I’m Just Old

I’m getting too old for this stuff.  According to the surgeon’s notes I scheduled myself a “minimally invasive component separation, 6cm incarcerated ventral hernia, laparoscopic abdominal wall reconstruction for recurrent incarcerated hernia” surgery.  In simpler language the doctor was going to perform a hernia below my rib cage and sew up the splitting of my abdominal area (the abs known affectionately as the almighty six-pack) referred to as diastasis recti.  This is not my first rodeo when it comes to hernias.  No, this would be my fourth repair.  It seems that each hernia snuck around the surgical repairs within a year or two.  Helping this feat to take place was the weakening and separation of the abdominal wall—the abs six-pack.  I can assure you that I have never had well-defined abs in my life, and certainly none that would be admired like an Adonis figure.  The closest I ever came was when I held a six-pack of beer in front of my chest at a college party. 

The surgeon was going to stitch the two sides of the abs back together—right up the center of my abdominal area.  Then she was going to push the pesky hernia back into its rightful place and cover its escape hatch with a bunch of surgical mesh.  That was the plan until she found a second hernia joining the party off to the side of the first hernia.  This was something she hadn’t expected but she took care of since she was already under my skin . . . a two-for-one bargain.  It was all done by robotics . . . at least that is what I was told . . . two to two-and-a-half hours top and I would be slapped back together with no more protrusions making me resemble the Poppin’ Fresh Dough Boy of Pillsbury fame.

 

Piece of cake . . . after all this was not my first walk in the park; no, this was my fourth!  Oh, how poorly the mind remembers the past.  Especially the recovery part.  The surgery was easy because the patient is off in la-la land thanks to the wonders of anesthesia.  One minute you slid your butt onto the surgical table and the next you wake up several hours later in a room surrounded by a lot of smiling faces asking if you know your name and where you are at.  I felt like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz upon her return to Kansas.  I thought Toto was hiding in the corner.  It is not long after that when memory confronts reality.  I am not sure if my memory failed me or if doing this surgery at 67 plus years old was confronting me with reality . . . painful reality.

 

Geez, I forgot how painful this surgery ends up being.  This surgery was outpatient.  No spending the night in the hospital unless the pain was severe or there were complications.  There were no complications.  Severe pain? I think pain medication is given to expire several hours after the patient gets home.  Outside of some discomfort of movement I felt no pain . . . at least not until I got home.  All the fun and adventure began once I got home.

 

Owie!  Owie!  Owie!  From my chest down to my crotch, I hurt.  First there was the pain from the pre-surgical shaving . . . from the chest to the crotch.  It was both physical and psychological pain.  The nurse whipped out that electric razor and went to town in from of God and everyone gathered in the room.  Up, down, left, right she went with the razor shaving hair off.  Lower and lower she kept going to parts I wasn’t quite ready to share with strangers in the room.  Then once the shaving was done she used those CHG (Chlorhexidine Gluconate) wipes to scrub down and sterilize the shaved area and they burned.  They were burning hours later . . . owie, owie, owie!

 

Then there was the pain of the actual surgery.  The doctor covered a lot of area.  Rarely do any of us think about the abdominal area of our bodies and how involved that area is in our minute-to-minute lives.  Those muscles are the center of it all.  We use them when we stand up, sit down, bend over, roll over, pick something up, walk, sit to take a poop, sneeze, cough, twist, and turn . . . these muscles move a lot.  Having someone push and move them around before stitching them together creates a whole lot of tenderness and soreness . . . a whole lot of pain.  It feels like someone took a baseball bat and tenderized the whole abdominal area of my body.  It hurts like . . . well, hell!  I move like a hundred-year-old person—slowly and deliberately with a lot of moaning and groaning . . . lots!

 

I have discovered that the key to controlling this pain is to not move.  This of course is the opposite of what the medical people says brings healing—they say “move!”  Granted they don’t say to run a marathon, but they do say to move around—walk, stretch, exercise, wiggle your toes, flail your arms.  The moving around part is no big deal.  It is getting up and doing it that kills a person.  Thankfully they do understand this and include a “better living through chemistry” section in the recovery.  Both non-prescription and narcotic painkillers with a heavy emphasis on the non-narcotic route.  Lots of Tylenol and Ibuprofen.  Plus, a fiber treatment because anesthesia tends to clog the plumbing.  Apparently being constipated is not good for hernia surgery recovery.  

 

Another pain is the pain of hunger.  Prior to the surgery I was told to stop eating at midnight which basically meant I ate my last meal at 6:00PM the night before.  One does not exist on water, tea, and broth from 24 hours when he is a steak and potato guy.  Then coming out of surgery it is pretty much the same—no real food for several days until the pooper starts pooping.  I guess I should thank God for Meta Muscil.  Kind of speeds up the process.  Hangry is not a good look on anyone and I’ve had enough Campbell’s Chicken and Rice soup.  Lots of liquids.  Lots of trips to the bathroom.  I really craved a burger from our local greasy spoon but was vetoed.

