December 20, 2007

• keeping on

  COLD

  I am having trouble with these gloves – polar fleece mittens with a front flap that turns back to convert them to fingerless gloves.  I started out with silvery mylar liners inside them, but could not touch type without feeling the keys, so now my fingertips are bare and the bulk of the gloves between my fingers is an added challenge to my keyboarding skills, in addition to the cold and numbness.

  When we got up today, it was -24 outside.  Some of my medication, Pulmicort, is supposed to be kept at “room temperature, between 68 and 77 degrees.”  In consultation with the pharmacist, I established that it will probably be okay if I don’t let it freeze.  To ensure that, we hung it from the ceiling in a basket near the woodstove, and hung a thermometer from the basket to monitor the meds’ temp.  It was reading 40 when we woke today.    That is above the thermocline, which is above our heads — above Doug’s unless he stands up, above mine all the time.

  Water jugs on the floor were freezing, so Doug raised them onto the tops of empty buckets, milk crates, etc.  We have to thaw the animals’ water periodically.  The last five hours have been spent in an effort to raise the temp in here.  As outdoor temp rose to eight below zero, indoor temp has come up to 48.  I just paused to put my fingers on my neck to restore some feeling and circulation.  Kind to the fingertips, cruel to the neck, it was a shock to the whole system.

  Following Doctor’s Orders

  The doc who admitted me to hospital from ER, and who discharged me three days later, ordered me to get evaluation and followup at the local clinic in five days.  I did it, but sorta wish I hadn’t.  My only profit from that visit was a disposable nebulizer unit that they let me keep after they had to give me an emergency dose of bronchodilators.  I think the whole experience, especially walking the length of my driveway in the cold, to and from the house and car, set back my recovery.  Dealing with the nurse practitioner there almost sent me over the edge into violence, the urge to which might be a side effect of inhaled steroids.

  The clinic had my hospital record faxed to them.  Despite having the papers in her hand, the NP said she was going to put me on Atravent, which the hospital had tried and discontinued because I had an adverse reaction to it — it increased my lung inflammation and bronchospasm.  Then she said she would give me a prescription for prednisone, a drug that is listed in both the hospital record and my clinic file as unallowable because of a previous reaction to it.  After I explained that the doctor who first prescribed prednisone for me recommended that I never take it again because of the psycotic reaction I had to the first dose, and that several others had since then reinforced that warning, she seemed to think that the risk of psychosis was worth the anti-inflammatory effect.  I refused, once again reinforcing my reputation as a non-compliant patient, but perhaps saving a life or two in the process. 

  I’d like to dismiss her from my mind, but I have a recurring image of her disapproving face and tone as she said, “Then I can’t help you, Kathy.”  My response was a relieved sigh, and, “Good, then I don’t have to come back here.”  I wasn’t there for her help.  I was following orders, dammit, and told them that, “…evaluation and followup.”  I returned home to my pediatric dose of inhaled steroids and tried and true Albuterol for bronchodilation, plus all the tricks and techniques I have practiced for years, and despite the lack of her toxic “help” I am getting better now that I have begun to recover from the setback of that clinic visit.

  Today I did more “work” in the physical sense of moving weight around, than I’ve done in weeks.  I helped Doug clear the (somewhat) warmer wood from the woodbox so it wouldn’t be buried under the frigid stuff he is now splitting to bring in.  He just came in with the first armload and said it is snowing.  That is very good news because it means that warmer air is moving in.  Today’s efforts got me slightly winded, but there was none of the severe dyspnea and desperate gasping for breath that even the slightest movement was triggering before the hospital stay.

  My intuitive senses and psychic/spiritual “sources” tell me that I can recover from this crisis.  I choose to believe that, rather than accept the word of those who say that without their killer drugs I cannot recover.  My way might be slower, more gradual, less impressive, but that is much more acceptable to me than giving over the care of my body and mind to those who do not know my history, allergies and sensitivities, and cannot be bothered to learn or choose not to believe me when I tell them.

  Life is inexpressibly good, especially now that I can feel my increased capacity.  Keyboarding has warmed my fingers and I’m getting used to the bulky gloves between them, so I’m having to correct much fewer typos than I did at the start.  My cat, Fancy, is playing with a string dangling from the sleeping bag I have draped around my shoulders.  I’m wearing a pair of polar fleece pajamas with feet and a hand-warmer pocket like on an anorak, plus fleece socks and down booties, but this is still one of the colder spots in this inhabited (not closed off) portion of the house, and CallWave just told me Greyfox is trying to call, so I’m outta here for now.  Seeya later.

  

  • 6:53 pm
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