Vascular Surgeon

The visit to the vascular surgeon was interesting. For one thing, I got to practice my patience in stressful situations, which needs a lot of practice. When I’m not stressed, I can be the most angelically patient person in the world, but when I’m stressed, I’m a Pandora. And it seems that whenever Mary has a morning doctor’s appointment and I’m not feeling well, she picks up on it and becomes very demanding and moody—she keeps asking where we’re going and why, she doesn’t like the clothes I’ve put on her, she goes extremely slow, etc, and I’m trying to rush because we’re inevitably late and I’ve inevitably got a headache, cramps, sore throat, etc. I warn her that I’m not feeling well, but that just seems to make things worse. I handled the situation a bit better today. At least I recognized what was going on, which is a big first step, I think.

The next stressful situation that I don’t usually handle well is being late for an appointment and having to find a parking place and a doctor’s office in unfamiliar territory. Oddly enough, Mary and I had just been cruising around this area of town last week—the weather had been so nice, we’d driven through the park and around a bit till we found our way home. This particular area of town has always, always frustrated me, so I was prepared to be stressed, if that makes sense. No, not that I was prepared, I was pre-stressed—preparing my stress. But I felt better at least about leaving because I’d just maneuvered that tricky expressway entrance (you have to be in the middle lane or you will not get on the right expressway, and in a normal car it would be impossible to get over, much less in Mary’s Cadillac with absolutely huge blind spots). And today it was in the pouring rain, nonetheless! Getting there was ok, too. I seemed to have an angel sitting on my shoulder. We couldn’t find a space outside (you know, not all handicapped spaces are created equal—I need to find one with the extra space on the right side so that I can get Mary into her wheelchair), so I chanced it in the parking garage. I hate parking garages. They’re dark, nebulous sort of places. It’s hard enough to find a spot in them without looking for a specific sort of handicapped space. I couldn’t believe it—we found one right next to the door! It had a sign that read, “Van accessible only.” I wonder what that means. Are people who need handicapped spaces supposed to just understand those signs? Is there a handbook about handicapped spaces? Hmph.

The door into the medical plaza was, however, not handicapped accessible. It amazes me how many doors are not—especially the ones you would expect to be, like to the doctor’s offices. They rarely are. This one was very heavy and I wondered how someone alone or elderly would have managed. Some doors are not only not handicapped accessible but they also have huge speed bump-like things that greatly hinder access with a wheelchair. Go figure. The eye doctor’s office has not only those two problems but also two (non handicapped accessible) doors to boot. Really go figure.

Ok, enough of that. The people in this office were so nice! The nurse was really laid back. She actually touched Mary’s foot without putting on rubber gloves first. I appreciate that. Some people act like they’re so afraid of catching something. It makes you feel like a leper. The doctor was this Indian guy. Well, he sounded like he was born in America, but he was obviously of Indian decent. He also seemed very laid back and yet professional and very caring at the same time. Bizarre. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’ve never met a doctor like that before. I was enamored, to say the least. And I understood him! Mary’s family doctor and the podiatrist and even a lot of the nurses use this jargon that leaves me completely in the dark. And I feel that as a person with two Masters degrees, I really should understand them, so it’s embarrassing for me to ask for clarification—but I do anyway. Living in a foreign country taught me, if nothing else, to say the words, “I don’t understand,” no matter how painful it is.

He explained that Mary’s right leg (with the sores) is only getting 40% of the blood that it should and the left is getting 50%. The podiatrist had said this but in such a way that all I heard was .4 and .5. He made a huge deal out of explaining that he wanted to be careful and take small steps first to see what could help Mary so that there were no bad consequences. He started her on a medication that will increase the blood flow, especially to her feet. He started at half the regular dosage. I’m a bit concerned because there was no specific question in all the tons of questions they asked about whether she had ever had congestive heart failure, but on the information from the pharmacy it stated that this medicine should not be given to anyone who has had congestive heart failure. I’m in a quandary as to what to do. I believe Mary did have congestive heart failure in the hospital the summer before last. That was when her catheter was not draining properly and they didn’t listen to me when I told them this so that her organs got backed up and then they said that she’d had this congestive heart failure and started her on all of these medicines for heart problems and did all kinds of heart tests and told me that she had ambulatory angina or something like that and that every time she moved, she was going to have chest pain—which never happened! So, I don’t really believe that she did have congestive heart failure or that she has heart problems. So that’s why I’m terribly confused. So I’m not going to say anything and we’ll see how she reacts to this half-dosage.