 

Throwing in sleepy as another inconvenience . . . an impossibility . . . a painful proposition.  For healing, sleeping on one’s back is the best, quickest, and painless.  That is not a problem when one sleeps on one’s back.  I am not one of those people.  I am a combination of one side and semi-prone on the top.  Legs are in a hurdler’s position.  Arms crossed under the pillow.  Quite a contortion that has be done at least twice—once on each side—before sleep takes place. The wife voted for the recliner.  So, I gave it a whirl.

 

My recliner is a cushy contraption.  Very comfortable.  Has a mind of its own.  When fully reclined it is completely horizontal for sleeping.  Also, when fully reclined one has the tendency to be engulfed . . . consumed in the cushiness . . . sunk in . . . immersed.  This is fine until one wakes up and must visit the bathroom.  Then the adventure begins.  Lots of moaning, groaning, and swearing trying to figure out the best way to sit up and remove myself from the chair without tearing out all the surgery that has been performed.  Can’t really call it sleep . . . dozing maybe but not sleeping when its every hour on the hour of wakefulness thanks to that liquid diet, a small bladder, and that pesky bladder monkey that likes to visit us older folks in the middle of the night.  Deciding that there had to be a better way, I decided to sit up and sleep in the recliner.  But the recliner had its own ideas.  As I am sitting in the chair it begins to slowly inch its way back while I am dozing until it is in the prone position and I am completely on my back.  It is a comedy of errors that doesn’t bother the chair but makes my life a P.I.T.A.  I’ve taken to sleeping sitting up which is good for a couple of hours until I get a new pain in my neck from leaning to the left or right.  I never thought I would dread sleeping.

 

I’m holding my doctor to her word.  She joking referred to me as a “cash cow” if she continued to do what the previous surgeons had done in repairing the hernia.  She could make a lot of money off me she said.  Instead, she wants to repair it once and for all.  Four is enough.  She went all out.  Then she warned me to do as she says throughout recovery.  This is her specialty and she is the best.  I admire her confidence and fear her words.  She means what she says, and I am not going to mess with her.  After all of this and my poor memory of the previous adventures . . . I can’t take another one.  If it goes as planned, she will be my hero.

 

As I said earlier, this is not my first rodeo.  I’m getting too old to participate in the rodeo. My mother used to say that this too shall pass . . . and it will.  Besides my abdominal area is a walking fly swatter with all the mesh that has been inserted.  It has only been 24 hours since the doctor worked her magic . . . only 1,008 hours (six weeks) until recovery is complete.  I can handle it . . . I’m retired and have nothing else to do.  It is a long rodeo, but I will make it.  Then goodbye to the Pillsbury Poppin’ Fresh Dough Boy and hello to an awesome six-pack down there somewhere.  Watch out Brad Pitt!  Here I come!   

 

Hmmmmmm

That is what the eye doctor said when I went in to get my annual eye exam . . . “Hmmmm.”  Not the most comforting sound that one wants to hear from any person related to the medical field . . . “Hmmmm.”  For about five minutes as he examined my eyes, he said, “Hmmmm.”  Then he hit me with the “good news, bad news” statement.  The good news, he said, was that I was correct in assuming that my vision had gotten worse . . . then he paused before stating, that there was a black spot at the back of my eyes that he would like me to see a specialist about . . . nothing to worry about, but something that a specialist should check out.  Then he added, “Hmmmm.”  That was pretty much all the information he gave me as he gravely looked at me with a sad look on his face.

Not the words of comfort one wants to hear.  I could feel my blood pressure rising . . . something is wrong and this guy isn’t tell me.  He just kept encouraging me to make an appointment with a specialist . . . and, he kept “hmmmming”.  So I made the appointment and ran home to look up “black spots in the back of people’s eyes” on the Internet.  Of course there were only 4,500,000 million entries on the topic . . . 4,500,000 million entries that ran the gamut of “nothing to worry about” to “massive cancer”.  I went, “Hmmmm . . . I wonder which it is?”

Being a good human being I did what all human beings do . . . I jumped to the worse conclusion that there was.  I had cancer of the eye . . . months, if not weeks, to live at the worse . . . if I survived I would be minus an eye . . . partially blind . . . six feet under in no time.  Of course, even though that is human nature to think the worse, I knew better . . . if it was cancer I had years, not months, to live.  To say the least, I was more than a little concerned with what the eye doctor had found, after all, he did say “hmmmm”. 

