tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7362073404214323172024-03-13T10:19:48.309-06:00Crazy Daze & Nite DreamsMusings and craziness of the days and nights in my life. Sit down, keep your hands inside, and enjoy the ride. Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.comBlogger896125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-69681897274768900232021-03-08T13:33:00.000-07:002021-03-08T13:33:53.848-07:00WOW, THOSE DREAMS!<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e4s9Hm0vCM8/YEZif7n9mXI/AAAAAAAAHqw/dwDQ1jgKqwsSod2Fn0FNi3kz3Yz-0_hSgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1358/D38375E7-5264-4528-A310-D2B8E8031BD8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1137" data-original-width="1358" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e4s9Hm0vCM8/YEZif7n9mXI/AAAAAAAAHqw/dwDQ1jgKqwsSod2Fn0FNi3kz3Yz-0_hSgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/D38375E7-5264-4528-A310-D2B8E8031BD8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>Dreams</b>. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t know about you, but I dream each and every night. Most people do, but they don’t remember them. Honestly it’s like watching a movie for me. Over the years, I’ve started analyzing what they mean. Here are a few examples. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">If I dream about someone that I know but haven’t seen them in years, it usually means something life changing is going to happen. Here’s an example of this. </span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">One night not too long ago, I dreamed about one of Brent’s uncles. We haven’t seen him in at least 30 years. The dream doesn’t mean anything, I just dream about the person. I’m friends with the wife of his cousin, who is the nephew of said uncle. I told her that I dreamed about him and to be prepared to have something happen. It seems like it was a month later when she tells me that his uncles wife had just passed away. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t know why I “know” these things, I just do. For a long time I didn’t say anything to people about them. Brent would also think I was weird when I talked about them, but he finally realized that they weren’t just made up things. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Another thing that I dream about is babies. The crazy thing is, I dream that I am the one that is pregnant. It usually means people in my extended family or friends or their kids are expecting. So </span><span style="font-size: large;">when a relative tells me about one of their kids being pregnant, it puts my mind to rest. Till the next one. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I digress. Have you ever had a dream that you have never forgotten about? I have a few that have never left my brain. They must be in that file that stays open. (Yes, my brain is a huge file cabinet) </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>FRANKENSTEIN </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JPr5qH-T8AE/YEZoZ-WTZhI/AAAAAAAAHq4/r89fI-QkgREmCKsCtiMjhwLHrP2V958PQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/F3A59E4D-175F-480D-A712-347E9C8A6C04.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="967" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JPr5qH-T8AE/YEZoZ-WTZhI/AAAAAAAAHq4/r89fI-QkgREmCKsCtiMjhwLHrP2V958PQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/F3A59E4D-175F-480D-A712-347E9C8A6C04.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I had this dream when I was in the first grade. My very first nightmare. It was recess time. We were just enjoying ourselves when we heard screaming. We looked towards the restroom door. (First of all, I don’t think elementary schools have restrooms that can be accessed from outside of the building, but whatever). One of the teachers runs out and the top of her head has been flattened like Frankenstein’s. Then a bunch more teachers run out with the same flat heads. All of the kids started screaming. Then to our horror, Frankenstein comes lumbering out. He was headed right to me, and........I wake up. (Cleansing breath). You realize this dream was 56 years ago. I can still see it in color to this day. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>BEING PREGNANT </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yaazzTqplhA/YEZqrWSyt0I/AAAAAAAAHrA/xe2m211OM50fnI1ZIHwmklrF0h0khTJuACLcBGAsYHQ/s1121/1F651273-FE0C-4201-B6D6-87E597789931.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="1121" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yaazzTqplhA/YEZqrWSyt0I/AAAAAAAAHrA/xe2m211OM50fnI1ZIHwmklrF0h0khTJuACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1F651273-FE0C-4201-B6D6-87E597789931.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This next dream was when I was pregnant with my daughter. Brent and I were doing our grocery shopping. All of the sudden my water broke.