stevenpiziks | Entries tagged with health

And now we have some nice news. Really, really nice news. Best I've had in ages.

But first, some background.

I got my first kidney stone when I was 25 years old. I happened to be visiting my parents overnight, and I woke up with an intense pain in my side that got steadily worse. Feeling like a small child who needed to tell Mommy he didn’t feel good, I woke up my parents. My mother, a nurse, immediately diagnosed a kidney stone and got me to the hospital. By the time I arrived, I was panting and sweating from the effort of not screaming. The ER gave me morphine and fluids until the pain stopped. I passed the stone a couple weeks later.

I didn’t know it, but that was just the beginning.

Over the next 30 years, I continually had at least one stone. Any time I went in for any kind of x-ray, MRI, or CAT scan, the doctor would say, “…and you have a kidney stone.” Most of them passed on their own, but every so often, a bout of level-10 pain would land me in the hospital. Twice, an attack came while I was driving and I had to change course to go the nearest ER. Without Siri's help with directions, I would have had to call an ambulance.

A few years ago, the stones went into overdrive. Out of nowhere, I developed so many stones that the doctors lost count. The attacks ramped up the pain so bad, I seriously thought I was going to die. I had to undergo a bunch of operations that sent scopes up through my body to either pull the stones out or pulverize them with lasers. These operations and the aftermaths were torture, both physically and psychologically. They left me with PTSD so bad I had to start seeing a therapist and go on Xanax and anti-depressants. Just calling the doctor’s office gave me the shakes. And the stones kept coming.

Finally, they eased up a little. I “only” had four or five at time, and they were passing without needing operations. But they were still there. I carried little time bombs that might or might not explode at any time, and I carried equal amounts of anxiety about it. The anxiety was always there, woven into my daily life.

Yesterday I saw my nephrologist. A tech dutifully ran me through the x-ray machine and I went down to the examination room to wait for the doctor. He came in and after some pleasantries, he called up the x-ray. “You have one stone,” he said. “Four-point-five millimeters.”

I cocked my head, honestly puzzled. “Just … one?”

“That’s it. And it’s under the 5 mm threshold for treatment. It’ll likely pass on its own. We could go after it with shock waves, but it’s not necessary.”

I couldn't quite get my mind around this. Only one? It had been many, many years since I’d had only one. Then something occurred to me. “My husband and I are going out of the country this fall,” I said. “I wouldn’t want this one to cause problems when we’re overseas. Would it a good idea to pulverize it so we don’t have to worry?"

“Actually, when someone is going overseas, that’s exactly what we recommend. Lithotripsy it is. Let’s get you scheduled."

And I was handed an appointment for the Monday in June after final exams are over.

“I’m going to be stone-free,” I said slowly.

“Looks like,” replied the doctor cheerfully. “See you in June.”

I checked out and made my way back to the car. I had no idea how to react. For more than 30 years I'd had at least one stone in my body, and for the last several years I'd had many. The anxiety this caused was so pervasive that, paradoxically, I'd stopped noticing it. It was there like air was there.

Now in a few months, I was going to be free of them completely. Sure, they might come back, and I've have to keep checking to make sure, but it didn't seem =likely= they'd come back, and certainly not in such high numbers. Kidney stones ... gone.

I got in the car, moved to start it, then held back. I needed a moment to process this. So I stared at the dashboard for a moment. Out of nowhere, the crying slammed into me. I sat in my car, sobbing big, body-shaking sobs, until snot ran out of my nose and my eyes got hot and scratchy and I was fishing in the glove compartment for fast-food napkins.

Why the hell was I crying, I wondered. This was good news, something I rarely got from the hospital. Even when the hospital did have good news, it was always, "Good news, but..." I should be shouting, not crying.

I guess it was the utter shock and enormity of the change. I'd been living with this anxiety for 30 years. Sometimes it was low-grade, sometimes it was in the stratosphere, but it was always non-stop. Every time I got a twinge, I got a little jolt of Is this ... ? Every time a twinge turned into pain, the mental dance began. How bad is the pain? Should I wait and see if it fades? If it doesn't, or if it gets a little worse, should I go to the ER, or drink more water and keep waiting? If I go to the ER and the pain fades, I'll have made the trip and expense for nothing. If I don't go, and pain ramps up, I'll be tortured with it all the way to the hospital and in the ER while I wait for painkillers. (And the ER always takes a god-awful long time to get painkillers into you, even when you're howling.) If I go during the Goldilocks "just right" moment, I'll arrive at the ER right when the pain is going into overdrive, but when is the Goldilocks moment?

And then the twinge would usually fade. The anxiety, however, didn't. That was just the way life was.

