The ineffable Kenneth Starr is back in the news, this time leading a movement to invalidate the same-sex marriages that were solemnized in the period between the California Supreme Court's ruling and the passage of Proposition 8. In response, a group called the Courage Campaign is putting together a powerful response, and a simple one: a slide show of couples, some with their children, pleading that they not be forcibly divorced by the state.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Product Placement
Household hint for today: If you've got a cast or some sort of surgical dressing that needs to be waterproofed whenever you bathe, wrap it in Glad Press'n Seal. It sticks to itself and to the skin, and doesn't need as much tape to hold it in place.
I learned this tip from a nurse at the Ambulatory Treatment Infusion Center (acronymically called, of course, "the attic") when I was describing how hard it was to wrap a plastic bag around my left arm with my right hand in order to cover my PICC line. They had given me one of those plastic sleeve thingies that are usually used to cover casts, but it also covered my left hand, meaning I couldn't use it to wash with.
So I got a roll of Press'n Seal (why they can't call it, more correctly, "Press 'n' Seal" I don't know) and sure enough, it does the trick.
What a strange little world of expediencies I have found myself in.
I learned this tip from a nurse at the Ambulatory Treatment Infusion Center (acronymically called, of course, "the attic") when I was describing how hard it was to wrap a plastic bag around my left arm with my right hand in order to cover my PICC line. They had given me one of those plastic sleeve thingies that are usually used to cover casts, but it also covered my left hand, meaning I couldn't use it to wash with.
So I got a roll of Press'n Seal (why they can't call it, more correctly, "Press 'n' Seal" I don't know) and sure enough, it does the trick.
What a strange little world of expediencies I have found myself in.
Friday, December 19, 2008
...Or Maybe Rachel Maddow Is the Smartest Person on TV
Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
An Eye for an Eye
I went to see an ophthalmologist, Dr. L., today. I aced the eye chart, even with my wonky left eye, but there's still a problem with my vision. Dr. L. says it may never go away. When I said, oh, maybe the brain will find a work-around -- something others have said to me -- she said, Probably not. "The brain isn't really all that flexible. And the lesion has deprived part of it of oxygen." In other words, I've got a dead spot in my brain.
Oddly enough, her candor appeals to me. I'm a little tired of the choruses of "Climb Every Mountain," "You'll Never Walk Alone" and "Cockeyed Optimist" that people keep singing at me. A little honest resignation to reality never hurt anyone.
Oddly enough, her candor appeals to me. I'm a little tired of the choruses of "Climb Every Mountain," "You'll Never Walk Alone" and "Cockeyed Optimist" that people keep singing at me. A little honest resignation to reality never hurt anyone.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Nothing But the Tooth
Why don't hospitals and clinics have dentists on staff? Why is dentistry different from other specialties that deal with the human body? Why don't dentists get the training that M.D.s get? Why do medical plans not cover dentistry? (Especially Medicare. You'd think nobody needed help paying for dentistry more than its recipients.)
All these questions occurred to me as I was lying on a bed in the hallway at the Stanford E.R., waiting for the diagnosis of what had made me go partially blind. (Literally in the hallway. Stanford's E.R. is so crowded that it has put beds in the hall, especially for patients who don't need modesty curtains. They're even labeled: Hall 1, Hall 2, etc.) My neighboring patients included a woman with no family, no job (hence, no insurance), and a variety of serious and unpleasant illnesses; a diabetic man who had neglected the injury to his foot he received on the job and was now threatened with amputation because it had turned gangrenous; and a grizzled biker type who was there because he wanted a pain-killer for -- he said -- a really bad toothache. The young resident who saw him winced at the state of the man's teeth.
"How long has it been since you saw a dentist?"
"I dunno. A while I guess."
"You need to see one."
(with utter lack of conviction) "OK."
He got the meds and left.
We're constantly told how important dental health is. How infected teeth can spread infection to the rest of the body. In my case, in which the source of an infection was crucial, I was repeatedly quizzed about my teeth. (I am pleased to report that there was a chorus of admiration when a team of doctors and med students examined my "dentition" one day. I must tell my fine young dentist, Dr. W., to whom I once commented, "I have fillings older than you." He has since replaced them. Expensively.)
So why isn't dentistry an integral part of the medical picture? I guess if I Googled enough I'd get an answer, something to do with the histories of the separate professions, rivalries and jealousies and economic advantages. But in a time of reform, when everything is being examined with a view to making it new, when "holistic" is a byword, shouldn't this odd, arbitrary division between dentistry and medicine be re-examined?
