A new pain got my full attention about two and a half weeks ago—felt like somebody stabbing me in the back. I woke in the night coughing with a knife in my back. Lungs? Heart?
At cardio-pulmonary rehab, the nurse taking blood pressure asks, “Are you feeling any pain today?” M, W, and F I admitted I was. By Friday Nurse Paula insisted I see a doctor. My PCP doesn’t work Fridays. She sent me to Centra Care where I spent most of the afternoon in the waiting room with coughing children and twenty-somethings probably lacking health insurance. It occurred to me that it wasn’t a healthy environment for someone with a suppressed immune system.
Kindly Dr Wheatly ruled out fracture and muscle sprain by having me twist this way and that. EKG looked OK. So I finally agreed to a chest x-ray, although I’ve had too many. He looked at it and went into alarm mode: “It’s your lungs! Your lung disease is very advanced. You must go to the ER at Winter Park Hospital right now.” I said I was not going to the ER at 5:30 on a Friday. Did I add that I’d rather tour the lower circles of hell? The pain has persisted for six days now. What can happen in a weekend? “You could die of respiratory failure!” gasps Wheatley. Cheerful guy. To escape Centra Care I had to sign a statement that I refused doctor’s orders.
I called Doris who said it was probably a broken heart from stirring up old memories. I liked this idea much better than respiratory failure. Was it faculty who wanted to stab me in the back as dean or who had? More likely it was old girlfriends from 20-30 years ago when I lived right here. Doris suggested we both meditate for fifteen minutes on removing the knives. You won’t be surprised that I felt much better after breathing, centering, and visualizing knives dissolving.
Monday at rehab, I had to admit that the pain continued. Central Florida Pulmonary fit me in. I spent Tuesday afternoon with my new pulmonologist Dr Layish (who coincidentally had a fellowship at Duke Lung Transplant Center), his nurse, and PA and more tests. CT scan with contrast dye shot in intravenously showed no blood clots in lungs, just some irritation around staples left over from lung biopsy a year ago at Univ of Colorado Hospital. Staples? Can I visualize them dissolving? I still don’t know why the pain, but as it fades a bit, I’m less concerned. Incidental good news: DEXA bone density scan showed I no longer have osteoporosis—just osteopenia. Nurse suggested I might be eligible for new drug trials. Just what I need—more drugs!
Meanwhile that Monday afternoon I had an appointment for consultation on a colonoscopy with Dr Kola. Last thing in the world I want, but it’s on the Duke checklist of exams I must have up to date. I distract myself with a possible limerick: “There once was a colonoscopist named Kola . . .”
As I was making lunch, my oxygen tank went “PFFFFT!” Leaking tank I thought and got out the little plastic wrench to change metal canisters. New one also went Kaflooie. Then I remembered this happening in Albuquerque once—worn out washer. No way to get oxygen supplier to rush out with a handful of metal discs in the next half hour. I can’t go anywhere without oxygen. But I can take my Sequel Eclipse portable oxygen concentrator that I use on airplanes. Portable? A relative term. I forgot somebody else is always hauling it for me.
Dragging it out of the condo and down the steps and hoisting it into the back seat of my Jeep, all the while attached to it by nose hose, I threw my right shoulder out of whack. Major joint pain set it two days later. Now what? Chiropractor? Cortisone shot into the joint? I’d already made an appointment with a new acupuncturist recommended by a woman I’ve never met—a woman who wrote a book about healing with magic wands and other happy woo-woo that was sent to me by a woman of charisma I’d known in WP 25 years ago. OK so the maze meanders.
Meanwhile back at the colonoscopist (a sensible and sensitive guy), I was advised that he can only do screening on me—no removal of polyps, if there are any, since I can’t be off Plavix. He agreed that polyps in colon aren’t my main concern. Must check with Duke. At least I can delay this one a bit.
Tuesday before I went to the pulmonary clinic I found the warehouse headquarters of Lincare oxygen suppliers of Orlando where I scored a handful of tiny metal discs and traded out my canister topper. Once again I could hoist metal tanks on my shoulder. Ouch—not the right one!