But that turned out not be true. Now the anxiety was just ... gone. A big part of my emotional being had vanished completely. Thirty years of relief was crashing over me all at once, and it was a big shock. You know how sometimes you have to go to the bathroom but can't, because you're in the middle of something or not in a place where you can find a bathroom? The urgency grows and gets worse and worse, but you don't pay close attention to it because there's nothing you can do about it just now. Then it gets really bad and you finally get to a restroom and afterward you feel a little rush of relief. Multiply that by thirty years. That's what I was feeling. It would have been strange if I =hadn't= cried.

So it was nice news. Really, really nice. After the sobbing stopped, I felt a divine euphoria. I was floating, and I couldn't sit still. I drove to downtown Ann Arbor and did some me-shopping—comics and role-playing miniatures. I spent more than I probably should have, but this deserved a reward! Then I got some lunch and then I went home, where I made celebratory chocolate cookies.

It really was a good day.

I had covid once, and I lost my sense of taste and smell for a while. Now whenever I get a cold, I lose taste and smell again, even though it's not covid. I'm coming off being non-covid sick right now, and I can't smell a thing. It's weird.

A Non-Stroke

Last weekend was quite the adventure.

Saturday evening, I was eating and had some trouble with food leaking from one part of my mouth. I had a canker sore, though, so I assumed that was the problem and didn't think anything more about it.

By Sunday, however, the symptoms were growing. Parts of my cheek became numb. The lack of sensation crawled up my jawline to my ear and took the right side of my tongue. I couldn't smile with the right side of my mouth. Oh, shit. Stroke?

I was trying not to freak out. Darwin agreed that I needed to go to the hospital. During the drive, I kept checking to see if the numbness was still there. It always was.

The ER wasn't especially busy, even for a weekend evening. Once I described my symptoms, I was taken back to an exam room fairly quickly. An ER doctor checked for numbness other than on just my face by running his hands fast up and down my sides and limbs, which was a little startling. No numbness, though. He also tested for limb and hand weakness. None. He checked hand-eye coordination. ("Look at my eyes and touch my fingertip with yours. Again. Again.") No problems.

The doctor ordered more tests. EKG. Scans. Imagings. Blood tests. For this, they said, the hospital had to admit me, which required some paperwork. At that point, it was closing in on one in the morning. Poor Darwin was exhausted—he was recovering from being ill himself—so I sent him home. "There's nothing you can do here. I'm not going home tonight. You and I both need to sleep." He agreed and left.

I lied. I didn't sleep. I was too wired for it.

I'd thought to grab my iPad on the way out the door, and the next day was a school day. No way I was going in, of course, so I used the pad to set up lessons for my students in Google Classroom. This ate up about an hour, and it was closing in on 2:30.

It turned out there was quite a backup at the scanners and imagers that night, so it almost three before an orderly wheeled me down for a CT scan, and then more time passed before I could get into the MRI for two more scans.

When I wasn't in a machine, I was in the ER bed. And it was uncomfortable. Hard mattress. No pillow. I was hooked to a blood pressure cuff that went off every fifteen minutes and a blood oxygen/pulse sensor that clung to my finger like an angry clam. I tried sleeping anyway and was just dozing off when three staffers zipped into my room to say they were moving me out of the ER and into some kind of holding room between ER and my "real" room. They gathered up my things and trundled me away, bed and all.

I was hungry. About an hour after I came in, I asked for and got a sandwich, but more than four hours had passed by now, and I was headache-level hungry again. I asked for food, but the holding room nurse said I wasn't allowed to eat because the doctor hadn't given permission. They had to confirm what medications I was taking first. I said, "I can give you the list right now," but no—it had to be on their schedule, not mine.

The holding room nurse came in with a set of EKG leads. Apparently someone had decided I needed to be on a heart monitor. Here I flatly refused. The last time I was in the hospital like this (kidney stones), they became alarmed when they gave me pain meds and my heart rate went below 50, even though I told them my resting heart rate is usually 55, so a rate of 49 isn't a problem. Even so, they insisted on putting me on a heart monitor, which is wildly uncomfortable and difficult to handle. Just getting up to use the bathroom becomes a nightmare of wires and tangles and trip hazards. So this time I flatly refused.

"I won't wear one," I said, both gently and firmly. "I'm not here for heart problems and I have no history of them. You can tell the doctor that I'm recalcitrant, if you like. But if you try to put that on me, I'll take it right off again." The nurse clearly didn't like the idea, but she left it at that. You have to make a stand somewhere, I guess.

But at least I had technology. Like most medical facilities, St. Joseph's has a patient portal with an app. It sends alerts, so I got test results at the same time the doctor did, and I can read medical-ese. My phone pinged like a spring peeper on my night stand.

All blood tests: normal. Urine tests: normal. CT scan: no indication of stroke. MRI: no evidence of stroke.

Relief.

It was past four in the morning by now. I was wrung out and hungry and having a post-anxiety crash. Large chunks of my face and half my tongue were still numb. It wasn't a stroke, but I still didn't know what was wrong with me.

The ER physician came in and told me what I already knew—no stroke. But I had to stay in the hospital until I could see the neurologist, which would happen at some point Monday.

