Esoteric:
"Think outside the box." Unconfirmed Origins
Exoteric:
"What are you doing in a box? You have bigger issues than your thought processes." Robynn Reilly
Copyright 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Hot Lot Shot
I have a love/hate relationship with vaccines. I think some are necessary and have saved many lives. I think others endanger our health by overtaxing our immune systems all at once (especially the immature immune system), are way over utilized, and expose us to more potential danger than we would experience without them.
Now, in our family, there are those of us (me, my son, my mother) who tend to have problems with medicines and even some vitamins. I am hunting down why as I write but testing points toward porphyria which means we would have an enzyme missing that would clear porphyrins from our blood stream. Porphyrins are a naturally occurring by-product in blood. Everybody makes them. But if all is well, they are quickly cleared from your blood and eliminated. If you have porphyria, you have a much harder time with this process. Medicines, some vitamins, alcohol, even a few foods can cause them to build in your system and poison you. So, it's important we try to stay as healthy as possible and not have a need to take pharmaceuticals because if, and when, you get sick from this, you are SICK. It can cause damage in your body, especially the liver and nerves, and, in some cases, can cause total paralysis and even death. Is that what we are dealing with for sure? Can't answer that yet. All my tests are currently with the American Porphyria Foundation specialist and he is reviewing them but I WILL let you know, whether you want to or not!
Now, it was in that mindset we visited my son's immunologist last week. What had been ailing him for about a year had resolved without medical intervention. (Insert GREAT thankfulness to the Lord here.) However, the doctor said (and you know how I feel about doctors) "According to his test he has very little resistance to pneumonia and is at great risk. I think he should have the vaccine." Hmmmm.
There probably aren't many of us who don't at least stop and think when the word "vaccine" is mentioned to us these days. We've heard, read, and seen so much about the risk involved. Because of our issues, I would additionally ask myself, "Wouldn't it be better to try to prevent something from happening since we don't process medicine well?" And that's why I said, "Well...okay." The physician saw my reticence and assured me it was safe and he had seen no negative reactions. The nurse came in and shot Hunter in the arm.
On the way home he told me getting the shot hadn't hurt at all but his arm felt like he got sucker punched by the Incredible Hulk. I know shots can feel that way sometimes so I didn't worry. The next day was our San Francisco trip and he didn't feel on top of his game but I figured it was just being drug out of bed too early. He complained of a little achiness. By the time we made our first stop in Pleasanton, he found it painful to bear weight on his right ankle. Weird. I asked him if he had been sitting on it, tucked underneath him. Nope.
Throughout the day he began to feel more exhausted and fluish. He slept all the way home and when we arrived he could barely put his weight on his ankle as the joint was inflammed. He felt slightly feverish and I tucked him in bed thinking he was probably having a reaction. By 5am he was miserable and running a fever of 103.5. His arm was twice the size of the other one and the red mark where the needle had been inserted was as big as a grapefruit. Bruising began to appear on his hand. I called the office and the on-call doctor told me to administer Benadryl, along with the Advil I had been giving him. That helped to break his fever. I would have considered the emergency room if I had any confidence they wouldn't make it worse, and in our area, make him wait for 12 hours before being seen.
His fever continued to rise and fall through Monday night. I iced his arm and watched him closely, calling the doctor's office again Monday and telling them I wanted that shot reported to the CDC. I got the Lot number and manufacturer and filed two reports myself.
Here's the real rub: When I went to file the reports there WAS no vaccine designed to be given to children except "7 Valent Pneumovax." Hunter was given "23 Valent Pneumovax." That means that, all at once, he was vaccinated for 23 different strains of pneumonia. Only adults are supposed to receive that shot. Children are not small adults. Their systems can only handle so much. It's not a lawsuit, not that I'm looking for that; it's not unheard of, I suppose; but it is HIGHLY imprudent. And I didn't know so I didn't ask.