Friday morning I saw Cardiologist Dr Hussain out in west Orlando. He had results from the Berkeley blood profile tests taken four weeks earlier. I’ll spare you the fascinating details that go on for pages about controllable and genetic risk factors and mention only two red flags: I do have a genetic predisposition to cardiac problems. (No surprise. My father died of a second heart attack at age 53, and my brother had one in his fifties.) Other red mark: my LDL particles are too small; we must fatten them up with a nightly dose of Niacin. Follow low fat diet, exercise, and come back for re-test in three months. Cut aspirin dose in half in hopes of diminishing the purple patches and bruises that appear spontaneously up and down my arms and legs if I even brush against anything.
Now eastward to the healing ocean. I made it all the way to a surfside bar for a fish taco before I had to turn back into the town of Cocoa and find Dong Ye. I anticipated yielding my bruised and feeling stabbed body into the healing hands of the angelic new acupuncturist. I liked the receptionist and the woman who gives ion foot baths, but the doc herself didn’t look like a healer but in need of healing—weary, unsmiling, lumpy grey unhealthy, no joy or vitality. She took my pulses, examined my tongue, and riddled me with a few needles. I enjoy relaxing on my back, zoning out, giving my healing energy to the needles, allowing my chi to flow as my body heals itself.
The Doc prescribed that I drink her special tea, take her capsules for back pain twice a day, follow her diet, and come back in a week. Another woman presented me with three bags of twigs and dried leaves that I was to brew one bag at a time in a large stew pot with nine cups of water until cooked it down to three cups—enough for a day and a half, since I was told to drink a cup twice a day. I was warned it would smell and taste awful.
The diet to cure internal dampness eliminated everything I’d thought was healthy and loved eating. No fresh anything and no fruit at all. It boiled down to cooked vegetables, meat, fish, eggs, and gluten-free bread. How would my digestive system react if I suddenly stopped my breakfast of fresh fruit and yogurt? I already eat cooked veggies daily and either fish, eggs or chicken. No crusty nine-grain bread? No salads? Not to mention no dairy, coffee, wine, or chocolate ever.
When I relayed the prescribed plan to Doris and to Lisa, they both responded with some version of “Have you lost your mind?” Doris asked if the doc had raked her back yard into the bags. I had no idea what was in the bags or in the capsules. I’d been so careful to give every new doc a full list of my prescribed medications and herbal supplements in order to avoid clashes. Pulmonologists had eliminated many of my herbs as potentially interfering with their potent drugs.
I emailed the Cocoa acupuncturist asking about the contents of her bags and capsules and how they and her diet would help me. She replied that to know the answer I’d need to study 6000 years of Chinese medicine. Most patients come to her dissatisfied with western medicine but feel better after they drink her brew for a week. Her program is cut and dried. Follow it or not. Alas I can’t risk drinking an unknown brew. I’m not dissatisfied with western medicine but needing to counteract the ill effects of western drugs by stimulating my body’s self-healing energies.
Tuesday I had to darken the doorway of another specialist I thought I’d never see again: an Ob/Gyn for a pap smear also required by Duke to be up to date. I enjoyed my hour in a waiting room full of babies but felt a bit out of place.
Wednesday after rehab I went to yet another new acupuncturist that I simply picked off the internet because she looked so vibrant and reminded me of an old friend who’s now an acupuncturist in California. I didn’t get an appointment with the woman (not taking new patients) but with her associate Marlo (named for Marlo Thomas she told me) who also has appropriate degrees and licenses. She reminded me of Lisa—tall, thin, blond, rapid-fire mouth. She reviewed my medical history and medications and listened to everything I said. She was delighted to explain everything she was doing with her needles.
She calls me “Miss Rosemary”—a term of respect she’s learned since she moved South from the Midwest. Most Black women down here—at least in medical world—call every other woman, patient or practitioner, “Miss first name,” but I’d never known a white woman to do it. The shadow of the plantation looms here I know, but I’d like to believe the appellation can be reclaimed in a gentler world of women caring for women. Marlo’s sensitivity to culture charms me. I spent almost two hours of healing at the Harmony Wellness Center of Maitland and will return there. My back and shoulder pain have subsided some since Dr Marlo’s treatment.
I’m calling it quits on doctors for a while. For those who asked how I'm feeling and how’s my writing going, this entry gives you an answer.
