C-word

The Keed.

(Grandmother had these behind their rowhouse in Camden. They’re in her honor.)

....And so Linda slowly descends into the gaping maw of the vaunted American healthcare system, a slimy morass wherein should ya have the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to get sick, or inadvertently suffer a debilitating ailment like a stroke or heart-attack; bloated fat-cats have persuaded an ignorant but compliant citizenry the best solution is the ice-flow.
....Unless you’re one of the fat-cats: in which case the best doctors are trotted in, preferably in an abandoned minimall outside Boston, to proffer a miraculous megabuck cure at citizen-expense (because you’re a venerable fat-cat).
Years ago I fell into the healthcare system when I had my stroke — although my encounter with same was rather distorted by the brain-injury (the stroke).
Linda ended up parrying all the assembled madness.
-A) They were hot to repair the patent foramen ovale; i.e. open-heart surgery — that is, slam open my chest-cavity with chisels and stop everything. Now they don’t do that.
I had to stand my ground: “Don’t let them tear me to pieces!” I said in gibberish amidst confusion and distortion.
Eventually I acquiesced, and had the surgery, but only after I had recovered enough mental capacity to know what was being proposed. (The surgery meant I could get off Coumadin blood-thinner.)
-B) They were also hot to give me anti-depressant drugs. I refused.
Eventually we tried anti-depressant drugs, but I gave it up after: -1) They didn’t seem to work; and we already had tried three different drugs, and -2) All they seemed to do was knock me out. They also made physical-exertion nearly impossible.
I figured I could do better without the fatigue and madness.
Linda has had a small growth in her pelvic area the past few months; although it wasn’t discernible last May when she had a pelvic exam as part of a physical.
She also had a colonoscopy last Fall, a recent pap-smear, and a recent mammogram— all negatory.
She first noticed “the hard spot” last June, but we were up against a Great Race, visiting relatives, and a gigantical window-replacement project.
Analysis got put off until last week, when our general-practitioner said “that shouldn’t be there.”
No pain or discomfort, although we’re beginning to get minor discomfort as the growth expands. —No cold sweats or fatigue yet; it’s almost as if it’s not there. No cold sweats or fatigue is supposed to be a good sign — but it’s 10 centimeters.
A CAT-scan verified the presence of the growth, but it wasn’t attached to ovaries or anything.
Our next stop was a surgeon, who said it needed a biopsy first — if it were lymphatic cancer, surgery wouldn’t be needed. Lymphatic cancer is treated with chemo, and is usually successful.
The biopsy was yesterday (Wednesday, August 29, 2007).
-Meanwhile, life goes on as it always has.
I’ve tried to take over some: e.g. all the dog-walking (Killian is a notorious puller), and lawn-trimming (small mower — what Linda always did).
Sunday-night Linda went to the hospital.
She had eaten spaghetti and a huge bowl of raw salad-vegetables; and was feeling faint.
We ended up calling 9-1-1. She went in an ambulance, and I stayed home with the dog. Probably didn’t need to go, but that’s what we said when I had the stroke. (We weren’t cognizant of stroke-symptoms.)
Then about 1:15 a.m. she called to say the hospital was discharging her, and that I could come pick her up if I wanted.
I rousted up the dog, who was utterly confused that we should be driving about at that hour.
I’ve always thought Linda would outlive me, but perhaps not.
If Linda died before me, it would mean:
-1) Probably selling this house and moving into smaller digs, perhaps a trailer. I could probably keep the place up myself, but it would become a dump.
-2) Trying to offset stroke-effects myself: e.g. wonky speech. I could probably get by, but I have previously deferred to Linda.
-3) Losing the best friend I ever had. We are like-minded, and pretty much alike. (“So marry somebody like Marcy!” “Are you kidding? Marcy’s a party-girl; I ain’t a party-person. Anyway, I’m 63.”)
-4) The possible end of the YMCA and running. Both mean abandoning the dog.*
More than anything I don’t want to give up on that dog.
He’s already been tossed out of two families. Now he’s attached to me.
This probably means no more trips to the mighty Curve this year, and probably not Californy (Cajon and Tehachapi)
It also puts my 45th BHS reunion in doubt. I e-mailed the contact last night that Linda might have to stay home, and possibly even me. The reunion is at the end of September.
I probably could drive to Delaware myself — although last time (Aunt Betty’s 80th birthday; almost two years ago) we shared the driving. (—The doctor says forget it.)

The Keed.

I seem to have fully recovered, although occasionally I feel slightly “funny.” But I haven’t collapsed yet, and am probably doing more than I could have done last year.
No doubt this will have all you zealots weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth. We have put off saying anything for that reason. (We expect charges of wrong ‘pyooter-platform, wrong toothpaste, wrong politics, wrong snowblower, wrong running-shoes, WRONG WHATEVER)
Linda is not especially worried: “I’ve had 63 good years,” she said. But I am, although my ability to emote/verbally communicate was apparently destroyed by the stroke.
She’ll probably do the chemo (if need be) because of the dog and me. I told her I didn’t like the idea of living alone.
I suppose I could live by myself, but I prefer having Linda around. We’ve been together almost 40 years; and have become a team. (Linda notes that she cries at every wedding because the protagonists have no idea what the future holds.)
-Also meanwhile, Linda does not like being an invalid: “What am I going to do to occupy myself all that time?” She’s used to being active.
We’ve switched to my going to the park to run alone; before, Linda ran the dog alongside with me running.

* Probably not; the amount of time the dog is abandoned is the same no matter who does what.

“Linda” is my wife.

My macho blowhard brother-in-Boston’s colonoscopy was done in “an abandoned minimall.”

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

A “patent foramen ovale” is hole that never sealed between the upper chambers of your heart. That hole can pass along a clot that would otherwise get filtered out by your lungs before it got to your brain — what supposedly caused my stroke.

The so-called “Great Race” was a race up the 194 steps to the viewing-area of “The mighty Curve” (Horseshoe Curve) west of Altoona (“Altoony”), Pennsylvania, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. The race was between my macho, blowhard younger brother-from-Boston and me. Despite weighing at least 350 pounds, he got to the top first, although I didn’t race him, for fear he might blow a gourd.

“Killian” is our remaining dog; a rescue Irish-Setter. We had a second rescue Irish-Setter, “Sabrina,” who died in March 2007.

“Marcy” was a co-worker at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper from where I retired. We worked in adjacent cubicles, and she is my number-one ne’er-do-well — the first of all the people I sent my stuff to (I still do). A picture of her is in Conclave of Ne’er-Do-Wells.

“Cajon Pass and Tehachapi” in California are both railfan sites.

RE: “45th BHS reunion” is my high-school reunion — I graduated Brandywine High School in northern Delaware in 1962.

RE: “Zealots weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth......” All my relatives are tub-thumping born-again Christians. We aren’t, and are therefore reprehensible.

RE: “Wrong ‘pyooter-platform, wrong toothpaste, wrong politics, wrong snowblower, wrong running-shoes, WRONG WHATEVER.......” I am reprehensible because I use a MAC, use Colgate toothpaste (instead of Crest; the toothpaste Jesus and Fred Thompson used), am a Democrat, my snowblower isn’t an Ariens (it’s a Honda), and I run in Asics running-shoes instead of New Balance. Etc., etc.