That's why I'm encouraging you: ASK, ASK, ASK. Make another appointment. Go home and research and don't be pressured into doing something you might regret later. You can always go back. Not getting the vaccine TODAY is not going to put your child (or you) in harm's way unless there is serious compelling evidence to the contrary. I wish I had thought of this and researched before I said yes.
On Sunday, a friend of mine was at church and told me she had experienced a similar reaction to this very shot and she knew of someone else who had as well. Three people in this circle and the DOCTOR had never heard of negative reactions? Really? Can I tell you I think he was being less than truthful? I reported the shot and found out there were four other complaints about it possibly being a "Hot Lot." A "hot lot" is a shot from a batch of vaccine that has a larger number of reactions than normal. For your information the shot is as follows: 23 Valent Pneumovax Lot # 0669X - manufacturer is Merck.
Hunter is better today. He is hardly limping now and the fever is gone. He has resumed normal activity but his arm still has redness and a 3" diameter lump. Why didn't the doctor offer me the lesser vaccine that would have been better for a young person? I don't know. Have I ever mentioned, "I Hate Doctors?" Sorry.....there really are some wonderful individuals but there simply seems to be a bizarrely disproportionate number who are careless at best, and reckless at worst.
Be well, my friends, and thrive. Do not be bullied by the medical establishment. You are your own best advocate and that of your children and other family. Research, pray, and make informed decisions. Vaccine may be the right choice. It has been for us at times and we have declined other recommendations. I just want you to know what you are saying yes to, and why. I know I won't be blindsided again.
Copyright 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Let the Games Begin
Photograph by Hannah Reilly 2009I love San Francisco. I would make up almost any excuse to hit the Bay Bridge and watch The City skyline loom into view. Restaurants, museums, architecture, miles of rolling hills and narrow streets, cable cars, crystal air, the Golden Gate. It’s all there. If you have to endure Frankenstinian medical procedures to experience this, really, so what?
Yesterday I played another round of, “What the Heck’s the Matter with YOU?” at UCSF. In this game contestants dress in bizarre outfits designed to reveal their rattiest underwear while simultaneously enduring pranks thought up by the producers of “Fear Factor.”
All I can say is it was dark in my bedroom at 5:00 a.m. as I rummaged through my dresser drawer. Don’t we all keep at least a few pair of underwear that really should be thrown away but we know, when the laundry piles up, we might need them? They aren’t really fit for being in an accident but they will cover your posterior well enough for sweatpants and yard work. Well, those are the ones I wore. Of course, there was no way to discover this until I stood in the torture chamber preparing for my first round of competition.
The torture chamber is purposely deceptive and distracting. It is splashed with brilliant sunlight and designed to put you off guard. The room is fairly small but elegantly decorated. One wall displays an open-aggregate column with an arch right out of a castle motif. This would distract you except for the opposite wall which is solid windows overlooking San Francisco, the Presidio, and a huge expanse of the bay. And all this from an 8th floor perspective. The day must also be perfectly clear to enhance the effect.
It was in this environment that I donned my costume: the flimsy gown we all know so well. The one Dave Barry describes as making you feel more naked than if you were naked. However, when your underwear has gone as far south as mine had, you actually long for nakedness. Too bad. My only hope was the thought that perhaps I could lie on my back for the entire procedure and use my half-gown to cover my front half. As the “doctor” walked in she smiled and told me to roll onto my side.
Now, I put “doctor” in quotes because she wasn’t a full-fledged doctor yet. She was still in her residency. This is important because they don’t really want someone highly skilled to perform these tests. It might make the procedure entirely too painless to be entertaining for them.
As I lay gazing into the distance at the Fallon Islands, imagining myself running free and unseen in brand new underwear, I heard her voice, thick with an East Indian accent, announce, “I’m going to administer a series of shocks.” What she meant was a “series of shocks” in much the way a police officer means it when he yells, “STOP!” just before he tasers you.