It was a good two weeks between the eye appointment and the appointment with the specialist . . . two long weeks.  Despite trying to focus on the reality of the moment, my mind did wander to the worse scenarios.  I caught myself driving home from work closing one eye and seeing what it would be like to drive with one eye.  I discovered that it was limiting, but quite manageable.  I caught myself wondering what it would be like to take photographs with only one eye . . . so, of course, I practiced.  I thought about what I would do if it was a serious death threat . . . what I would do to take care of business so that the wife would be taken care of . . . all the work that would need to be done to assure that.  I thought about who would come to my funeral . . . who would speak . . . and, whether or not anyone would actually come.  I thought about a lot of things . . . which, of course, were on the crappy end of the stick.

A couple of weeks ago I had a conversation with a co-worker about what would be the worse sense a person could lose . . . popular opinion was that sight would be the worse sense to lose.  I had never really thought about it, but then I suddenly did . . . everything I love doing involves sight.  Without my eyes my world would suddenly become very small . . . without the breath of life, it would become even smaller.  Trying to be rational my first response was . . . “hmmmm”.

“Hmmmm . . .”

Finally the appointment with the specialist came to be.  I had my eyes examined . . . had them scanned with an eye CAT scan . . . had photographs taken of them . . . and, had them examined again.  I had the doctor go over the previous eye doctor’s notes.  Had the specialist go over all the gathered evidence.  Then the verdict: No big deal.  That is what he said, “No big deal . . . it is a miniscule mole.  In fact, I would not have even recorded if I had done the eye exam.”  It was not some rare eye disease.  It was not cancer.  It was a stinking mole . . . one that would take a microscope to find.  He told me to relax . . .

“Hmmmm . . .”

In all honesty, it was relief to hear the doctor declare that it was not a major issue that I was dealing with . . . just a funky birthmark that no one else could see.  It was a relief to learn that I was not going to lose my sight.  A relief to know that I had not been dealt the death sentence.  A relief to know that my eyes were fine and dandy . . . to know that I could continue to read, take pictures, and to look into the beautiful eyes of both my granddaughters.  A relief to know that I wasn’t going to need a pirate’s eye patch and to learn how to speak pirate . . . argh!

What did I learn?  Well, I learned that it really doesn’t matter how young or old we are, we still think of ourselves as indestructible . . . that we can never die.  I learned that we take for granted how fragile life really is . . . that despite the evidence around us, we just don’t get how fragile life really, really is.  I learned that I don’t really appreciate how beautiful the gift of our senses are . . . whether they be sight, smell, or hearing . . . we just do not appreciate how beautiful these gifts are.  I learned that I would not be a very good pirate . . . my “argh” is pretty pathetic.  I learned that I am not doing a very good job of being a steward of the gift of life that God bestowed upon me . . . I need to appreciate it more.

Despite the “cool” veneer I showed to the rest of the world, my soul struggled with the “hmmmm” . . . struggled with the uncertainty of what was happening . . . . struggled with the idea of abandoning my wife and children . . . of not seeing my grandchildren grow up.  I joked about it . . . but underneath I wondered . . . “hmmmm”.

So, the verdict came in.  I received a clean bill of health.  I was declared cancer-free, but suffering from a mole.  I was told not to worry.  It is hard not to smile with such news, but the original doctor did mention that it might not be nothing . . . that it was best to seek out the opinion of a specialist.  Several hundred dollars and hours later, I was declared clean.

What is God trying to tell me?

Two years ago, before a hernia surgery, it was my heart.  The tests pointed to a sick heart . . . that I had had a heart attack.  After extensive testing . . . hundreds of dollars . . . I was declared healthy as a sixty year old mule . . . but, I was healthy.  This year it was a black spot in the back of my eye.  Again, a clean bill of health.  Each time a painful reminder of the gift of life.  Is this what God is attempting to tell me?  To value life . . . or to become a pirate . . . that I might want to start practicing my “arghs”.

I don’t know for sure.  What I do know for sure is that whenever people look at me and go “hmmmm”, I am not comfortable.  God is sensing me some sort of message.  I am not quite sure that I know what the message is, but I do have an inkling that it has something to do with appreciating the gift of life. 

I cannot complain about my life . . . . besides, no one would listen anyweays.  I have a good life . . . a family that is growing and loves me despite my grumpy introverted ways . . . friends who actually do care about me . . . a church to serve that is a blast to be around each week . . . I have a lot to be appreciative about when it comes to life.  Don’t we all?

I am here . . . my prayer is that I learn to accept and enjoy it for what it is . . . it is a gift.  I need to open the gift . . . rip off the wrapping . . . embrace it for what it is, good or bad.  And, if you are reading this . . . well, you ar here too.  May you learn to accept the gift of life for all that it is in the present moment . . . it beats being a pirate with one eye running around yelling, “Argh!” 

