Senescence sucks: Hiatal hernia (part 3)

(This man might have a hiatal hernia.  Or, he might just be in a burping contest with co-workers.)

My regular readers must think I am just making up this medical stuff lately.  DrTom could not possibly be going to doctors as much as he says, or else he wouldn't have time to write this blog.  He wouldn't have time to cut firewood.  He wouldn't have time to take photos of shrews.  He wouldn't have time to visit the little food market in Candor.  He wouldn't have time to host Jehovah's Witnesses in his garden, something he has really come to enjoy.  (I now have a sign next to my driveway that reads, "Jehovah's Witnesses: I'll be back soon.")  Who is trading stocks for DrTom when he is sitting in the doctor's office reading the May 1997 National Geographic about the poaching of rhinos in Zimbabwe?  Well, the observant will notice that this is the first post since Saturday.

So here is the latest.  I have had some difficulty with food sticking far down my esophagus on occasion over the past couple of years.  It is like part of my ham sandwich simply does not want to take a nosedive into a stomach full of concentrated acid.  Who can blame it?  But this alarmed my wife, so she had me mention it at my annual physical exam last month.  My family doc scheduled a "barium swallow" for me, which is a type of imaging used to see the esophagus.  When I got to the appointment at the Cayuga Medical Center, I realized that they had it all wrong.  The technicians that met me kept talking about me having trouble swallowing, and they were all set to do a test that looked at my throat. I thought it was weird that I was meeting with a speech pathologist.  The problem is not there, food lodges about a foot below that area of my body.  We had a nice chat about that part of my anatomy and they agreed that they were the wrong technicians.  I went home and my doc reordered the correct exam.  (By the way, I actually call my physician "doc".  I could be formal and call him DrLloyd, but he does not call me DrTom, so I compromise.  Should a physician call a Ph.D. "doc", or the other way around?  They could both refer to the other as "doc", but that would be one wacky sounding meeting in the exam room to anyone listening at the door.)

I returned to the medical center a few days later for the proper imaging.  Realize that each of these visits require that I come to town, 10 miles away.  So I usually combine errands and pick up grub, liquor, and loose women before or after my medical appointment.  At this visit, I actually ended up swallowing the highly viscous barium stuff that is needed for the imaging to work.  This material is so thick that you can not call it "drinking".  It was a light gray, very chalky substance and, of course, barium is one of the heavy metals, like arsenic or lead.  It was like swallowing liquid dry wall, if that was possible.  Certainly, one could use it to patch a small hole in wallboard.  The specialist takes the images, and tells me there appears to be no constriction of my esophagus.  He explains that with advancing age, peristalsis of the esophagus is not as robust, so food is more likely to linger there before clearing to the stomach. Ah, "advancing age"--have I mentioned that senescence sucks?  But there is one other thing, I have some "erosion" at the bottom of my esophagus due to stomach acid, which is caused by a hiatal hernia.  Just great.  Hernia and acid.  I hate everything about my body right now, and that iceberg is looking better and better.

So today, I had this follow-up appointment with my family doc.  When I arrived there, I was taken to the exam room by the nurse.  She took my vital signs and asked the reason for my visit today.  I honestly could not remember why the doc wanted to see me so soon after my annual physical, so I told her as far as I was concerned it was just a social visit.  I simply have not seen DrLloyd in a couple of weeks, and since I was chasing loose women nearby, I would just stop in and say hi.  I talk like this to amuse myself, but I am half afraid they might order a psych consult, and I don't need another medical appointment right now.

DrLloyd entered the room.  He wanted to talk to me about this hiatal hernia thingie.  Stomach acid has no place in the esophagus because it can cause that tube to become leathery, and that ain't good.  So, I either stay on this medicine he prescribed for me a couple of weeks ago for the rest of my life, or I have the hernia fixed.  So, in a week, I meet with the specialist that can fix the hernia---the same doc who does my colonoscopy every five years. I now have so many procedures and tests to do that I might be able to get some kind of bulk discount.  You know, like a colonoscopy and hiatal hernia repair for the price of one tonsillectomy.  Holy crap.  Don't even say that.  I still have my tonsils.

How many docs can I see in one calendar month?  I don't even want to know what is mathematically possible.  Realize that I am actually in pretty good shape.  Nothing seriously wrong, just lots of "rattles", to use a car analogy.  DrLloyd did tell me today that my last cholesterol readings were an improvement over the previous year, so he is not recommending meds to lower it.  I really do watch my fat intake.  But when I left the doc's office today, I decided I would splurge, so I bought a Snickers bar.  Kind of a celebration for the better cholesterol reading.  I just hope it doesn't get stuck in my esophagus.