In this round they are checking you for nerve responses. If your nerves are somewhat damaged your only response might be to bounce up off the table, smash into the ceiling, and land back on the table. Or you may launch face-first into the window and contort your features. If your nerves are all completely intact it could be bad for them because these shocks will catapult you across the room, leaving you in a standing position, where you are then free to beat them about the face and head with their own equipment. Fortunately for them, mine were not at the top of their game. We repeated this step several thousand times with her shooting at me from every corner and jumping out from behind chairs. When she would find a particularly damaged and painful place, she would then proclaim, “I am going to do this nine times in the same spot.” Apparently, they don’t do it ten times because the smell of burning flesh is too unpleasant for the physician.
Next comes the bonus round. In this event, needles are shoved into the muscles of your legs and feet. Just when you think you might black out or lose control of your bladder, the almost-a-doctor tells you to contract your muscles by using them to push against something. You volunteer the back half of her brain via the front half, but she only offers her hand. Now, at this point, you get Charley Horses big and violent enough to compete in a rodeo. She will then leave the room and come back with a real doctor so he can participate, too. He will say things like, “Let’s pull this needle out and shove it in her eyeball” or maybe he just mentions repositioning it, but it will all sound the same to you. He pulls the needle out and jams it in somewhere else and when you don’t celebrate this by singing, “The Hills are Alive!” he will exhale dramatically, punctuated by his tongue flicking back and forth between his lips. They will continue to tag-team like this for another twenty minutes knowing they are safe since all their needles have effectively sewn your muscles together.
When they leave the room you and your ratty underwear are free to crawl over to your clothes and salivate on them. They will then return to tell you your test reveals more abnormalities but they have no idea why. At this point they will thank you for playing and invite you to return in six-months where they will introduce the newest event: “Toenail Removal for Fun and Profit.”
Your parting gift is the realization you may now head into the heart of The City to let it heal your wounds.
That’s what I did. The kids and I had already strolled the Botanical Gardens in Golden Gate Park that morning. Now it was time to limp toward comfort food and fortify myself for cultural pursuits.
The price of admission for this scintillating soiree may have been dear but, hey, so is beautiful San Francisco. I'll be back and I'm bringing my toenails with me.
Copyright 2009
Yesterday I played another round of, “What the Heck’s the Matter with YOU?” at UCSF. In this game contestants dress in bizarre outfits designed to reveal their rattiest underwear while simultaneously enduring pranks thought up by the producers of “Fear Factor.”
All I can say is it was dark in my bedroom at 5:00 a.m. as I rummaged through my dresser drawer. Don’t we all keep at least a few pair of underwear that really should be thrown away but we know, when the laundry piles up, we might need them? They aren’t really fit for being in an accident but they will cover your posterior well enough for sweatpants and yard work. Well, those are the ones I wore. Of course, there was no way to discover this until I stood in the torture chamber preparing for my first round of competition.
The torture chamber is purposely deceptive and distracting. It is splashed with brilliant sunlight and designed to put you off guard. The room is fairly small but elegantly decorated. One wall displays an open-aggregate column with an arch right out of a castle motif. This would distract you except for the opposite wall which is solid windows overlooking San Francisco, the Presidio, and a huge expanse of the bay. And all this from an 8th floor perspective. The day must also be perfectly clear to enhance the effect.
It was in this environment that I donned my costume: the flimsy gown we all know so well. The one Dave Barry describes as making you feel more naked than if you were naked. However, when your underwear has gone as far south as mine had, you actually long for nakedness. Too bad. My only hope was the thought that perhaps I could lie on my back for the entire procedure and use my half-gown to cover my front half. As the “doctor” walked in she smiled and told me to roll onto my side.
Now, I put “doctor” in quotes because she wasn’t a full-fledged doctor yet. She was still in her residency. This is important because they don’t really want someone highly skilled to perform these tests. It might make the procedure entirely too painless to be entertaining for them.