Hmmmm . . . it is something to think about.

Even an App for That

The guys who do technology workshops for me at the university assure me that they make apps for everything.  I always took that with a grain of salt . . . but, it looks like they are telling the truth.  They really do make apps for just about everything under the sun . . . including medical care.  According to the most recent issue of Time magazine, you can now get medical care wherever you happen to have your cell phone. 

Years ago . . . and, I mean years ago . . . when I first started in the ministry I went to visit one of the members of the congregation I was serving out in the country.  While I was visiting she told me that she had an appointment to get her heart pacemaker checked out to see if it was operating properly.  She picked up her phone, dialed a number, spoke a few words to a person on the other end of the line, and then she placed the phone against her chest . . . after a couple of minutes, she again spoke to a person on the other end, and then hung up.  “Everything is fine!” she exclaimed.  The pacemaker was working like a charm.  She then explained that the doctor could check the pacemaker over the phone, saving her several hours of making the round trip to the doctor’s office about a hundred miles down the road.  I was amazed at the technology involved in that . . . that was over thirty years ago!

Telemedicine has changed a lot since then.

According to the article in Time magazine there are now numerous apps for the cell phone to get doctoring.  Of course, these apps run the gamut of what a person can actually get . . . from a sort of “ask the nurse” app to an actual doctor talking to you.  And, of course, these apps range in price from being free to up to $40 per use if you actually see a doctor.  According to the article, everyone who is using the apps are pleased.  It is a cheap alternative for those seeking care when compared to what a regular visit would cost in money and time . . . usually costing less and not having to mess with insurance.  For doctors the apps are a means of building a public profile, attracting new patients, and making a little extra money on the side when they are not busy.  And, for hospitals . . . well, it is a means of streamlining care for existing patients . . . medical staff is not wasting time with minor health care issues and spending more time with those patients who need it.  It is a win/win situation for everyone involved.  Even Doctor Phil endorses medical care apps . . . he is a spokesperson for Doctor on Demand.

The executive director of the health care consultancy, IMS Institute, states, “We are going to see a major shift in how medicine is practiced and where.”  But . . . are we ready?  I am not too sure that I am ready for this shift in medical care.

I remember seeing a cartoon once in which a man was watching a tele-evangelist pleading for people watching him on television to put the part of the body that was ailing them up to the television screen for healing.  In the next frame of the cartoon strip the man has dropped his pants, pressed his cheeks (of the buttocks-type) against the glass of his television screen . . . he wanted his hemorrhoids healed.  Even in this age of “selfies”, I cannot imagine myself sitting on my cell phone to give the doctor a good picture of my hemorrhoids.  I also cannot imagine using the app, getting a doctor to look at my “owie”, and having the doctor kiss it through the screen on the cell phone.

Yet, in the article, that is just about what one guy did.  He grabbed his phone, opened his medical app, and had a video chat with a doctor in real time.  After the doctor examined the pictures that this guy sent him, he diagnosed a sprain knee . . . set up a real appointment . . . and, charged him for his services.  The guy never left the comfort or the confines of his couch . . . saving time and money.  Look out, Doc, I’m sending a few Instagrams of those hemorrhoids!

Of course, this new telemedicine has its shortcoming . . . hemorrhoids, being one.  Primarily, these new apps are good for diagnosing routine illnesses like the flu and assessing minor injuries; they are not good for more serious illnesses and ailments.  They are not good for heart attacks, strokes, and cancer treatment . . . they are also not good for getting prescriptions since the doctor doesn’t really know the individual nor his or her medical history.  Apparently this has already led to some malpractice suits . . . there is probably app for that too!

I presently have two health issues that I am dealing with in my life . . . both involve taking periodical blood tests.  There is not an app for blood tests that I could find . . . and, I don’t think smearing a little of my blood onto the screen of my cell phone is going to get me the results that the doctor needs.  Nope, I still have to do my doctoring the old fashion way . . . thirty minutes waits, tons of paperwork, stripping down and wearing one of those hospital gowns that expose the southern extremities and freezes the cheeks when sitting on the vinyl, and having a five minute chat with the actual doctor.  Then there is paying the bill, haggling with the insurance company, and thanking God that I didn’t drop anything in the examination room that I would need to bend over and pick up while the nurse was there.

As Bob Dylan sings, “The times they are a’changing.”  As much as I like technology, I do not think that an app is going to replace my doctor . . . or my dentist . . . or my car mechanic . . . or my chiropractor . . . or pharmacist . . . at least not yet.  I am sure that they are working on creating apps that do all of those things, but I am not sold . . . yet.  When they can create an app for the dentist that is painless and cheap . . . I might consider downloading one.  In the meantime, I am thinking about going back to a regular cell phone . . . not a smart phone.  That would solve a lot of the problems for me . . .