They moved me into a short-stay room, which was really a curtained alcove, and took me off the blood pressure cuff and blood sensor. I just sat on the side of the bed. I had nothing left. I was so exhausted and hungry, I couldn't think straight. I answered the nurse's questions with one-word responses and just sat staring at the floor.

I did text Darwin to let him know it wasn't a stroke. If he was asleep, I didn't want to wake him with a phone call about something he could read about the instant he woke up later. But he texted back right away that he was happy for the good news.

I stared at the floor, retreating into the interior fortress I've adopted for hospital stays. I think I was getting cold, but I didn't really notice.

Darwin called and said he was coming to the hospital, so where was I? I gave him the information and texted him a list of stuff to bring, including sweats. And food.

He arrived a few minutes later and we were very glad to see each other. I got out of the hospital gown and into clean sweats and socks and had a snack from the food Darwin brought and somehow didn't expire on the spot.

A moment later, the nurse showed up with a food tray. Apparently they had gotten hold of my med list. I ate and felt rather better, though it was difficult to chew with my face partially paralyzed.

A few hours later (it's always "a few hours later" in a hospital, innit?), I received a lunch tray and was just finishing when the parade of doctors finally began, starting with the PA, proceeding to the on-class physician, and ending with the neurologist.

The final diagnosis? Bell's palsy.

Probably. Maybe.

The short version is that in a case of Bell's palsy, a virus (in my case, probably varicella) attacks certain facial nerves, causing inflammation and preventing them from conducting impulses properly, which results in inconvenient paralysis and numbness. The condition is almost always temporary, and it can be shooed along with anti-virals and steroids.

The weird part is that I don't have =all= the standard symptoms. One universal symptom is an inability to raise both eyebrows. One side is always paralyzed. But not for me. I can raise both eyebrows. This puzzled the doctors, because in every other way, my symptoms present as Bell's.

"Maybe the forehead symptom would show up later, if you went untreated," the neurologist said. "Other than that, I couldn't tell you what's happening."

But the meds will be the same, regardless. The scrips were sent off and, after the usual long wait, I was discharged to home.

I was glad I didn't need to work the next day—schools were closed for the election—because I had nothing. I could move and walk all right, but I was so tired that just walking from one end of the house to the other exhausted me.

I've been on the meds for almost a week, and my symptoms have greatly improved. At the moment, I have only a little numbness. My smile is still noticeably crooked, but much less so than at first. My biggest problem right now is eating. I can't get through a meal without catching part of my lip and chewing it hard before I realize what's happening. It's frustrating and painful. But I seem to be on track to be past this soon.

Yesterday I got my bi-annual x-ray to see what my kidney stones were up to. Last time I checked, I had two of them. One was hanging around in the lower-middle pole of one kidney, and the other one was a speck embedded in the kidney wall. Neither were worth worrying about, but kidney stones--especially mine--have a tendency to grow. So I headed over to x-ray to have a look.

A few minutes after I got home, I got an alert that I had new test results at the patient portal. That was quick. A little nervously, I called it up. What were we going to see this time? How many stones? How big? Where were they in my kidneys?

The words came up, and I stared. I read them three or four times to make sure I had it right. The initial report said "no radiopaque calculi detected." In other words, I have no kidney stones!

Now this is a preliminary report, not read by my specialist, so it's possible something was overlooked. It's entirely possible the one stone made its way out, but the embedded one? Hmmm. I do have a follow-up appointment with the urologist to make sure.

But here's the thing: I felt a surge of unexpected relief. I felt lighter. Weightless.

This kidney stone thing started five years ago. I've been getting kidney stones off and on since my mid-20s, but they weren't too hard to deal with up until 2018, when they went into overdrive. I had countless painful and terrifying operations that destroyed me physically and emotionally. And every six months, I have to check on them. Not to see if they're gone--they never are--but to see if they're becoming a problem.

It created a sense of bad anticipation. Waiting for the other stone to fall, as it were. This heavy dread became a part of my daily life, so pervasive that I stopped noticing it.

The new test results declared me free of stones and suddenly that heavy dread vanished. I was both surprised and giddy. A weight I had forgotten about vanished.

I haven't felt like this in a long, long time.

The cold left me with laryngitis. Right now, I can't make a noise louder than a croak. It makes life difficult at work. I use a text-to-speech program, which my students think is splendid. I'm also wearing a card that says LARYNGITIS with a frowny-face so people will understand right away that I can't talk.

I'm avoiding all speaking until my voice is better.

I had a really bad cold over the weekend. Got sick Thursday night and was too sick to work on Friday. Saturday I felt better. Then Sunday--WHAM! Misery. I took three covid tests--all negative. Monday I was still too sick to work. Tuesday I was shaky but functional, so I went in. Wednesday (today), I have no voice. Who knows what tomorrow will bring!

This morning Darwin and I took home tests and they came back negative. We're covid-free!