As I lay gazing into the distance at the Fallon Islands, imagining myself running free and unseen in brand new underwear, I heard her voice, thick with an East Indian accent, announce, “I’m going to administer a series of shocks.” What she meant was a “series of shocks” in much the way a police officer means it when he yells, “STOP!” just before he tasers you.
In this round they are checking you for nerve responses. If your nerves are somewhat damaged your only response might be to bounce up off the table, smash into the ceiling, and land back on the table. Or you may launch face-first into the window and contort your features. If your nerves are all completely intact it could be bad for them because these shocks will catapult you across the room, leaving you in a standing position, where you are then free to beat them about the face and head with their own equipment. Fortunately for them, mine were not at the top of their game. We repeated this step several thousand times with her shooting at me from every corner and jumping out from behind chairs. When she would find a particularly damaged and painful place, she would then proclaim, “I am going to do this nine times in the same spot.” Apparently, they don’t do it ten times because the smell of burning flesh is too unpleasant for the physician.
Next comes the bonus round. In this event, needles are shoved into the muscles of your legs and feet. Just when you think you might black out or lose control of your bladder, the almost-a-doctor tells you to contract your muscles by using them to push against something. You volunteer the back half of her brain via the front half, but she only offers her hand. Now, at this point, you get Charley Horses big and violent enough to compete in a rodeo. She will then leave the room and come back with a real doctor so he can participate, too. He will say things like, “Let’s pull this needle out and shove it in her eyeball” or maybe he just mentions repositioning it, but it will all sound the same to you. He pulls the needle out and jams it in somewhere else and when you don’t celebrate this by singing, “The Hills are Alive!” he will exhale dramatically, punctuated by his tongue flicking back and forth between his lips. They will continue to tag-team like this for another twenty minutes knowing they are safe since all their needles have effectively sewn your muscles together.
When they leave the room you and your ratty underwear are free to crawl over to your clothes and salivate on them. They will then return to tell you your test reveals more abnormalities but they have no idea why. At this point they will thank you for playing and invite you to return in six-months where they will introduce the newest event: “Toenail Removal for Fun and Profit.”
Your parting gift is the realization you may now head into the heart of The City to let it heal your wounds.
That’s what I did. The kids and I had already strolled the Botanical Gardens in Golden Gate Park that morning. Now it was time to limp toward comfort food and fortify myself for cultural pursuits.
The price of admission for this scintillating soiree may have been dear but, hey, so is beautiful San Francisco. I'll be back and I'm bringing my toenails with me.
Copyright 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Have Bluetooth - Will Travel
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Big Girl Panties
Thank you to all of you for your prayers and thoughts these last few days. They have helped me more than I can express. I've read and reread your comments. Do you all do that? It's like a little visit each time and it helps all over again.
But now, it's time to put on my big girl panties and move forward a little.
I have a lot of ideas in the cooker for articles. Just waiting for my heart to cooperate. It will. In the meantime, nothing says "Buck up" like organizing. That's why I do it so rarely. I don't like being told to "Buck up." It's rude. But today I'm gutting a corner. Wow. Nothing like long-term committment. But it's a corner that actually has bi-fold doors off the entry leading to the study/schoolroom. I haven't opened them in quite awhile. Didn't really want to as I needed to use it as wall space more. I put the old Mission rocker in front of them. We bought the rocker from a gal down the road who had a true "estate" sale. Her grandfather sat in it out on his front porch for as long as she could remember. The sale wasn't advertised and there weren't many people so a lot came home with us. We bought a couple of quilts, some china, furniture. But it has all remained "Mel's." That was her name. We thought her identity should come with the treasures.
ANYway...WHAT was I saying? (You should try listening to me in PERSON. My friends that have to can testify, I'm sure...) Oh....well, the rocker has quite a following now. Many have gathered around migrating down from shelves, out of closets......runaways from filing cabinets. The "trash-y" are even there (but what's a gathering without a little color?) So it's time to chase them all off and back to where they belong. And open the doors. And shed light. And downsize. And distract myself. And actually have that sense of accomplishment that is healing in its own right.