All these questions occurred to me as I was lying on a bed in the hallway at the Stanford E.R., waiting for the diagnosis of what had made me go partially blind. (Literally in the hallway. Stanford's E.R. is so crowded that it has put beds in the hall, especially for patients who don't need modesty curtains. They're even labeled: Hall 1, Hall 2, etc.) My neighboring patients included a woman with no family, no job (hence, no insurance), and a variety of serious and unpleasant illnesses; a diabetic man who had neglected the injury to his foot he received on the job and was now threatened with amputation because it had turned gangrenous; and a grizzled biker type who was there because he wanted a pain-killer for -- he said -- a really bad toothache. The young resident who saw him winced at the state of the man's teeth.
"How long has it been since you saw a dentist?"
"I dunno. A while I guess."
"You need to see one."
(with utter lack of conviction) "OK."
He got the meds and left.
We're constantly told how important dental health is. How infected teeth can spread infection to the rest of the body. In my case, in which the source of an infection was crucial, I was repeatedly quizzed about my teeth. (I am pleased to report that there was a chorus of admiration when a team of doctors and med students examined my "dentition" one day. I must tell my fine young dentist, Dr. W., to whom I once commented, "I have fillings older than you." He has since replaced them. Expensively.)
So why isn't dentistry an integral part of the medical picture? I guess if I Googled enough I'd get an answer, something to do with the histories of the separate professions, rivalries and jealousies and economic advantages. But in a time of reform, when everything is being examined with a view to making it new, when "holistic" is a byword, shouldn't this odd, arbitrary division between dentistry and medicine be re-examined?
Thursday, December 11, 2008
What You See Is What You Get
I mentioned earlier that I had been having trouble getting my shirts on right-side-front and my shoes on the correct feet. I don't anymore. As before I got sick, I can just look at a pair of shoes and tell which goes on the left foot and which the right.
What amazes me is how a simple, everyday task could have become so arduous. Because even though I could see the shoes perfectly clearly -- i.e., no cloudiness or blurring or double vision -- I couldn't see the difference between them. I would have to feel for the arch inside -- and even then, I sometimes failed to match the shoe to the correct foot.
My problem, it seems, was one of pattern recognition -- something that the brain does to help us see. I could "see" the shoes, but I didn't "get" them, if you know what I mean.
The first time I recognized this phenomenon was when I was in the hospital. Lying in bed, unable to read or make sense of what I saw on TV, my mind wandered everywhere, but especially to my home. And I realized to my horror that I couldn't visualize it. I even tried to map out a floor plan in my head, but it was as if my imagination couldn't hold anything as complex as a rectangle.
When I first arrived at the nursing facility, one of the therapists had me play the kids' game Connect Four -- the one in which you drop checkers into slots so they line up. Get four in a row -- vertically, horizontally, or diagonally -- and you've won. But I couldn't make sense of the game. I especially couldn't see the diagonal pattern. It was revelatory, but also depressing.
The first thing I mastered was the clock on the wall. I could see the hands perfectly clearly, but I couldn't make them tell time for me. Gradually, however, the ability returned. And the first time I saw a calendar I was baffled. I had "forgotten" the familiar pattern of the calendar -- left to right, starting with Sunday. I would scan across to Saturday and then have no idea which way to go, until I "remembered" that I had to look at the leftmost date on the next line. On the other hand, things that involved some kind of muscle memory rather than visual techniques, such as tying my shoes, never went away.
I still have a gap in my vision. I notice it most when I'm reading, a process that involves scanning lines from left to right. When your eye reaches the end of one line, it darts back to the left-hand margin and begins the next. But sometimes, when I'm reading particularly wide text, as on some Web sites, the gap in my vision puts in a fake "margin" to which my eye goes. I have to force my eye beyond this imaginary margin to the real one.
The thing is, through all these experiences, I remained perfectly lucid and verbal -- or at least I think I did. Which only made them more frightening. The brain is a scary organ.
What amazes me is how a simple, everyday task could have become so arduous. Because even though I could see the shoes perfectly clearly -- i.e., no cloudiness or blurring or double vision -- I couldn't see the difference between them. I would have to feel for the arch inside -- and even then, I sometimes failed to match the shoe to the correct foot.
My problem, it seems, was one of pattern recognition -- something that the brain does to help us see. I could "see" the shoes, but I didn't "get" them, if you know what I mean.
The first time I recognized this phenomenon was when I was in the hospital. Lying in bed, unable to read or make sense of what I saw on TV, my mind wandered everywhere, but especially to my home. And I realized to my horror that I couldn't visualize it. I even tried to map out a floor plan in my head, but it was as if my imagination couldn't hold anything as complex as a rectangle.