By Wednesday evening, we still hadn't gotten the PCR test results, so no Paxlovid. I tried calling the lab, and stayed on hold for half an hour, and then the lab's system hung up. And remember, the clinic doctor had said we couldn't get Paxlovid without a positive PCR test. We'd gotten messages from our pharmacy that they were waiting for final authorization to release the drug to us, too.

But then I mentioned the problem to my family over text, and they expressed surprise. There's no reg that you need a positive PCR test to get Paxlovid.

The hell?

I drove down to the pharmacy, asked for the meds, and the pharmacist handed it over, no question. So either the doctor was stupid, or he misspoke. Take your pick.

We started with the drugs right away. Whooo! A common side-effect is a bitter taste in your mouth, and boy, did we both get that. And it happens even if you've lost taste and smell, like we both have. We chewed gum and drank sweet drinks and brushed our teeth a =lot=.

Thursday morning, I felt way, way better, and today (Friday), I'm better still. I tire easily, and have to be careful not to overdo, but I barely know I'm sick. Darwin improved even faster. He was two days behind me, and was a ball of misery on Wednesday, but by Thursday afternoon, he was feeling pretty good. So the bitter taste is totally worth it.

If you get sick, call your doctor and get Paxlovid, folks. It's the best!

Wednesday morning, I noticed I'd completely lost my sense of smell. I tested with a bunch of stuff--ranch dressing, hot mustard, sriracha, peanut butter, vinegar. Nothing. It was like smelling empty air. And, of course, I could taste almost nothing. A PB&J sandwich had a slight sweetness to it, but otherwise it was no different from eating a slice of ham or some mac and cheese. I even baked a loaf of bread in the bread maker. Not a thing. Darwin couldn't smell it, either.

I did some research and learned that olfactory loss can go on for anywhere from two weeks to eighteen months, with two to three months being common. Holy crap!

Given all the other medical outrages done to my body, and given that these problems have sent me into anxiety spirals so bad I need therapy and anti-depressants, I thought for sure that I would be completely freaking out over this new loss.

Nope. Nothing. No anxiety, no freaking, no panic. Nothing. How about that?

I didn't =like= the loss, but I seemed to be filing it under, "Annoyances: Small."

Why was this? I gave it a great deal of thought and came to the conclusion that the other problems were caused by other people. They had done things to me that caused me pain, humiliation, and anxiety, either through their own carelessness, callousness, or malice.

Losing my sense of smell to covid, on the other hand, had no human agency. It's a virus. No one DID anything to me. It's just a symptom of illness. So no reason to get upset.

An interesting facet of my own psychology.

Meanwhile, my sister Bethany mentioned to me that a friend of hers tried some exercises when she lost her sense of smell due to covid. Every time the friend ate something, she concentrated on what it was supposed to smell and taste like. She also regularly sniffed various foods and concentrated on how they should smell. The idea was to retrain or reactivate neural pathways.

I thought, what the heck, right? May as well try. I decided to try with ranch dressing, sriracha, and Italian dressing, all pungent and evocative.

Nothing. And it's such a weird sensation! You crack open a bottle and you're used to identifying the contents instantly by smell. Now it was like the containers were empty. I squeezed the bottles to puff air up my nose. Nope, nothing.

Still, I did this at least twice an hour and also every time I ate, thinking about what I was supposed to smell and inhaling hard.

Thursday evening, I grabbed the bottle of ranch and . . . was that a whiff? It was! Madly I puffed the bottle at my nose, inhaling like a coke addict. It was there--a tiny hint of ranch spices. Encouraged, I tried the sriracha and the Italian. Also tiny, tiny bits. Cool!

I kept this up all day Friday, and noticed the scents were getting stronger for me. Then Darwin peeled a tangerine, and I realized I could smell it from a yard away. I peeled one myself, and got good smell results. Yes!

Right now, I think I'm at about 60-70% of full, and it's only been a couple days. If you've lost your sense of smell because of covid, try this method. It might help!

Monday I was feeling fairly gross. Darwin was in better shape. We drove down to the clinic, and called in. We were put through to the doctor, who asked if we wanted a Paxlovid scrip if we were positive, we said definitely did. The doctor also told us that we'd need the positive results before the pharmacy would give us scrips.

We waited in the car until a Very Nice Man came out, administered the tests, and told us to watch our emails for the results.

Back home, I was getting more and more miserable. Terrible malaise. Extreme fatigue. Aches. I was downing ibuprofen and DayQuil. I spent the day half-asleep on the couch, occasionally watching TV.

The next day, we waited for the results so we could get the Paxlovid, but the email didn't come. I was starting to feel better, but Darwin was in a bad way. He could barely sit up. I took to checking his blood oxygen levels every hour. Fortunately, they stayed above 95.

