24-26 April, 2021
Every morning when I look in the mirror, the periorbital condition under my eyes, commonly referred to as dark circles, seems darker. Also, there are two layers of orbital puffiness, commonly referred to as bags, under both of my eyes. Bags upon bags…hmm…not working for me. Both the dark circles and the bags can result from allergies, lack of sleep, normal aging, or heredity.
On Wednesday, 21 April, I underwent my third bone marrow biopsy at Baptist Hospital in Pensacola, Florida. My nurse, Tracy, who took care of me when I was first directed to a curtained room, similar to the one I occupied at Eglin AFB Hospital when I got my port, contributed to my fixation on my orbital puffiness condition. Her preoccupation was with the periorbital condition of her own eyes. Maybe she thought that the dark circles appeared more prominent because of the masks we are all required to wear. I think it’s true that we tend to be more focused on each other’s eyes when we talk, in part due to the masks, but I wish now that I had offered her some reassurance because I really didn’t notice any circles, and even with the mask, I could tell Tracy was a pretty lady. She was also an excellent nurse, patient and accommodating. I enjoyed hearing about her recent evening out with friends at Casks & Flights, Pensacola’s Premier Wine Tasting Room (https://www.casksandflights.com/). I think my dear friend, Angie, who lives in south Florida, might enjoy giving it a try with me next time she comes for a visit.
Why, five months after my diagnosis, do I have a hard time saying the word, “cancer,” when someone asks about my condition? Why, when I was filling out a form before I had the MRI of my brain last Monday, did I mark the “No” box on this question:
The young woman behind the plexiglass handed me a clipboard with some forms and invited me to take a seat in the waiting room. I found a comfortable chair and began to fill out the forms. I had completed one page and the better part of the second when I read the above question. I didn’t even give it a conscious thought as I circled “No.” When I realized what I had done, I laughed out loud and took a picture. What would a psychologist say about that? I thought. He or she might say I needed a reality check. If you’re reading this, I would love to know what you think it means.
It occurs to me that I haven’t talked about the port that was surgically implanted under my skin between my left collarbone and arm pit. Specifically, I haven’t told you what it’s like when the nurses access it to draw blood or give me chemo or other meds.
Here’s a video that illustrates the procedure quite well. I had considerable difficulty with the link, so I hope it works. There’s a lot of medical jargon, but the graphics are excellent, and you don’t have to be a doctor or a nurse to get the gist of it. Other than possibly the size of the needle, it shouldn't gross you out.
Aside from the small scar, the slight bump, and the feel of a foreign object under my skin, the port hasn’t bothered me. On the contrary, it’s every bit as convenient as all the nurses told me it would be, and even more than that, when I remember to put the lidocaine cream on it ahead of an infusion, the procedure is completely painless. Beats the heck out of an IV! I don’t have to worry now about collapsed or otherwise damaged veins in my beleaguered arms. I do find that I am obsessively aware of the port's presence. Maybe I will eventually get used to it.
Why are the weather people so often completely wrong about the weather?
It was supposed to rain all day today (Saturday, 24 April) beginning in the wee hours this morning. Nary a drop has fallen. In fact, the sun teased us repeatedly by peeking through the overcast skies and bathing us with warm, bright sunlight before disappearing again and again behind the hazy gray mantel of clouds. Darkness has fallen now, but the wind has been a constant companion, steadily howling and moaning at my front door like the soundtrack of a horror movie. (You might need to turn the volume up all the way to hear it.)
Another downside to the weather is the way it lashes around my row of townhouses sending construction debris sailing through the air, depositing it in the dead zone of calm space directly behind my townhouse. Aarrgghh!
The conspiracy theorists might say that it’s all by design, these faulty forecasts that serve to whip the masses into sometimes frenzied panic. Fear is a great motivator, whether it’s to rush to the store to empty the shelves of water, batteries, and non-perishable food or to keep the public cowering in their homes until the danger passes. All I know is that eventually, when the predictions fail enough times, people will stop listening to them anymore.
John is an excellent driver. Something he does habitually is observe other drivers very closely, both the maneuvers they make with their vehicles as well as what they are doing while they are driving. I admit that I never paid much attention to people behind the wheels of their cars, but I do now, and what I see is frightening.
Distracted driving is definitely an epidemic. It isn’t exclusive to the Millennials or Gen-Z’s either; Baby Boomers and Gen-Xers are just as susceptible. John said this morning that if he’s ever in an accident that he suspects was caused by a distracted driver and he sues, he will insist that his lawyer obtain the browsing and texting histories from the cell phone of whoever hits him. It’s really scary to be driving on the interstate at 75 mph and see the car ahead of you slowly steering its way off the road and onto the shoulder. You see the driver correct his course, sometimes carelessly, and there is always the possibility that he or she will over-correct. Worse is when you’re approaching another vehicle to pass them, and as you do, you see it slowly drifting towards the white line separating your two lanes, the operator as unaware that you are passing as they are that they are drifting towards you because their eyes are fixed on the cell phone in their lap, hand, or mount. Many times, they don’t even attempt to hide what they are doing, and you can clearly see the cell phone grasped by both hands perched at the top of the steering wheel. All of these scenarios are clearly against the law—and another of the many laws that are seldom if ever enforced. It’s not only frightening; it’s infuriating.
Random thoughts come to me frequently, and I plan to start paying more attention to them in case an interesting one worth sharing should pop into my brain. Incidentally, the MRI of my brain was, as I suspected, normal.
As I type these words, it is 10:20 a.m., and I am relaxing in a recliner at the Infusion Suite where my nurse, Ginger, just exchanged the empty IV bag with a cocktail of Benedryl and dexamethasone for the slow-drip bag of the flavor of the month, Darzalex. This is the time-consuming, sleep-inducing (because of the Benedryl) infusion that I get each week.
So far, so good.
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