Boom

Let Me Just Say

OW!

Today at PT, I learned some new exercises and, as usual, checked to make sure I'm doing the old ones correctly (as usual, the answer is 'not quite'). Then she brought the pain. Sure, it's the sort of pain that is tolerable and very different from the pointless chronic crap of the last several years, but for all ye with bad soccer knees, please know that I have great sympathy for your struggle with that evil entity known as the IT band. My problems with it are up at the hip, rather than down at the knee--the hip where the bone chips were dug out for the fusion has really been a bigger problem to fix than learning how to move my spine. Some tiny little muscle is overdeveloped; the IT band is too tight to function properly, and the phrase "soft tissue work" is deceptively friendly sounding. "Soft tissue work" is actually a euphemism for "squashing various tender bits in such a manner as to cause you to yelp and clench your jaw". It is also a euphemism for "having the PT ask lots of questions all of a sudden, in an effort to distract you from how much it hurts". It had the intended result--after she was done, I could do a new stretch properly and without my hip popping and drooping--but jeez. "Soft tissue work". Hmph.

More than anything else, it's yet another level to the education I'm getting through physical therapy. Every week I see how much better my strength and balance are getting; every week I discover something I'm able to do without repercussions--and every week I learn about some other dumb, pain-causing habit I forced my body into while coping poorly with the original problem. It's tough knowing that if I'd started this stuff in the year after the fusion I wouldn't have some of the existing problems, but I try to ignore that and think instead about all the other problems I'm preventing. Or delaying, at any rate.

It's been a while since I mentioned a book other than a cookbook. I just started it this morning, but so far I'm loving Snow Flower and the Secret Fan. Although one scene about foot binding was so brutally gross that it put me off my lunch. And actually, maybe my dinner. Somehow, though, there's a formal precision to the writing that got me through it and I'm having a hard time putting it down.

Times I Fell Down

Since yesterday afternoon's news about some mysterious old sacrum injury, I find myself trying to remember what I could have possibly done to earn an injury that shows up as bone scarring (I don't know the correct phrase for that and don't want to bother googling). It's not in the right spot to be where they drilled out chips of bone for my fusion. So: Tree #1, when I was about 10. Tree #2, when I was 18. Stage Dive #4, also at 18 (poor aim, lucky it was on my butt and not my head). Icy Sidewalk, when I was 19. Down A Flight of Stairs #1 and #2, at 25 and 31 respectively. Obviously, this doesn't count all the zillions of times I fell as a kidlet; just the one rather massive second-story fall. It doesn't seem like that many times to land on my butt, really. Of any of 'em, the only time anything really hurt afterwards (even the bloody, scarred knee from Tree #2) was the Icy Sidewalk; I have always credited that slip-slide-twist-scramble-fall as being the first time I ever hurt my back (a few days lying in bed settled things down). I assumed it was muscle spasm but have since had plenty of time to wonder if in fact that was the original injury.

What was more annoying than a possibly-broken butt was that all the blood from Tree #2 ended up ruining my favorite pair of jeans ever. Not that they'd remotedly fit me now, but they were the Best Jeans Ever, and even my--um, let's call it original--fashion sense of 1989 wasn't odd enough to include permanently blood-splattered-n-soaked denim.

I don't want to leave you with that mental image. Have this one instead.

Jumping Through Hoops

This morning I experienced the thrilling highs and terrifying lows of dealing with doctors' offices. Yet again. These highs and lows are pretty par for the course, actually, sort of like the highs and lows that you know will happen when you go bungy jumping. The details are boring, but if I did not know enough to bypass receptionists and speak with nurses, I would have had to cancel the next month of physical therapy and wait until August 16th to see my surgeon and learn the results of my recent CT scan and MRI.

Instead, I got the test results read to me over the phone, got them faxed to my regular doctor and my PT, and was able to get a surgeon's appointment for the 1st. If I had let it rest with the receptionist, I would not have even known what the hell was wrong. Instead, I have this to go on: The fusion is totally solid and correct. (that's good news, if not entirely surprising.) I do not have an acute fracture in my sacrum (didn't think I did) but I have some kind of blah-blah latin damage indicative of serious old injury (I have never had an injury to my sacrum that I know about, so that is weird.) I have a specific kind of arthritis in the facet joints immediately below the fusion, and a narrowing of the little bony hallway the nerve runs through at the same level. (this is an official agreement of what the PT suggested, so it's like she can see through skin. Spooky.) I got the feeling that the PT knows just what to do to get me to fix the joint problem, so that part is maybe not good news, but is relatively easy to handle news.

The sacrum injury thing? The only thing I can think of is a couple of times in my life I have fallen pretty solidly out of trees I've been climbing, and both times landed on hard-packed dirt on my butt. Both times I was up and seemed fine quickly, even the time I split my knee open on some part of the tree and was bleeding all over the place. The butt seemed fine, and maybe even a little funny, because butts are always kind of funny. Especially, I think, if you can say in retrospect: I broke my butt! 

