of the headaches for a while. To make matters worse, colds are caused by viruses and do not respond to antibiotics. This means that I had to fight it on my own.

It wasn't until Monday afternoon that I realized nothing was improving and that I should probably seek medical attention. Four prescriptions and a handful of diagnoses later, none of which mentioned a cold, I am left dealing with the residuals of the dreaded Chiari Cough.

I'm not one to sit on the pity pot over Chiari, but this past week has really tested my patience and ability to deal with it effectively. I think I need some toilet paper because this pot is becoming quite comfortable.