Meanwhile, I was half-panicking over my teaching. My seniors are working their way through HAMLET, and it's something that a substitute can't really help them with. But I was going to be out for the entire week before break, and when we get back, we'll only have a few days before exams. I can't give them other work and still expect to get through HAMLET by the end of the semester. So I ended up telling them to keep working on the play on their own as best they could and I'll have to deal with problems when I get back. My freshmen I set to watching the movie OF MICE AND MEN as a review for exams, and my mythology class worked on a small project relating to the Hero's Journey.

I was actually cleared to go back to work on Thursday, the last day before break, but Darwin was still very sick on Wednesday evening and didn't want to be left alone. Additionally, I still tired easily and realized I'd probably be wiped out after only an hour or two at work, so I decided to call in. I've lost four precious sick days to this thing, and the district stopped giving us teachers special covid sick leave because the federal money ran out.

On the other hand, my winter break has been extended for a week.

Reluctantly, we called off our holiday celebration--again. This is the third year in a row we've canceled due to covid. But Darwin will still be contagious by Christmas Day, and we have too many people who really, really can't afford to be exposed, especially to a variant that can elude the vaccine, as this one has.

After three years of masking and avoiding and vaccinating and boosting, we finally got covid. Here's how it went down.

On Friday, I was on the treadmill and ... just not feeling it. I had to force myself to run faster than 4.5, and usually I'm at a 6 or 6.5. I cut the workout short, showered, and had supper. By late evening, it was clear Something Was Wrong. I felt tired and draggy and lethargic.

On Saturday morning, I felt worse. Achy, exhausted. No congestion, no fever. I took a home covid test. Negative. Okay, then. Must be a garden-variety thingie. By afternoon I felt worse still, and I took ANOTHER home covid test. Still negative. So I settled in for a weekend cold.

By Sunday afternoon, I was pretty miserable, and Darwin was also getting sick. He was, in fact, getting sick faster than I did. I remembered that I'd had all the booster shots and Darwin had only had one. Darwin felt so awful, he didn't even want to sit up.

I gave him a covid test. Positive.

Well, shit.

I gave myself a third test. Positive.

Uh oh...

So I have this super-power. It's called "hyperflexive joints." We used to say "double-jointed." What this means in everyday terms is that I can touch every part of my own back. I didn't realize this was anything strange. My brother and sister can both do it, after all, so why was this weird? It wasn't until I was wrestling around with some friends in my twenties and I pulled one guy's arm around behind him, causing him to yelp with pain and immediately give up. When I expressed surprise, he turned me around and lifted my arm behind my back until my hand was up to my shoulder blade.

"Doesn't that hurt?" he asked, shocked. (Actually he said, "Tut das dir Weh nicht?", since we were in Germany.)

"No," I replied, and that's how I realized I had a super-power.

However, this particular super-power comes with a price. Human joints aren't actually made to withstand this kind of flexibility. Sure, my shoulders and elbows are loose, but my muscles and tendons are just like everyone else's. And over many years of using my arms the way I'm used to--stretching and moving in abnormal ways--I've put stress on things.

Now I'm in trouble.

My arm started hurting a few months ago when I moved it in certain ways. Not little twinges, either. These were heart-stopping lunges of pain. I went to the doctor, who ordered an MRI. The MRI came back inconclusive, but the doctor said I would benefit from physical therapy. I went three times a week for three months.

The pain got worse, not better.

It expanded to include more motions and gestures. Reaching up to get a glass from the cupboard. Turning the steering wheel hard over left. Stretching when I got up in the morning. And sometimes for no reason whatsoever.

I went back to the doctor, who said it was time for laparoscopic surgery. I either had a bone spurs which needed to be sanded off, or torn bicep tendon, which needed to be reattached, or both. They'll know for sure when they put the camera in there and can look around. I'm scheduled for December 27.

I don't take to surgery well. It's not the surgery so much as the anesthesia, really. Being drugged and having my memory played with makes me anxious. This isn't as bad as the kidney stone operations made me feel--shoulder surgery doesn't make me think of sexual assault. I'm . . . unhappily resigned to this, I suppose.

Lately, though, the pain's been getting worse. My arm hurts a lot, even when it's not moving. Today, I woke up with a steady pain that went on all day. I called the surgery scheduler and asked to be put on their waiting list. If someone cancels or reschedules a surgery, call me to take their place. I'm on that list now.

In the meantime, my arm hates me.

Today I had a minor exploratory procedure done in the doctor's office that was nonetheless going to be a trigger, so I took a hit of Valium beforehand. I was wobbly and partially incoherent throughout, which was good because the doctor said, "This may sting a little," and we all know that when doctors say that, it's going to hurt like fuckfire. And it did. At least it was quick.

The procedure revealed a need for minor corrective surgery, which will be scheduled Real Soon Now.

Darwin and I stopped for tacos on the way home at a new (for us) taco place, and everything was wonderful.

Now I'm home and half stoned still.

Last Monday, I left my writers group meeting and stepped outside into a lovely 39-degree evening. I had my jacket and hat on, and the air was light and crisp. By the time I got to my car, one block up the street, the chill was biting me. By the time I got into my car, my teeth were chattering. It took me a long time to warm up.