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <i>Sidebar: when we went to my prenatal class they said to always grab a jar of pickles just in case your water broke. That way you could throw the jar on the floor hard enough that it would break. That way it looks like that’s what happened. Plus, it will smell like pickle juice instead of amniotic fluid</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Not only that but the baby was born right after my water broke. Now in dreamland there was no umbilical cord or placenta and no blood. What a wonderful world that would be. I started freaking out. I yelled to Brent “how will we know how much it weighs?” We get this great idea to go up to checkout and use their produce scales. Tee hee hee. We are thinkers I tell ya. I know you all are thinking, why did I feel like we needed to weigh the baby? Well, because the first question out of anyone’s mouth is, <b>how much did it weigh</b>? Duh. The weird thing about my daughter’s birth, my water did break. Du-du-du. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>SCREAMING DREAM</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ljY7YiUMGUY/YEZuOJiTrCI/AAAAAAAAHrI/4C7z07nNiFwb8GsZ7UEQoeA6-igVWyO9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1793/EF5329E3-8B05-4DCC-B572-02B94E363EAD.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1793" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ljY7YiUMGUY/YEZuOJiTrCI/AAAAAAAAHrI/4C7z07nNiFwb8GsZ7UEQoeA6-igVWyO9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/EF5329E3-8B05-4DCC-B572-02B94E363EAD.jpeg" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Since my transplant, I’ve had two dreams that I’ve woken up screaming. Never happened before. Have any of you experienced these? They are mind blowing. The first one was about six months ago. I was in a business somewhere when some men came in the building looking for Brent, screaming at me saying “where is he, we are going to kill him”!!! Noooooooooo!!! I actually woke up screaming that I was going to kill them, they would NOT get my man. In my dream I had a huge knife in my hand. My screaming those words woke Brent up fast. Took me in his arms to calm me down. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The other one just happened last night. I was at the hospital where for some reason I had two appointments with two different doctors scheduled for the same time. I went to the one that I didn’t think would last that long. Wrong choice. Of course I was in my wheelchair so I had a friend helping that day. We decided to head to the other doctor that I had an appointment with. For some reason I was pregnant again. So I was going to the obstetrician. What the hell!!!!! Whoever is pregnant out there would you let me know because I’m too old to be having babies!!!!! We get to the other side of the hospital. They’ve changed their office. You go to the front desk to check in. And for some idiotic reason you had to walk down a winding staircase to get to the exam rooms. I start freaking out at them. I’m in a freaking wheelchair. Then they tell me I’m not even on their schedule. Oh dear, those are fighting words!!!! I start screaming, making a huge fool of myself, but I didn’t care. This is the point where I woke up screaming fighting words again. Poor Brent, he’s got a weird wife. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">If you have any dreams you want to share, please email them to me. The reason I named my blog Crazy Daze and Nite Dreams is because that is my life. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Remember my email address is dazeedreamergp@yahoo.com if you want to share a dream or do a guest post. I look forward to hearing from you. </div></span><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p></div>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-12974494238050582332021-03-01T14:48:00.000-07:002021-03-01T14:48:12.951-07:00WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Believe it or not I’m getting caught up with my health adventures. But never fret little buck-a-roos there are going to be plenty more posts. Bwaa haa haa.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Let’s just talk about a few things before I start today’s fun and exciting procedure that I got to <strike>endure</strike> have.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m going to start opening up a service for all of my <strike>fans</strike> followers. Anyone that would like to write about some kind of life changing or health problems that have happened in their life are welcome to post here about them. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have created an email address for just this purpose. Write your post. Email it to me and you will see your post in lights. The email address is:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>dazeedreamergp@yahoo.com</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Please do this. I think it will be a cathartic thing for you and I. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now on to my fun and exciting procedure that I had the pleasure of getting last November. (2020) </span><span style="font-size: large;">It’s called a <b>Hepatic Venogram</b>. You’re probably scratching your head wondering what it is. Never fear, Dazee is here. <i>It is a method of visualization of the hepatic veins by direct injection of a radioplaque substance through a special catheter into the liver vein. </i>I know, doctor-ese is extremely hard to understand. Here is a video that explains it. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9cEOpr-MRL4" width="320" youtube-src-id="9cEOpr-MRL4"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">If by chance you don’t see the video here, please click on this link. </span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://youtu.be/9cEOpr-MRL4">https://youtu.be/9cEOpr-MRL4</a></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">You too could have one of these if you are as lucky as me. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here I am after being stuck in the jugular vein.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dPtxve5OWXc/YD1P6_e-raI/AAAAAAAAHqc/kIyvQ8eVQzwML_kUq-0447egiCfkqVBBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1887/844FCBB3-513E-447D-8713-AD1BDB0185B0.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1887" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dPtxve5OWXc/YD1P6_e-raI/AAAAAAAAHqc/kIyvQ8eVQzwML_kUq-0447egiCfkqVBBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/844FCBB3-513E-447D-8713-AD1BDB0185B0.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">And here is the fun site of what it looks like after you take off the bandage.</span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PK1HaO8dlRY/YD1Ql-_0R6I/AAAAAAAAHqk/N97YMJ_SP8EuSQhxfVW2139GUluwjCvcQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1881/E1F76A13-4FCC-4052-901C-23B88547227C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1881" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PK1HaO8dlRY/YD1Ql-_0R6I/AAAAAAAAHqk/N97YMJ_SP8EuSQhxfVW2139GUluwjCvcQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E1F76A13-4FCC-4052-901C-23B88547227C.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ouchy. </span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">While the doctor was in there she also took a biopsy of my liver. I know right. Before long I won’t have any liver left to take a biopsy from. Wait....your liver regenerates. Phew</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">What does all this mean? Who the heck knows. To me it means I get to have another one in May. Don’t be jealous. It also makes me realize that the human body is an amazing thing. We take it for granted. Everyday it just works processing what each organ is supposed to do. Yes, sometimes things break down. And I’m grateful that I’m alive now where we have medication and procedures that allow us to keep living. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid to die. There have been few times during the last four years that I’ve begged for it. In fact, I got mad at my dad for not coming and taking me with him. But I couldn’t leave Brent, my kids and grandkids. Honestly they were the only reason I didn’t give up. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">One thing you will notice from my blog is I will always be truthful with my feelings. Also, if any of you have questions you would like me to answer on here, PLEASE ask them in a comment or send me an email. I will then answer them in my next post. I will not use your name unless you give me permission. Here is that email address again.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>dazeedreamergp@yahoo.com</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-21208899921564304412021-02-22T16:02:00.001-07:002021-02-22T16:02:45.905-07:00WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRONGER <p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WI7kjHb28Uo/YDPtXy2HrAI/AAAAAAAAHpQ/576UOgKCo5EVVV1SwYERCGsVBiwag6jmACLcBGAsYHQ/s1846/38F3316C-0FC7-41E7-92F6-EB1B28632166.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1846" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WI7kjHb28Uo/YDPtXy2HrAI/AAAAAAAAHpQ/576UOgKCo5EVVV1SwYERCGsVBiwag6jmACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/38F3316C-0FC7-41E7-92F6-EB1B28632166.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;">This week I’m taking a little break from my never ending story to talk about things that happened throughout my life that have made me either sink or swim. </span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>BROKEN BONES </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NRF5Cp95U98/YDPuX_OhAXI/AAAAAAAAHpY/lWyKNcALbyAL_HXvOvflVTqx5dEuvQi9QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/E7D94C40-D545-4B5A-804F-826EB8F397C9.