Wish me luck....I'm goin' in and hopefully, coming out with something to show for it besides a clean rocking chair and 315 little piles.
But now, it's time to put on my big girl panties and move forward a little.
I have a lot of ideas in the cooker for articles. Just waiting for my heart to cooperate. It will. In the meantime, nothing says "Buck up" like organizing. That's why I do it so rarely. I don't like being told to "Buck up." It's rude. But today I'm gutting a corner. Wow. Nothing like long-term committment. But it's a corner that actually has bi-fold doors off the entry leading to the study/schoolroom. I haven't opened them in quite awhile. Didn't really want to as I needed to use it as wall space more. I put the old Mission rocker in front of them. We bought the rocker from a gal down the road who had a true "estate" sale. Her grandfather sat in it out on his front porch for as long as she could remember. The sale wasn't advertised and there weren't many people so a lot came home with us. We bought a couple of quilts, some china, furniture. But it has all remained "Mel's." That was her name. We thought her identity should come with the treasures.
ANYway...WHAT was I saying? (You should try listening to me in PERSON. My friends that have to can testify, I'm sure...) Oh....well, the rocker has quite a following now. Many have gathered around migrating down from shelves, out of closets......runaways from filing cabinets. The "trash-y" are even there (but what's a gathering without a little color?) So it's time to chase them all off and back to where they belong. And open the doors. And shed light. And downsize. And distract myself. And actually have that sense of accomplishment that is healing in its own right.
Wish me luck....I'm goin' in and hopefully, coming out with something to show for it besides a clean rocking chair and 315 little piles.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
"Kitty Baby" - A Love Story
“Kitty Baby.” It wasn’t supposed to be a name, just something to call her until we figured it out. But I’m sure most of you know how that goes and, after while, she just couldn’t be called anything else.I found her late one afternoon as I turned into Wendy’s for a quick bite. She was hanging out at the trashcans eating French fries (fast food would continue to be a favorite her whole life). I have always been a sucker for cats and dogs so I couldn’t help stopping to talk to her and see if I could get her to come. We made eye contact and a little sizzle of connection zipped between us. She rolled over onto her back with a bit of a tease on her face. She wanted to come to me but was unsure. No one at Wendy’s knew anything about her but when I inquired at the bank next door, a lady said she had fed her intermittently for about six months and she seemed to want to make contact with people.
I left the parking lot determined to catch her. The weather had been unusually cold and was forecasted to drop to 17 degrees that night, with freezing rain. We had been experiencing record low temperatures for several days and nights and I wondered how much longer she could take it. I made my way to the local animal shelter, secured a trap, and headed home to give Jamie the good news. He was less than thrilled, but amenable. We baited the trap with anchovies and tuna and left her alone. A half-an-hour later she was protesting loudly, with fish breath, from the confines of the cage. She was officially ours.
I was 5 months pregnant with our now 17-year-old daughter and Kitty was wild as a March hare once she was confined. Jamie had built a large convalescence cage for a former cat and that became Kitty’s home. Each day he admonished me to stay away from her until he could tame her. I was very careful but I couldn’t stay away. I spent time with her and talked to her. I brought treats. Within a week she began to rub against the cage and flip over onto her back. I knew any threat that may have existed was gone. I reached into the cage and petted her. Warm response. I leaned over and ran my hand under her belly, giving her a little lift up. No protests. Soon I dropped her into my arms. She nuzzled my face, purred, and became mine. I left the garage and headed into the house with her in my arms. Jamie thought I was nuts and immediately envisioned toxoplasmosis and rabies. The baby and I were never in danger. In fact, nothing could have been farther from the truth.
Kitty seemed to know I was expecting and doted on me. She was especially fascinated with my burgeoning belly and would spend hours draped over it. She would stare at the movements underneath and send her purring vibrations directly to Miss Hannah. We three spent many contented evenings snuggled up together.