I found an article on facet joint arthritis; it's kind of long, but helpful. Actually, it's helpful except for the picture at the top, which is some ancient man with a cane. Hi! I'm 36! Where is my cane! Other than that, I like the description of the joints being "small faces" because then I can picture my spine as a double row of smiley face stickers, except for the level of the fusion and the new problem, where they turn into sad face stickers. (In case you never got a sad face sticker on your homework, they are always red. Or were when I was a non-good-homework-having grade school degenerate.)

In a book I read a few years ago, one of the characters was an old black lady who pronounced "arthritis" as "arthur-itis". My L5-S1 joint is now named Arthur. Poor Arthur has a sad red sticker when all his other facet joint friends have happy yellow stickers. My new book is called "My Name is Betty: Healthier Living Through Personification".

With A Side of Oblivion

I am back on the high-street-value drugs, at least for bedtime. It's one of the goodies that shows up in the bits of news that are aimed at frightened suburban people. I'm only taking it once a day since it makes me utterly incapable of doing anything except staring happily into space while humming an off-key tune from Oklahoma. You could gnaw my leg off with your rounded little omnivore teeth and I would pat you gently on the head and wonder briefly if you were enjoying it. I am not entirely sure it actually makes any difference in my back and leg pain, but hoo boy: since it seems to move my leg somewhere into a different galaxy, I don't really care much that it hurts.

My doctor went through the leg function tests again. At the moment, the amount of weakness in my left leg is fairly horrific. I am going back to see my surgeon on Wednesday, who I am sure will be ordering up a new round of CT scans and x-rays and an MRI on the part of my back that is actually causing the pain, instead of the mended part that Sarcastic Doctor mistakenly focused on.

In case you were wondering, I seem to be stuck on the "rage" part of the grief cycle right now. I have things to do. I have work I like. I have a life I enjoy. I have a spine that absolutely refuses to cooperate. The only comfort--other than the high-street-value drugs--is that apparently researchers are getting closer to entirely artificial spines. Let me remind you that this happened because I tried to shave my ankle in the shower, and twisted and bent and slipped in a way that you probably do at least once a month (more if you have kids or pets, or drop stuff a lot, or go to yoga class). Most backs have a recovery system. Mine does not: one minor injury and, regardless of all the "right" stuff I do to help it mend, I'm screwed. So, hi: I'm screwed. Let's hop back to "anger" on that infernal cycle of grief.

Please have a moment of sympathy for poor Sweetie, who dared to ask me how I would like to spend the day. That is not normally a question that results in a temper tantrum beginning with, "How do you fucking THINK I want to spend the day?" and continues, rapidly, into sheer madness. Unless you make the mistake of asking me, that is.

A Pirate's Life For Me

Sweetie bought me a fabulous shirt from the fabulous Sea Shepherd pirate people. We have spent a lot of time worried about whales of late, with the crazy news from the IWC meetings. May the Farley Mowat continue to take, sink, burn and destroy whalers, and continue their record of not harming humans while they're at it.

Other than my cute new shirt and a delicious spinach sandwich from Ali Baba yesterday, I am having a fairly difficult week. My back is hurting tremendously, and my left leg thinks it has bugs crawling all over it, which, I promise you, is not a pleasant feeling. Last night I tired a new stretch--more accurately, one I remember from the last round of phys therapy--and all hell broke loose on the third stretch. How am I supposed to look all cute in my cute shoes and my cute t-shirt when I am hobbling and whimpering? I'm like Carrie Bradshaw, except it's now Sciatica and the City, and instead of getting a zillion dollars a word for a column, I whine for free in my blog. Otherwise, totally HBO.

A speck of good news today is that my very favorite dessert chef ever, Sue McCown, has finally signed a lease on a space for her dessert lounge, by the name Coco La Ti Da. She's been making the adorable (and delicious) desserts at W's Earth and Ocean for seven years; I hope you've been lucky enough to taste one at some point. In general, I have such a love of the whole idea of dessert that I can almost always find something to like in a sweet. At the same time, I bake so often, and with enough success, that as often as I find something to compliment in a dessert, I find something else to complain about. With Sue's, they are so charming and original that I just get all swoony, with a small awareness that these are not the kind of desserts I could duplicate at home, even if I had the recipe. Um, edible fruit leather underwear? Slinky spirals made from spun sugar that decorate a martini glass full of chocolate mousse? I will stick with cupcakes and cookies, thanks.

Even better is that the new place will be within walking distance of my house--it's right across from the Harvard Exit theater. Plus: cocktails! Plus: some adorable savory things! Plus: she is a kind, funny smart woman who deserves to be massively successful as a business owner! My only concern is the difficulty of getting a seat; I know it will be flat-out packed from Day One.