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1883" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NRF5Cp95U98/YDPuX_OhAXI/AAAAAAAAHpY/lWyKNcALbyAL_HXvOvflVTqx5dEuvQi9QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E7D94C40-D545-4B5A-804F-826EB8F397C9.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have broken both my arms. The first one was my right wrist. Quite a few kids break their wrists where their growth plates haven’t grown together yet. I broke mine while roller skating when I was about five. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The second time I broke my left arm. This one was a bad one. We were at church and outside there were these metal bars that ran along the sides of the sidewalks. Being kids we got bored so we went outside before going to Sunday school and decided to use the bars as balance beams. (Close your mouths, I see the look of shock on your faces). I was six years old and by darn the older kids weren’t going to be braver than me. I get up there and start strutting my stuff when I fell. Did I fall just right? Ummm, no. I fell, hit my arm on the metal bar, and broke it in two places as you can see in the above picture. I remember looking at my arm thinking it looked like a horseshoe. Kids are screaming, parents are running outside. This was before the 911 system. One of my parents rushed me to the hospital, the other took all my siblings home. Again, in the sixties the emergency room did all the “fixing” of things emergency. The memory I have of that was them pulling my arm and pushing the bones back up in line. Oh, and the pain.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--VDdA_PWQEw/YDPy4KAmfXI/AAAAAAAAHpk/FiK_YKdaQfsQmNoWzzNZYOVARHfUCAr2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/DF07675B-FC9F-47FF-86D4-BB127AD00A93.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1773" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--VDdA_PWQEw/YDPy4KAmfXI/AAAAAAAAHpk/FiK_YKdaQfsQmNoWzzNZYOVARHfUCAr2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DF07675B-FC9F-47FF-86D4-BB127AD00A93.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><b>SCARS</b></p><p style="text-align: center;">The photo on the bottom right is a scar I got when I was in the sixth grade. It actually starts at my elbow and ends up by my wrist. This was also a rolling skating accident. I have to tell you that this was when Peggy Fleming was America’s sweetheart of the figure skating world. By damn, I was going to be the roller skating sweetheart of the world. In all my spare time I was “practicing” my moves. One day I was doing my speed skating up and down the sidewalk. Our driveway was such as it declined down to the garage. It had these cute little windows on the door. I would go down the driveway, swing around the car, and get back to the sidewalk to go up the street and back. One of my brothers, who shall remain nameless but it sounds like John, decided to push me as I was on my decline. All of the sudden I feel out of control and I’m headed towards the garage door. Trying to stop myself I put out my arm to stop. You guessed it, I hit the window, not the wood. I look at my brother, and he has a look of terror on his face. I run (skate) into the house straight to the kitchen where my mom is doing dishes in the sink. She puts my arm over the sink and I see the drip, drip, drip of blood and the water turning red. She screams for my dad who comes running in. He takes his hands and wraps them around my arm above my elbow. Has my mom call our doctor and has my mom drive us to the hospital while he keeps a hold of my arm. We get to the hospital, rush in, the nurses put me in a wheelchair and put a pillow under my arm. It proceeded to turn the whole pillow top red. My mom comes in and pleads with the staff to let her see my arm. My dad hadn’t allowed her to see it. I watched the color drain from her face. </p><p style="text-align: center;">At this point they take me into a room, lay me on my stomach, and start stitching me up. One hundred thirty two stitches (132) later, they are done. Apparently the original cut was in a Y shape but they had pulled it together to make one long scar. They didn’t even put me out. I remember looking at what they were doing and saw them pulling the thread out of my skin. That was all the watching I would do. Did this stop me from skating? Heck no. I also didn’t lose the use of my arm or have nerve damage. The other scars are from a back surgery (ruptured disc) due to falling on ice, hip replacement and liver transplant. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>CANCER</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EFkqYy2am3E/YDP7EzO935I/AAAAAAAAHpw/6iNhF8mkUtAKTJGPunNzG6gxSPMFvrKZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/B18E57C7-3E86-42F7-BE20-4822980B568C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1925" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EFkqYy2am3E/YDP7EzO935I/AAAAAAAAHpw/6iNhF8mkUtAKTJGPunNzG6gxSPMFvrKZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/B18E57C7-3E86-42F7-BE20-4822980B568C.