Grandpa meets Chucky

(It can be like meeting Chucky, when you have to put your children to bed, at night, alone.)

One of the challenges we get to face when we visit our daughter's is putting our three grandchildren to bed at night.  The girls are 7 and 5, and the boy is 1 1/2.  Tonight, our daughter and son-in-law went out to dinner, so our daughter asked us to babysit.  Funny how that works.  She actually volunteered us several days ago, when it seemed like such a benign request.  "I am having you guys babysit the kids next weekend when Mitch and I go out to dinner with friends", she states nonchalantly, trying to make it sound as though she said we should pick up the newspaper on our way up the driveway.  We reply, "Sure honey.  No problem." 

It really didn't seem like a problem 10 days ago, but now we are 20 minutes away from D-Day.  I begin to freeze up, feel a tinge of a possible leg cramp developing, and pour a slightly larger scotch than my liver would have requested.  My wife laughs nervously, snatches the scotch from my hands momentarily and swallows fast when our daughter's back is turned, and glances at the clock as if to will the time to be 8am the next morning.  My daughter and her husband leave the house and drive away.  The two older grandkids smile at us in a way that reminds me of Chucky in the Child's Play horror films.  A cold chill runs up my back and I feel a bit weak in the knees.  We both feel like one of the victims in those Jason slasher flicks, where it is so obvious who will be next.  The victim walks into a meat locker, all alone, at night, as the background music intensifies.  Can't that idiot hear that music?  Get out of there!  Ah geez.  Too late.  My wife's face is now devoid of color.

We start with the 1 1/2 year old.  We carry him into his bedroom and he immediately points to his crib in the corner and says "doh-doh", which is his word for bed.  We lay him down, and in about 90 seconds he is sound asleep.  "Did you see that?", I say to my wife.  Our own kids never did that.  I wanted to wake him up and have him do that again, but my wife dissuaded me with a phrase I can not repeat here, except "dickhead" was about the 4th word in that sentence. 

The dynamic duo then turned its attention to the older girls and headed down the hall to their room.  I swear I heard the background music intensify.  We got them to brush their teeth, go to the bathroom, and climb into bed.  On weekends, they sleep in the same bed together.  And then the 5-year old uttered the words that sends visceral fear through every babysitter who has ever heard them: "I want my blankie".  Holy crap.  We forgot to ask our daughter where the damn blankie might be.  This kid has been attached to material with a certain feel since she was 1-year old, and these days it is this cotton fabric with a chamois-like, flannel feel to it.  Nothing else will do, and she will not go to sleep until she has it.  She begins to cry.

We go through every room up and down the hallway.  We look under beds, in beds, in closets, under toys.  The crying gets more insistent.  I have trouble working under this kind of pressure, but I persist in searching with the left side of my brain while trying to console my sobbing granddaughter with the right side.  I refuse to interrupt my daughter's dinner out with a stupid question about cotton cloth. I am 62 and have a Ph.D., and my wife was an ER nurse for 20 years, and this cry-baby is 5 years old and just started kindergarten.  We have got to win this. 

But then the game turns.  The 7-year old comes to the rescue.  She pulls her grandmother aside and points out that the pillow case on the 5-year old's pillow is the exact same fabric as the "blankie".  They quickly change pillow cases, rumple up the material to make it appear like the real deal, and present it to the cry-baby.  She stops whimpering, lies down, and all is well with the world. We win.  We were not butchered like cattle.  The background sound becomes elevator music.

Senescence sucks: The urologist (part 2)

(If you are young, you should stock up on these now while they are cheap.)

Today I had my annual visit to my urologist.  I get my blood drawn and they run a PSA (you know, a "prostate-specific antigen"), to help determine whether you have prostate cancer.  If that number is low and stays low from year to year, you are generally ok.  Mine was.  Of course, this test is followed up by a urine sample and a physical exam, with the urologist doing what urologists do best---by flying into DrTom's "no-fly" zone.  My "no-fly" zone is suspended only once a year so that this important medical exam can be done.



But the questions I must answer each year are somewhat depressing, because I assume they must herald what I have to look forward to:  How often do you get up during the night to urinate? Does it burn or sting when you urinate?  Do you urinate more than four times during the day?  Does it feel like your bladder is empty when you finish urinating? Do you have any "accidents" because you could not get to the bathroom quickly enough upon having the urge to urinate?  Get the picture?  Just put me on an iceberg now and let's save a whole lot of people a whole lot of aggravation later on.  (On a positive note, I am looking into buying stock in the company that makes Depend adult diapers, so at least I got a stock tip out of the ordeal.  On the other hand, I just checked their website and found this: "Depend® incontinence forums and discussion boards; discussion board is a place to connect with others and share incontinence stories and experiences."  There are people who actually sit around and discuss this?!!  Geez, I'll take the frickin iceberg.)