Fixing Things

Fix #1: If you are annoyed by Mr. Bush being in town for a big ol' fundraiser today, then donate some money to the person running against the recipient of the bushbucks: Darcy Burner. (the GOP funds are actually being split between Reichert and Team GOP, so if you like you could always split yours between Burner and the DNC.) This is a hot seat for the big nationals coming up folks, and Seattle lefties don't get many chances to skip the indy PACs (like MoveOn) and donate directly to our own local candidates who could swing Congress back our way.

Fix #2: I highly recommend a spoonful of peanut butter as a hiccup cure.

Fix #3: This morning I made an appointment with a new-to-me physical therapist at a highly-recommended-by-a-woman-who-knows joint by the name of Movement Systems. I am hopeful; among other things, they don't pass patients along to brainless assistants. Downside--the first available appointment wasn't until mid-July. Possible upside--apparently people cancel all the time, so I should expect a call much earlier than mid-July. Insurance pays for 45 visits per year, which is pretty generous as far as such benefits typically go...but of course in comparison to even just a year of meds, let alone, say, a week in the hospital from a surgery, it might as well justs pay for lunch today. Which brings me to

Fix #4: When polar bears and cities are drowning and the gov'mint keeps approving tens of billions of dollars in emergency funds that don't affect the look of the annual budget (please note the end bit there that says another emergency funding measure is expected early next year), it's hard to remember a little thing called health care reform. This report seems fairly pointless, but at least the topic will get debated a bit in the fall. This wiki has a handy list of general pros and cons of universal healthcare. Somehow, a con is that healthy people would end up paying for people who don't take care of themselves. Because apparently, the premiums of healty people never, ever go up under the current system.

One Girl, Two Cats, Not Enough Sofa

Since we returned from points south, Sweetie and I have wandered out to Discovery Park once and over to Foster Island once. Both places were pretty and both places had exciting bird moments and cool boats to watch. Neither places were the everglades, although I kept my eyes peeled for alligators. I am having a hard time adjusting to the lack of salt marsh in these parts. I'm sure in another 1,000 years or so, I'll get my wish. Of course, I'll be some creepy cat-hair-covered zombie by then, but hey: salt marsh!

I finally saw my regular doctor last week. It's never good when one doctor is unhappy with how another doctor has treated a patient. As it turns out, the new and exciting sciatica pain I have is quite clearly related to sacral vertebrae, not my fused-up lumbar sections. Did Sarcastic Doctor have them run the MRI or x-rays on my sacrum? Did the surgeon say anything about that? No to both. Does my wonderful doctor think I should have new ones done? Yes, but only if I want them. If there was some kind of package deal of MRI + hitman for crappy doctors, I would totally sign on, but apparently my insurance doesn't cover hitmen. Or mercenaries, as is the proper non-gender-specific term. I am totally willing to pay a higher deductible for that service.

I keep meaning to put this link in some place, and now seems like a good time. There is a mass of sirens a-flashing down the street right now, and I was able to go right here and see that there's a fire a block away. You can also use it to sort of stalk your neighbors, which is fun. At least, it's fun if you live in the middle of Capitol Hill, where neighbors are always up to dumb things.

Not Very Many Points of Light

1. Contrary to all my blathering about the exact opposite belief in the past, making cookies with salted butter is a good idea, especially if they are chocolate chip cookies. Salt + chocolate = tasty.

2. Along with tornadoes, lightning storms and floods, the South should be worried about earthquakes. Great. It's not so much the apocalypse as it is time to secede; apparently the one in Missouri in 1811 destroyed multiple towns, changed the course of the Mississippi and shot lava into the air. They should change the standard school history curriculum to focus on weather instead of war.

3. Although vanilla beans were used as tributes to the Aztec kings and gods, jesus wants you to have some at a special bargain price. I just ordered a half gallon of my favorite Mexican vanilla and got an easter (who was, of course, a pre-christian fertility/dawn Saxon goddess) deal for 15% by caving in to entering "eastsun06" at checkout. I feel 100% multicultural, just by making an internet purchase.

4. I just read that is not officially clear whether Elvis drank beer or not. He may have been a rum-n-coke man, or he may have been (weirdly) a nice Baptist who didn't hold with drinkin', or he may have started drinking beer during his time in the military. If you would like to tell me what you know, thanks to your vast knowledge of Elvis's life, please do so.