Once the baby arrived, Kitty took over. She diligently watched out for her. Wherever I would lay Hannah down, Kitty was immediately nearby. When Hannah nursed, Kitty would drape herself over my shoulders and around the back of my neck, gazing down at her. Occasionally she would get down and give her head a good washing so she would not only be fed, but clean. One time as I sat in the rocker with my nursing bra on, Kitty walked up, took a look at Hannah on one side and decided the other side ought to be put to use as well. She opened her mouth wide, gently latched on, then looked up at me as if to say, “What’s so great about a mouthful of cotton?” She decided it wouldn’t work for her. I couldn’t have agreed more.
When my son was born four years later the treatment was the same. Each time the babies learned to crawl she shadowed them. If they went into the playpen, so did she. If they pulled out fists of fur….all in a days work. She knew they were baby “things” and afforded them every exception. She never slept near their faces but I would occasionally find her snuggled in a crib at their feet. She watched baths and hung out close by. She endured the dress-up of fashion shows, bit parts as the “baby” actor in plays, and dutifully accepted being pushed around in strollers and mini-shopping carts.
She never bit, hissed at, or scolded a child. The only time she got her tail in a knot was if we had been gone for a few days. When we would return she would snub us for a bit, and then absolve us. That changed, one time, with an extended absence. The kids and I had been traveling for three weeks and Jamie was the only one home. When we finally returned, Kitty was beside herself with joy, meowing loudly. Suddenly she disappeared and ran out the pet door. I forgot about it with the unpacking and didn’t give it another thought until I flopped down on the couch exhausted. In a few minutes I heard the telltale sound of yowling that cats make when they have prey in their mouths. Kitty was just below me. I looked down as she looked up and our eyes locked. We both regarded the dead gopher she had laid at my feet. Her most prized prey was my welcome home gift. And she’d even thought to skin it for me. What a gal.
Then there was the night she came in injured, with a terrible abscess. I thought it was a bite but actually came to find out years later it would be a chronic condition she developed many times. She had a fever and needed immediate treatment, and the vet was closed. Having grown up around critters, horses, kids, etc. I wasn’t squeamish and had some limited medical training. I shaved her down, got out a scalpel from my ditch medicine bag, treated the area with betadine, and, after donning gloves, employed ten-year-old Hannah as my assistant – she’s tough as nails. There was no anesthesia so we made every effort to be as gentle as could be managed. Kitty was in so much pain she seemed to be relieved at any treatment and lay as quietly as she could. She never tried to bite either one of us though the procedures would sometimes take two hours to complete. We would drain and clean the affected area, and debride the necrotic tissue. I would do Internet searches for what antibiotic would be effective and then go on the hunt for left over meds the kids hadn’t been able to take. (Remember, we don’t do meds well in our family so those were always plentiful.) Invariably, I would have what was called for, measure it out by tiny amounts on a grain scale, and treat accordingly. She recovered beautifully each time and only needed a trip to the vet for it once or twice.
And there was no mistake: as much as she loved the kids it was because she saw us as co-parents. She belonged to me and it was me she slept with and sought out for love and assurance. We had a sixth-sense connection. Those don’t come along with just any animal but if you’ve experienced it, you know what I mean. That made it doubly hard as her health began to deteriorate. She looked to me for comfort but dreaded the meds I had to dole out to help her and would often avoid me. I began to know the decision was coming. I just didn’t know it would happen so suddenly, all at once, in a day.
We laid her to rest here. It was terribly hard to part with her beautifully soft fur and gentle little body. But we will always keep the love we shared so earnestly through the years. She brought me great comfort during times of sadness or crisis and there were many during the years. And she offered abundant love and true friendship on a daily basis. I hope I’m half the patient, loving, friend my cat was. I will continue to learn from her legacy. Good-bye, my dear little friend. I will sorely miss you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)