So my day was a little less than pleasurable.  To cheer myself up after the exam, I went to Staples and bought a new Logitech wireless mouse for my computer.  I followed this with a trip to Rogans to pick up some body-fattening, artery-clogging, heart-stopping comfort food---a meatball parmesan sub and chicken wings dipped in blue cheese dressing.  What the hell.  I don't see the cardiologist for another three months.

Senescence sucks: Prologue

(DrTom feels sort of like this man looks, but his body doesn't know that.)

senescence: a biological term that basically means aging. It encompasses all of the biological processes of a living organism's approaching an advanced age (i.e., the combination of processes of deterioration which follow the period of development of an organism). The word senescence is derived from the Latin word senex, meaning "old man" or "old age" or "advanced in age".

Physical work is more difficult to do, takes longer, and hurts more now than it did just 10 years ago.  How is that for a lead-off to get you to read more?  Terrible.  Who wants to read about senior citizens and their aches and pains.  I have always been a very active person, but recent years have taken their toll.  I'm a biologist, so I know this is a normal process, knew it was coming, and felt it when it started, but I hate every minute of it. 

Senescence is so weird, because in your mind you still feel like you are about 30.  When I walk across campus, I still gawk at long-legged coeds wearing short skirts, and I enjoy every minute of it.  In fact, now that I am retired and I won't be having any of these girls as students, I can gawk even longer.  Who gives a damn?  It is a challenge to see if I can gawk just up to the point where they would call Campus Security, but not longer than that.  It is a little game I play.  I do keep my hands to myself, however, but I can't promise anything 10 years hence.

But the severity of the situation crystallized for me about two years ago.  Let me set the stage for the anecdote I am about to tell.  A few months prior, my wife turned her ankle in our basement.  It was a really bad sprain; she heard a loud pop when it happened, and she could barely move for weeks.  For about a year after that, the ankle would occasionally "lock up" for no apparent reason, making it almost impossible to walk.  Then, my wife severely damaged her eye, possibly from using a commercial eye product, by chemically burning the cornea so badly that she was blind in that eye for many months.  After a couple dozen visits to the optometrist, she finally had laser surgery in Syracuse to repair the damage.  In my case, I have suffered from severe leg cramps since I was a teenager.  Whenever I do physically exhausting work, like cutting firewood for six hours, or hike a long distance, I tend to get leg cramps so badly that I double over in pain, unable to move until the cramp relaxes.  In the 1960s, I played varsity tennis for Ohio State, and leg cramps were a major issue for me during long matches. 

On the day in question, Robin and I had to go to the drug store to pick up a prescription for Robin's eye problem.  In fact, Robin was wearing a patch over her right eye to protect it from the sun.  We pulled into the Rite Aid and parked very close to the front entrance.  At that very instant, her ankle locked up and I had to help her exit the passenger side of the car.  She leaned heavily on me, given that she was half-blind and lame, as we started to make our way to the entrance of the drug store.  After moving only a few feet, I got tremendous cramps in my legs, which brought me to my knees.  I literally could not move at all.  Robin was still holding on to me and I was now holding onto her, in a mutual fight-for-life embrace that must have been pitiful to witness.  We were both in pain and completely unable to progress forward.  I tried to encourage us: "Robin, we are only 15 feet from the front door of the drug store.  If we can just get inside, I know there is a registered pharmacist in there who can help us".  She looked down at me with her good eye (still on my knees), and I looked up at her (still blind and lame), and we began to laugh so hard it incapacitated us all the more.  A passer-by would certainly think we were two drunks on our way to pick up an Alka Seltzer.

We managed to get inside eventually, my cramps subsided, Robin's ankle came unlocked, and we got her eye medicine.  It was as though the Rite Aid was some kind of healing temple of the gods.  Almost as soon as we got inside the door, half of our ailments went away magically.  If someone ever initiates Sunday morning religious services from this drug store, I will be the first to attend.

This incident was hilarious in many respects, and we have laughed about it many times.  I guess we can find it humorous, in part, because it was only a temporary problem.  We are not permanently disabled the way we appeared to be on that day.  If we were, it would not be nearly as funny.  The incident helped us to appreciate those elderly people who really are that immobile all the time, kind of like putting on a blindfold to appreciate what non-sighted people have to contend with every day.  As a result, I now go out of my way to help women cross a busy street.  However, it doesn't hurt if they have long legs and wear a short skirt.