The next day I was at my computer at home. I felt chilly, despite wearing a heavy sweatshirt, and I was getting chillier. I checked the thermostat. 71 degrees. I turned it up, and didn't feel warm until we hit 73.

What was wrong with me? I'm from MICHIGAN. When it hits 50 in April, we put on shorts! A 20-degree day in January is "pretty nice."

And then I realized--I've lost 30 pounds. I have a flat stomach for the first time since high school. That was some serious insulation, and it's gone. It's an . . . interesting side-effect of losing weight.

Our heating bills this winter are gonna take a leap!

I saw the joint specialist yesterday, and he said I don't really need physical therapy anymore. I still get pain when I move my arm in certain directions, but not nearly as much, and that satisfied the doctor. So no more PT.

I, however, am not satisfied with this verdict--I want NO pain--so I've decided to keep doing the PT exercises at home. I bought a yoga mat and a set of ten-pound weights so I can continue the planking exercises. Now my home exercise routine involves a 45-minute run followed by a half hour of plank work. I did PT two or three times a week for an hour, but now I'm doing it six times a week for half an hour, so the time stays the same.

Darwin is always a little startled at how much sweat the plank work generates. I'm dripping with it, and the mat is wet all over. I threaten to give him a big hug when I'm done, and he scurries away in terror.

This is married life.

I'm trying to reframe my physical therapy.

Lemme explain. It turns out, I have hyper-flexible joints, what people used to call "double-jointed." I can reach any part of my own back with either hand, for example. You know that police move where a cop grabs your left arm, wrenches it behind you, shoves it against your back, and lifts you up on your toes so you can't move? That doesn't work with me. You wrench my left arm behind me and lift, my arm bends all the way to the left side of my rib cage. I turn around and say, "What the heck are you doing?" It doesn't hurt in the slightest.

That's hyper-flexible.

It happens not because my bones are strangely-shaped. It's because my tendons and muscles are looser, which allows the joints to go where no man has gone before.

(SIDE NOTE: Hyper-flexible joints are also associated with autism. Aran is even more flexible than I am--he can bend his little finger back to touch his wrist. Given the number of times in my life when people thought my reactions to social situations were strange or even rude and the number of times I've completely misread people when everyone around me seemed to know what was going on, and given that my son is autistic, I wonder if I land somewhere on that spectrum myself. It would explain a lot.)

This might sound amusing. I've had a super-power my entire life and didn't know it. I'm Hyper-Flexible Man! And it's had its advantages. Until now.

Having hyper-flexible joints means I do things that human joints aren't actually meant to do. One of these things is reach into the back of the car from the driver's seat to grab the bag of pandemic masks I kept there. I've learned this is something most people's shoulders won't let them do--they literally can't bend that way. My shoulders aren't supposed to bend that way, either, but my loose ligaments allow it to happen. Doing this particular move daily during the pandemic finally caused some minor tearing, which in turn causes pain when I move my left arm in certain ways.

The pain is instant and debilitating. There's no build-up, just WHAM! Agony so bad it brings tears to my eyes and I have to stop whatever I'm doing. It last 30-40 seconds, then ends just as abruptly. There's no real pattern to it. I can move my arm in a certain direction and I'm fine. I do the exact same motion again and WHAM! I turned over in bed once and yelped loud enough to wake Darwin.

I went to a joint specialist, who gave me an MRI scan and said my hyper-flexible rotor cuff was injured. He gave me a cortisone shot, a process I'm not eager to repeat, and sent me across the hall to regular physical therapy sessions.

The physical therapy office looks like a hospital ward mooshed into a gym mooshed into an elementary school playground. Hospital beds line one wall, and the other walls are lined with brightly-colored inflatable balls, weights, miniature staircases, and weight machines.

PT started off . . . badly. Not because it was painful. It wasn't. That was part of the problem. Every day, I went in and did some warmup on an exercise machine. Then the therapist gave me little exercises to do, mostly with these giant rubber bands. I wrapped them around my wrists and moved my arms in different directions against the resistance of the band. The exercises didn't feel like I was doing much, but I did them dutifully. After about 40 minutes of "work," the therapist massaged my arm and shoulder VERY gently, put my shoulder on ice for ten minutes, and I went home. This happened twice a week. I actually felt resentful because it seemed like a colossal waste of time.

I also noticed that I was the youngest person there. Every other client in the PT area was in their 70s or 80s, many of them morbidly obese. Their exercises were, as a result, very low-key, very gentle. I wondered if the therapists' mindset was that I was also that age, and also a generally inactive person, when I'm neither. I finally sat the therapist down.

"I'm not working hard here," I said. "Am I supposed to be? These exercises are no effort for me, and if we're supposed to be strengthening my shoulder, it's not going to happen at this rate."