5. I get crazy ideas sometimes, and one that pops up frequently is the idea that since my back already hurts, whatever I do can't make it hurt worse. (I'm not alone in this, see examples like "already full, might as well have dessert", or "already in debt, might as well go shopping" or "Bush is already president, might as well reelect him" or "already live in a flood plain, might as well put in a basement".) I once again proved that this crazy idea is particularly dumb as I spent chunks of the last two days ripping out tile in the shower while standing on something not meant to be used as a stepladder. I even made a point of taking frequent breaks and paying attention to posture while doing this, like somehow it's possible to not tweak your baby-kitten back while prying firmly glued bits of ceramics off the part of the wall next to the ceiling. So I hurt and I don't deserve your sympathy. But the tile's gone, so I'm done. (A justification like "but I like chocolate cake" or "I need cute new shoes for a job interview" or "I trust him on homeland security" or "I need a safe place to put my stuff".)

Back

The biggest thing I don't miss about living on First Hill is walking past the methadone clinic before it opens in the morning, when there are several groups of people waiting outside, in various states of need. There is always a row of visibly pregnant women. There is always a small side group of senior citizens. It is always depressing, and sometimes one of the men-only groups go beyond heybabying to assholedom. This morning it was just depressing.

The surgeon was far more clear about my back than Temp Doc. If you happen to ever need spinal surgery in Seattle, I highly recommend Jeff Garr--he's young (surgeons need stamina), he's highly competent, and he's actually nice. Plus his office is efficient. So the possible causes of the new pain:
*I might have a screw loose [insert old 40s radio style joke or 80s naughty comic style joke here]
*I might have a tear in the L5/S1 disk, which would only be visible in a CT scan/myleogram
*It might be a muscular inflammation that is exacerabating the damaged sciactic nerve
He recommends giving it another few weeks to see if it just settles down; keep doing the stretching, keep walking, talk to my regular doctor if I need anything additional for the annoying pain, but don't take so much that I think I'm better if I'm not. It's still wait-n-see, but at least now I understand what the hell I'm waiting for and seeing.

Sweetie and I are looking at finishing up our east coast road trip soon--a few years ago, we got from Altantic City to Charleston; this time we'd start in Charleston (a most beloved city) and drive down through to Florida, seeing at least Savannah and St. Augustine (with its Lightner Museum), hopefully making it to the Everglades before they're all gone. We might go next month; visiting the south is tough to schedule, what with horrible summers, a lengthy hurricane season and boring winters.

My Spine Is Creepier Than Your Spine

If you are a medical doctor, here is a friendly tip: Please read your patient's relevant reports and history before making health care suggestions. This may be translated as: My regular doctor is on vacation and I have been seeing a generally likable but spacey man in her office. Temp Doctor was apparently concerned that the metal in my back had "migrated" (titanium flies south for the winter) and since it has clearly not..oh well. I had to call him to get the answers from the MRI and he was scanning the report from that as I was talking to him. He kept saying "blah blah blah" under his breath. Then he told me to go see the surgeon from the 03 lumbar fusion, to "make sure that any treatments we decide on don't mess with what he did". This, I believe, is still referred to as "passing the buck". I asked specific questions about the radiologist's report, and Temp Doc avoided answering every single time. Translate this as: "I never read the reports of the previous MRIs and don't know how to make sense of the new one".

Sweetie picked up my MRI and x-ray images from the hospital on Friday. I haven't seen any since all the metal bits were inserted, and My GOD! Creepy! Large pointy screws, and a big metal box! Right next to bones and nerves and things! Creepy! I will have the films until at least Wednesday, and am happy to show them off to interested parties. I can tell from looking that some disks are thin and weak looking, but I don't think there are any bulges and know there aren't any ruptures, so that's good (really good, in fact). The hospital won't give me a copy of the radiologist's report, but I can weasel that out of the surgeon on Wednesday. All this means that I don't think I'll have to have surgery any time soon. But it also means that the answer to why I can't feel my left foot at all about 85% of the time remains a mystery. If it wasn't for those meddling kids, I would totally be able to feel my foot.

The bathroom floor is now covered with electrical wires and a substantial layer of self-leveling mud that Sweetie had to mix up on the balcony and cart all the way to the other end of the house multiple times. As the mud stuff was setting up, the World's Fattest Cat decided to check it out, so there are now several small, extremely clear kitty footprints in the floor. Someday, archaeologists will mount them in a museum, I am sure. We're going to try and start on the actual tile tonight, so by this time next week we will once again have two usable bathrooms. As it turns out, one bathroom per person is not the key to domestic bliss. Apparently, the key is the Sweetie-Boom combination. When you next find yourself lacking bliss in your domicile, you should just move in with us. We'll load you up with cookies and mean jokes and fat lap cats and something good for dinner and then send you on your way, all blissful. All we ask in exchange is some good mysteries to solve. We would make an excellent mystery-solving duo, but they never seem to come our way. The Case of the Tingling Foot is compelling, but not as interesting as, say, missing jewels or a shot ringing out on a foggy street corner while he and I dance the rhumba in a gin joint.