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Showing posts from January, 2015

Notes from the Home - January 27, 2015

A week ago, I told Dr. Verson, the neurologist, I was feeling depressed. Instead upping the dosage of Bupropion, which I have been taking for five or six years, he gave me a prescription for Lexapro. He instructed me to take one Lexapro (10 mg) each day for a week, then take two Lexapro a day and continue using the Baclofin. The results have been depressing. Damn depressing.
     To be fair, the Lexapro worked exceptionally well as a laxative. Ten minutes after downing the first Lexapro, my bowels emptied and clogged the commode. Things went to pot after that. My mood was good, but my legs got more and more obstinate as the day went on. Undeterred, I took another Lexapro the next day (Sunday). My mood improved a little, but not enough to offset the stiffness and discomfort the Lexapro seemed to be inflicting on my legs. 
     "That's it," I said. "I'm not taking any more." I stuck to my guns Monday and Tuesday. As luck would have it, I had an appointm…

Notes from the Home - January 17, 2015

Russ had a busy week, running me to and from the Columbus Clinic. Tuesday morning, he took me to see the phlebotomy folks, who needled me in preparation for next week's physical with Dr. Miller, a primary care doc. The phlebotomist was intimate with my right arm for two or three minutes. The wait for those few magical moments was nearly an hour. It must have been National Have a Phlebotomist Stick a Needle in Your Arm Day.
     Friday was my day to see Dr. Verson, a neurologist. Thursday afternoon, as I sat grousing about having to go back to the Clinic Friday, the phone rang. It was Dr. Miller's nurse. "The results of Tuesday's blood work indicate that you are slightly anemic, and Dr. Miller would like to have a couple more tests run before you come in Tuesday," she said. "I see you have an eleven-o'clock tomorrow with Dr. Verson. We can set you up for the blood work at nine-thirty. Would that be all right?" "That will be great," I s…

Awake at Two in the Morning

At two  in the morning, I lie awake in the quiet of the night.
A police car, siren blaring, whizzes by. Silence returns.
Thoughts tumble endlessly in my mind, some happy, others not quite.

The kids' faces on a long-ago Christmas morning, pure delight.
Playing catch with them, watching a school play, times for which my heart yearns.
At two in the morning, I lie awake in the quiet of the night.

I realize the fridge was running when it shuts off. A moth in flight
Flitters about the room. The croaking peepers can't hush my concerns.
Thoughts tumble endlessly in my mind, some happy, others not quite.

Things I should have done; things I should not have done that now can't be put right
Haunt me in the wee hours. I made mistakes and I took wrong turns.
At two in the morning, I lie awake in the quiet of the night.

My kids, my grandchildren, my friends make the world bright.
Damn MS; this spastic body; how will I cope? The question burns.
Thoughts tumble endlessly in my mind, some …

Notes from the Home - January 11, 2015

Al, concerned about the state of his bowels, saw his doctor Tuesday, and the doctor said, "I'll call in a prescription." Wednesday morning, Daniel, who works for Hospice Advantage, stopped at CVS to pick up the prescription that consisted of a couple inches of white powder at the bottom of a one-gallon plastic jug. Daniel read the instructions, filled the jug with water, shook well, and told Al he was to drink one eight-ounce glass of the stuff every ten minutes until he had a clear bowel movement.
    Al stayed in his apartment on Thursday but was out and about Friday. He came down the stairs as I was on my way to check the mail. It was quarter-past eleven, and the hallway was filled with people heading to lunch. Along the way, several folks asked Al how he was doing. The squeamish, no doubt, regretted it.
     "The doctor gave me a prescription," he'd say. "I had to drink a glass full every few minutes. After three or four glasses, I had a move…

Notes from the Home - January 3, 2015

Al managed to get out of St. Francis Hospital on New Year's day. He called from the hospital at nine that morning to express his displeasure with the medical community in general and the hospital staff in particular. He'd been there four days, and he was ready to leave.
     "I slept on a gurney for three nights, because they didn't have a room for me," Al said. "If I had to urinate, I had to press a button. Then a nurse brought me a bottle to piss in. To piss in it, I had to get over on my side. But the god damned gurney was so damn narrow I could hardly move, let alone get on my side. I ended up pissing all over myself and all over the fucking bed.
     "And the god damned doctors don't know shit. They keep telling me they can't find anything wrong. Bullshit! Damn it, there is something wrong. That's why the hell I'm here. I think they run tests just so they can charge people for them.
     "I have to get out of here. Get a h…