E---, the therapist, said the exercises were supposed to =tighten= my shoulder more than anything else. This is where I learned that the hyper-flexibility was an actual problem. PT is working to reduce or eliminate my flexibility because of the stress it causes on my arm and shoulder.

This caused an unexpected storm of emotion. This hyper-flexibility was . . . ME. It's something I can do, something I've always been able to do. I like being able to do it. PT is trying to take that away from me. This upset me a lot. But I also knew that the pain can't continue, and that, just because I CAN flex that far, doesn't mean I SHOULD. And I'm having trouble reconciling these two things.

The whole thing also wraps itself around the general anxiety I get now over nearly any medical procedures in general. This all this turned PT into a source of stress. I realized I was starting to see the therapy team as adversaries, and my reactions to them were becoming icy. I was also doing my best to circumvent the exercises--doing the minimum, doing them too quickly to get them over with, and so on. This wasn't where I wanted my thinking or behavior to go. It certainly wouldn't help the physical pain go away.

Just to top it off, I was =angry=. I've already spent--and continue to spend--so much time in hospitals and doctor's offices. Not a single week has gone by this summer without at least two appointments, and often more than that. One week, I had four separate appointments in three days. I'm supposed to be unwinding and recovering from the worst school year of my career this summer, a year in which four family members, including my father, died. And I'm spending it at medical centers getting poked and prodded and tested. The cancer diagnosis, the one that the urologist assured me is a very low risk of becoming a problem, also puts its oar in here. COVID, multiple family deaths, kidney stones, cancer, and now my shoulder. I can't get a break, and I'm furious, and don't know what to do about it.

Totally unaware of all this, E-- said they would step up the exercises, and they did. The stupid rubber band exercises ended, as did the useless massaging. Instead, they put me on a weight machine and started me with advanced planking exercises. They also had me lifting free weights and holding them outstretched. These all were =much= more difficult, even painful. Not injury painful; straining and burning painful. The kind where I had to chant to myself, "You can do this. It's only ten more seconds." Or, "Two more reps. Come on, man. You can do it." I end my sessions drenched in sweat.

You would think this would solve the anxiety and anger problem, right? It was what I'd asked for, and it's what I know I need.

It made things =worse.= My emotions told me I was being bullied. "You thought those exercises were wimpy, huh? All right--we'll make it way, way worse, dumbass." My stress levels climbed, to the point where I had to force myself to walk through the PT facility door.

I need to say here that the PT people have always been friendly and polite. Their only fault was underestimating what I could do for the first several sessions, and they worked on correcting the problem when I brought it up. This is all about my emotional responses and a reflexive mistrust of their motives. I see them as only =pretending= to be helpful, while inside they must have a secret agenda and are going out of their way to make life hard for me. I know this is foolish and idiotic. My emotions don't care.

Yesterday, the therapist set me to do an especially harsh planking exercise, and upped the time for each position from 30 seconds to 45 seconds. Complete four positions--and go! It was painful and crushing, and I was dripping sweat onto the mat. When I finished the second position, I sat on the mat and cried.

I turned my back to the rest of the room to keep it to myself, but I did sit for several minutes, crying behind my mask. I couldn't live with this. Not just the PT--the deaths and the stress and the pain. Then I made myself get up and do the rest of the positions.

When I left that session, I was so tired and wrung out I could barely get the car open to drive home. I was miserable and frustrated and angry.

I sat in the car to think about this. It couldn't go on this way. I do the exercise and it helps my body, but my psyche keeps damaging itself in the process. I saw that I needed to reframe my thinking toward PT.

I checked my Fitbit. It gave me the number of calories I'd burned during the new workout, and they were comparable to what I burned during a decent run. Huh.

Okay. Let's look at it this way. I used to lift weights at a gym as part of my exercise regimen. I went three times a week for about 45 minutes. The physical therapy facility and the gym are much the same. In both places, I would go in, warm up a little, and work out, then go home to shower. And the PT facility is even BETTER than a gym. It's covered by insurance, so there are no fees. A personal trainer follows me around, corrects me when I'm exercising wrong, and increases the intensity or gives me something new to do when I "outgrow" an activity. I'm getting a better workout at physical therapy than I did at a gym, in fact. And if I've already had a gym workout that day, I don't need to do a run or ride or other workout.

I'm not going to physical therapy; I'm going to the gym. I don't have a physical therapist; I have a personal trainer. And it's FREE.

I'll see if this approach works.

Have the kidney stones started up again, you ask? They may have, thank you for asking. For the last few days, I've been having bad twinges that experience has taught me can easily turn into an ER visit. On Thursday, in fact, I lived on codeine. Before bed, I packed up an ER grab bag (pad, charger, medication list, book) in case I had to make a run for it. I didn't, fortunately, and on Friday morning, the pains had dulled a chunk.

I have my bi-annual sonogram scheduled for August to look for stones (the last one said I had seven of them), but I decided to call the urologist's office and see if I could move it up, maybe, perhaps. When I described my symptoms to the nurse, though, the office went into overdrive. They whipped into action, made several phone calls, and got me scheduled for a CT scan on Saturday.