When I first arrived at the nursing facility, one of the therapists had me play the kids' game Connect Four -- the one in which you drop checkers into slots so they line up. Get four in a row -- vertically, horizontally, or diagonally -- and you've won. But I couldn't make sense of the game. I especially couldn't see the diagonal pattern. It was revelatory, but also depressing.
The first thing I mastered was the clock on the wall. I could see the hands perfectly clearly, but I couldn't make them tell time for me. Gradually, however, the ability returned. And the first time I saw a calendar I was baffled. I had "forgotten" the familiar pattern of the calendar -- left to right, starting with Sunday. I would scan across to Saturday and then have no idea which way to go, until I "remembered" that I had to look at the leftmost date on the next line. On the other hand, things that involved some kind of muscle memory rather than visual techniques, such as tying my shoes, never went away.
I still have a gap in my vision. I notice it most when I'm reading, a process that involves scanning lines from left to right. When your eye reaches the end of one line, it darts back to the left-hand margin and begins the next. But sometimes, when I'm reading particularly wide text, as on some Web sites, the gap in my vision puts in a fake "margin" to which my eye goes. I have to force my eye beyond this imaginary margin to the real one.
The thing is, through all these experiences, I remained perfectly lucid and verbal -- or at least I think I did. Which only made them more frightening. The brain is a scary organ.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Abscess Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
Home! Of course, I hadn't been here long before the garbage disposal jammed and the sink backed up. I took it on myself, in a bit of hubris, to repair things and only made them worse -- I tightened an O-coupling too much and wrecked it. So I had to call the plumber and pay for my hubris.
After three months away, things have changed around the house. That is, nothing is where I left it. Which for a mild (?) obsessive-compulsive like me is disturbing. Nevertheless, after my first outpatient IV session today, I vow to come home and rest.
After three months away, things have changed around the house. That is, nothing is where I left it. Which for a mild (?) obsessive-compulsive like me is disturbing. Nevertheless, after my first outpatient IV session today, I vow to come home and rest.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Second Childhood
Hospitals and nursing facilities are grown-up places, where things like prudishness and modesty have to be left behind. I overheard two nurses laughing about the persnickety patient who requested that no men, not even aides or orderlies, be allowed to enter her room. Of course, nurses have seen and handled things that would have most of us fleeing or throwing up. There aren't many professions that get more respect from me than nursing does.
Still, it bothers me to hear a 90-year-old man say things like "I need to go potty" or "I have to wee-wee." And the nursing staff encourages it. Instead of "urinate" and "defecate," they say "pee-pee" and "poop" or even something I hadn't heard since third grade: "No. 1" and "No. 2." (No one uses the most familiar four-letter Anglo-Saxonisms.)
At first I thought this was an example of the infantilization that some critics decry in our culture. But then I lightened up. These twee euphemisms are the ones that almost every parent uses so often during the toilet-training years that it shouldn't be surprising when they become second-nature to us.
But something in me still thinks that being sick -- or just very, very old, as most of my roommates have been -- should be treated with frankness, not cutesiness.
Still, it bothers me to hear a 90-year-old man say things like "I need to go potty" or "I have to wee-wee." And the nursing staff encourages it. Instead of "urinate" and "defecate," they say "pee-pee" and "poop" or even something I hadn't heard since third grade: "No. 1" and "No. 2." (No one uses the most familiar four-letter Anglo-Saxonisms.)
At first I thought this was an example of the infantilization that some critics decry in our culture. But then I lightened up. These twee euphemisms are the ones that almost every parent uses so often during the toilet-training years that it shouldn't be surprising when they become second-nature to us.
But something in me still thinks that being sick -- or just very, very old, as most of my roommates have been -- should be treated with frankness, not cutesiness.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
More on TB
Nicholas Kristof has a scary-informative column about tuberculosis today.
And I may have to modify my previous assertion that I don't have TB. When I said that to Dr. B. yesterday, he said not to be so sure. My history of respiratory problems could have its source in the bacillus. Well, damn. And as Kristof's column says, there's not a lot of new research on TB, partly because it's a disease of the poor, who don't tend to fund research. So I am scrupulously gulping my antibiotics -- literally bitter pills.
And I may have to modify my previous assertion that I don't have TB. When I said that to Dr. B. yesterday, he said not to be so sure. My history of respiratory problems could have its source in the bacillus. Well, damn. And as Kristof's column says, there's not a lot of new research on TB, partly because it's a disease of the poor, who don't tend to fund research. So I am scrupulously gulping my antibiotics -- literally bitter pills.
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