Luckily, I asked this doctor about whether she should exercise or not and he said not her lower extremities because that will take blood away from the toes to send to the muscles. He said that when a healthy person goes running, for example, their heart can pump five times as much blood as usual to the legs, but since Mary’s legs can’t get any more blood, what she has would just go to the muscles. Interesting. I really wish I were more interested in the field of medicine. It occurred to me the other day that I had never ever thought even once about becoming a doctor. That’s how little interest I have.

Oh, he asked Mary how old her parents had lived to be. She didn’t remember, she said (although I know she knows), so I told him Grandma lived to be almost 95 and Grandpa died somewhere in his 80s. He thought a bit and then said that Mary should live to be 98 if nothing happens (like an accident of some sort). I immediately thought, “That means I’ll be 42 before I’m free.” It was all I could do not to utter those words. What will life be like to be free again? Is this how a parent feels? But, then, they’re never really free.

I’ve seen two episodes of two separate TV series dealing with the stress of taking over responsibility for aging parents. It made me feel good to know that I’m not alone. The thing is that most people are in their 40s when they have to do that and I started in my early 30s and will be in my 40s when I’m finished (with this, at least). So these people usually have children and are married. I’m missing my last window of opportunity to have children by devoting my life to Mary right now. But, then, it’s not like there have ever been any guys lined up at my door waiting to become the father of my children. So I can’t truthfully say that I’ve given up anything.

I picked a ton of rhubarb at Mom’s today. Mary’s really excited and so am I, come to think of it. I love being able to do as much cooking and baking as I want.

I asked Bonnie if she could come over tomorrow if the weather is nice. One of my nephews was supposed to cut Mom and Dad’s grass, but he hasn’t done it and it’s getting way out of hand. I don’t resent having to give up my free time, the little bit that I have, to do this. Nor do I resent having to go over to Mom and Dad’s at least twice a week while Mom’s in St L helping Gina. I guess what I resent is the added stress of not getting to take my sweet time to run my errands—which is ridiculous. I don’t really have that many errands. And I don’t need to go to the grocery. In fact, I shouldn’t go because I need to empty the freezer so that I can clean it out. I guess I resent that we have this huge family and yet there always seem to be so few people there when you need them. I know, they all have their own families and full-time jobs, and only about half of them are even in this immediate area. Nikki says I need to tell people what needs to be done. I think I don’t even necessarily want people to do things—especially if they don’t have the time—but I’d like them to offer without my having to ask. No one asks me to do a lot of things that I do. I keep my eyes and ears open. Or try to.

I was thinking today about who we are. I mean, I feel like I’m finally living in a situation that’s free enough from stress that I can be who I am (with certain limitations, of course). I can eat how I want to, play the piano and guitar a bit, keep a clean (relatively speaking) house, stay on top of paying bills, brush my teeth twice a day, get in at least 6,000 steps a day, keep a blog and a journal, read my German newspaper, listen to NPR, surf the Internet a bit, read and send email, talk to my family on the phone, work in the garden… And yet I still get migraines about five times a month. What if I had a normal stress-level job? I’d have a migraine every day! I remember when I taught I had a migraine every Saturday. When I lived in Germany, I was also in a place (literally and figuratively) where I could be me. It’s been five years since I’ve felt this way. Do other people feel like this? Or are they so stressed-out by work that it’s impossible for them? Or is that stressed-out state of being also who we are? When I get freaked out with stress, I always think, “This isn’t me.” But isn’t it just another side of me? Well, at any rate, I also feel quite guilty for being so lazy. I still feel like I don’t have a job. Just responsibilities.