So we'll see what that turns up. At least for this procedure I don't have to drink a ton of water beforehand!

ETA
The scan came back and reported a Situation Unchanged. About seven stones, all under 5 mm, which is below the "go in and get them" threshold. We just wait and see if they'll pass on their own. On the one hand, I'm extremely glad there's no need for surgery. On the other hand, we're back in waiting mode.

I reached my first goal weight--a twenty pound loss. Go me!

This is my first goal, the one where I told myself I could say, "You're done now. You can stop if you want." But I'm going to keep going, see if I can lose another ten pounds.

The BMI charts say I should really lose fifteen more pounds, but if I did that, I'd look like a stick. The BMI charts are real bullshit, you know? They don't take into account age, gender, or body type. Yeah, I'm tall, but I'm also stocky. I have big, heavy bones. I can't encircle my wrist with my own hand even though the bones are showing, for example, which puts me in the "stocky frame" category. (If your fingers meet around your wrist, you have an average frame, and if they overlap, you have a slender frame.) MI assumes everyone has an average frame. BMI also ignores muscle-to-mass ratio. A bodybuilder is obese on the BMI scale, for example.

So anyway, if I lose ten more pounds, I'm good!

And go me, again!

A few weeks ago, I turned my ankle badly. I think it was lightly sprained. It's still bothering me. It aches. Yesterday I started a run, and got nasty pain. So I stopped.

Today I bought an ankle brace, and I'm going to lay off running for a week. I hate doing that--I feel sluggish and badly lazy when I don't run. But I think my ankle needs the rest. I can row and lift as partial compensation, of course, but running is by far the best exercise I can do, and I'll lose a chunk of fitness by laying off. But I have no choice.

Meanwhile, I got new shoe inserts from the podiatrist. I have no arch in my foot at all, and without arch supports, walking quickly becomes impossibly painful. (This means that I can't laze around the house in slippers--my feet hurt within an hour!) The podiatrist recommended shoes with "motion control" as part of the design, but when I visited shoe stores and asked the clerks for such, I got blank looks. "What's that?" they invariably said. But of course--you hire people at minimum wage and don't give them any training, and you get clerks with no expertise.

I finally shopped on-line, something I don't like to do with shoes. I reluctantly hit up Amazon. They have this new service that lets you order a bunch of clothes, try them on, and return the ones you don't want BEFORE they charge you, so you only pay for what you keep. This is nicer than ordering something, paying for it, returning it, and waiting days and days for the refund.

Amazon turned out to have a number of motion control shoes for sale. Yay! But it turns out the new try-it-on service only applies to a limited pool of items. Very, very limited. I found 10 pairs of shoes in my size with motion control, and only ONE was eligible for the new service. One! And in that particular shoe's case, only ONE SIZE was eligible. In other words, I can't order three pairs in different sizes through the new service. I don't know why this would be. It makes no sense to have only one shoe size eligible, since the whole point of the service is to try on multiple sizes to see which fits best.

Since the new service requires you to order at least three items at once, and since I could only find one pair of shoes that's eligible, I had to set the idea aside. I kept all ten pairs of shoes in my shopping cart under SAVE FOR LATER, though, and did more searching around. I found a brick-and-mortar store that might sell what I need, though it's a bit of a hike from me. I think I'll go over there tomorrow and see what I can find. The Amazon app on my phone will give me the exact brand I need. Ha!

The kidney stones are back.

I'd been getting painful twinges. Nothing horrible, but bad enough to be noticeable and lasting long enough to be worrisome. After a fair amount of back-and-forth, including an angrifying trip to Detroit for an appointment no one told me had to be canceled, the urologist ordered a CT scan for me. I went to the DMC's West Bloomfield office--much closer to home--and was in and out right quick.

The results came back. "Multiple non-obstructive bilateral calculi over 3 mm long, the largest of which is 4 mm." So I have an unknown number (but at least two) of stones on both sides. 5 mm is generally the threshold for passing them easily.

Last June, a CT scan showed I had what the urologist called "tiny specks." They've clearly gotten much bigger. They aren't blocking anything--yet.

So next we have to consult with the urologist about what to do.

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Steven Harper Piziks

Writer, Teacher, Harper

Entries tagged with health

Really, Really Nice News

Weird Sick

Non-Stroke

Kidney Stone Update: Yay!

My Journey Through Laryngitis

Sick Weekend

The Covid Diaries 5: Free!

The Covid Diaries 4: Pax!

The Covid Diaries 3: Smell

The Covid Diaries 2: The Flattening

The Covid Diaries 1: The Onset

My Arm Hates Me

Minor Exploration

Weight Loss Side-Effect

Physical Therapy Update

Hyper-Flexive Man Reframes Physical Therapy

Stoned?

Weight Loss Level Up!

Shoes! Ankle!

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