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Cancer. The spawn of Satan. Ok maybe not but it makes you feel that way. Thankfully my uterine cancer was only stage one, so a total hysterectomy was how they took care of it. I am finally down to once a year visits on that one. You’ve all read about my lymphoma so I’ll just say is I’m a year and a half into remission. I’m doing all I can to keep it that way. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l2v55ON9V3M/YDP8S5wX0TI/AAAAAAAAHp8/hpBuCQIYCh4QohVF-4dHIF25Z7giCwmpgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1801/1A5B2D84-77B1-4DF1-A579-A6F196766149.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1801" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l2v55ON9V3M/YDP8S5wX0TI/AAAAAAAAHp8/hpBuCQIYCh4QohVF-4dHIF25Z7giCwmpgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1A5B2D84-77B1-4DF1-A579-A6F196766149.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">This is by far the biggest “trauma” in my life. I was young when it happened. I’m not sure how long it went on. It’s one of those things that as you are growing up, you have it locked away in a file that you don’t have the key to open it up. I have periods of time that are blocked from me remembering. I know there are different ages that it must have happened. Finally in my later fifties, I had a Rapid Eye Session. It is a <i>eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) therapy that is an psychotherapy technique used to relieve psychological stress. It is an effective treatment for trauma and PTSD. </i>Both my sister and sister-in-law have extensive training in this. During my session, I finally released who the pedophile was. I don’t call him an abuser. I call him a pedophile. I came out to my siblings about it. I’ve never mentioned it to my mom or dad. </p><p style="text-align: center;">But you know what. HE DIDN’T BREAK ME!!!! I will not allow it. It’s made me a much stronger person. When he meets his maker, he’ll have to answer for it. </p><p style="text-align: center;">So all of my life experiences have made me the woman I am today. I truly feel like if we use our experiences to help others, we are being a good person. I’m able to say to people “I have been through this, if I can do it, so can you”. I will be an advocate for anyone that needs me. </p><p style="text-align: center;">My hope with today’s post is, if you have trauma’s in your life. Talk about them. Don’t be silent. You don’t ever know who needs your story to help them through this thing we call life. </p></span><p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-70357845155769882632021-02-15T16:25:00.000-07:002021-02-15T16:25:26.347-07:00THESE ARE THE DAYS OF MY LIFE<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">On April 9, 2020 I was once again in for a liver biopsy. There is a huge possibility that I will be having one of these fun and exciting procedures every six (6) months. Because I talk of these all the time, I’ve uploaded this video for your viewing enjoyment. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/y2kXIH2y5Vo" width="320" youtube-src-id="y2kXIH2y5Vo"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The only difference between this video and what I go through is they put me out. This biopsy is the very first time that Covid made my life miserable. In every procedure I’ve had in the last 2 years, Brent was there right by side. Holding my hand, cracking me up. But he wasn’t allowed in the recovery room with me. That means he’s not there for all the pre stuff, not there when I get back from the biopsy and not there for the two hours that you have to lay there. The only reason he couldn’t be there was because I was not assigned a private room. Each bay was separated by curtains. I went into a depression. Not good, but I made it through. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">On April 21st, we had my first ever Webex appointment. Weird. We had to wait for two weeks for this appointment because the doctors, surgeons, coordinator, pathologist and who knows who else get together to discuss all the findings and decide the plan of action. We are told that my liver enzymes have not improved with my dose of prednisone. In the words of my doctor, <i>“there is evidence of dysfunction and concern for rejection and concern regarding the T-cell infiltrate in the lobule.” </i> The T-cells are a white blood cell that is of key importance to the immune system. It fights infected cells, IE: viral infections or in my case it tried to fight my lymphoma. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Whatever are they going to do? It sounds bad. Why don’t I ever hear, “<b>Dazee, you are so remarkably, amazingly, wonderfully well we just want to send you on an all expense paid vacation to anywhere of your choice</b>.” But alas, this is their plan of attack. I need a HUGE amount of prednisone. Can they give it to me in pill form. NO THEY CAN’T. How much do I need? Only 500 mg’s a day for three days. What the????</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have to go to the infusion center for three days in a row and have IV prednisone which is called methylpredniolone. Ummm, excuse me. Three days of 500mg’s of this. Do you know what prednisone does to my body? Weight gain, super high blood glucose (I’m diabetic) and being very ornery. And that’s on a low dose of this drug. Every person I know better not hang around me. Just sayin’. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The first day, Brent is allowed to go into the room with me. Yay!! When we show up the next day that damn Covid shows it’s ugly head again. He can’t even take me up to the infusion center. They have to send someone down to take me up. Why? Because I’m wheelchair bound. Then it takes at least an hour to have the stupid medication drip into your vein. Thankfully on the first day they put the IV in my arm and I could keep it in the whole three days. Don’t have to be stuck three different days. Thank goodness we live 15 minutes away from the hospital. I sent him home and when I figured I was getting close to being done I just called him and told him to come back. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Let me say something about Covid. It’s a real disease. I was already wearing a mask because of being immuno suppressed. I wear a mask WHEREVER I go, which is pretty much to get my labs and procedures. And I plan on wearing it for the rest of my life. I don’t get to see my kids and grandkids very often. Even for the holidays. It sucks. I can get the vaccine soon. So can Brent. My mom fell and broke her femur before Thanksgiving. No one could be at the hospital with her before her surgery. After that she was only allowed two people a day to come visit her and not at the same time. Then she was sent to a rehab center. NO ONE was allowed inside the building to see her. We had to talk to her on the phone while standing outside her window to see her. I wasn’t able to go. It’s winter. She was there until just last week. She had to spend two of her favorite holidays alone. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Please wear a mask. Please don’t make people who are in front of you in a store or wherever you are feel like crap because you don’t want to wear one. Put yourself in Brent’s shoes. Someone could be standing behind him talking loudly about how people that believe in COVID are stupid. How do you know that the person wearing their mask doesn’t have someone at home like me that probably wouldn’t survive getting this real disease. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I digress. Will this huge amount of drug help me? Only time will tell. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-68541541786357583442021-02-08T14:46:00.000-07:002021-02-08T14:46:26.851-07:00PLEASE MAKE THE ITCHING STOP!!<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-18oVTv1HF0o/YCGKVO2eoBI/AAAAAAAAHnw/2CCsCR8py-oItiLCO39_Z7dSYltANGcVwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1026/12D20E31-9798-44C5-A422-915489923822.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="940" data-original-width="1026" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-18oVTv1HF0o/YCGKVO2eoBI/AAAAAAAAHnw/2CCsCR8py-oItiLCO39_Z7dSYltANGcVwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/12D20E31-9798-44C5-A422-915489923822.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">It</span> <span style="font-size: large;">is a new year. 2020. What a year it’s going to be. Of course, we didn’t know just how much fun. The year marks the one year mark of my transplant. In some ways, it seemed like the year went really fast. Even with all the fun stuff that was going on. </span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">On January 29th I had an appointment with an epilepsy doctor. I had been on KEPPRA, the anti seizure drug. I was supposed to be seen at the six month mark, but alas a referral was never made. We go in to the appointment. The doctor comes in, starts doing all kind of tests. Touch your nose, slap my hand, move forward, move back, touch my finger, watch my finger. Alrighty then. Fun times. He went over the MRI that was taken when I had dancing eye. He determined that I didn’t need to be on KEPPRA any longer. You can’t just stop taking it all at one time. He put me on a four week decline of the drug. Yay. One drug down. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Everything was going fine until April 22nd. I woke up with a fever and a painful belly. I know right. You are so surprised. We kept our eye on my temp, but by later that afternoon Brent decided we needed to go to the Emergency Dept. Why Emergency? Because you never ever have an emergency happen on a weekday when you can just go see your regular doctor. Nope, not going to happen. We get there. It’s packed!! Finally they put me in the “pre” room where they do your vitals. They start an IV because of my fever. They go out and we sit in there and wait. All of the sudden they come in and want to check me for the flu. Ok. Whatever floats your boat. Not fun. Hated it. They have no rooms available yet. Because I’m immuno suppressed they put me in a section of the waiting room that is separate from the bigger waiting room. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">We are sitting there waiting. Another woman is in there. She’s very quiet. Before long, her husband gets there. The “quiet” lady, becomes the looney lady. She starts sitting on her husbands lap. Starts talking really loud. Starts calling him her pussycat. Then, she asks him if he brought her a drink. What? He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a flask. What the heck!!</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The aide comes out to get me. They are going to do an ultrasound. Oh goodie. I go in, have it done and then they take me to my room. But hey, let’s get a urine sample first. Brent went in with me. Along with the nurse, because, you know she must have been afraid he would give her his urine. Weirdo. I showed her how strange my stomach looked. Asked if it was normal. She said no, but didn’t know what it was. Here is a picture of it. It is surrounded by my hands. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rrG5ihFydGI/YCGiF-uuGrI/AAAAAAAAHn8/HBvf_EpEfq8MGL5gcgXwoxc2btB1Y9HdACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/DF3311A4-A863-49CE-B660-2F22258CA0DD.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1055" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rrG5ihFydGI/YCGiF-uuGrI/AAAAAAAAHn8/HBvf_EpEfq8MGL5gcgXwoxc2btB1Y9HdACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DF3311A4-A863-49CE-B660-2F22258CA0DD.jpeg" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">After the doctor was able to read the ultrasound he came in the room and told me I had pneumonia. Oh, good times. It was also determined that the large bulge in my stomach was an “incisional hernia”. What the? Apparently some of the liver transplant patients get them. It’s because of where they incise to take out and put in livers, the abdominal wall gets weak. No way. I never get anything that is beyond normal. Stop laughing. Anywho, they put me on antibiotics and send me home. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I know you are all wondering if I had the flu. Because, umm, flu tests come back fast. They never said a word. If you want my honest opinion, I think they actually took a COVID-19 TEST. This was about the time that it was sending people to the hospital. Thank god it was just pneumonia. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I had starting itching like crazy when I had the ERCP done. That was when they put the stent in my bile duct. They also put me on a drug called Ursodeoxycholic. It is a drug to help thin out your bile fluid. My lab tests were showing an increase of my bilirubin. A higher bilirubin amount will make you itch. Also the drug that they put me on will cause itching.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Let’s discuss how awful constant itching is. It’s horrible. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Well, except my sworn enemies. Imagine, your arm starts itching in a certain spot. You scratch it. But wait, your ear is itching, you legs are itching, your toes are itching, your head is itching. It’s AWFUL. No matter where you scratch, another spot will itch before you are done scratching. The only time I wasn’t scratching was when I was asleep. Thank goodness. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">On March 12th, I had the stent removed from my liver. In this picture, it is the inside of my esophagus where they were removing the stent. On the image on the right, if any of you know what that green looking stuff is, please let me know. (Yeah, I’m looking at you Celissa). </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DukDJ3do7yQ/YCGnnWg1_RI/AAAAAAAAHoI/qqM2vTIgz54s0tS99zM06MVRTHH_ONC1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2146/5702A27B-A20B-43DA-8BDE-5DCD65EAE855.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="2146" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DukDJ3do7yQ/YCGnnWg1_RI/AAAAAAAAHoI/qqM2vTIgz54s0tS99zM06MVRTHH_ONC1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/5702A27B-A20B-43DA-8BDE-5DCD65EAE855.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brent thinks it looks like guacamole. Excuse me a minute while I spew a little out of my mouth. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh my, never a dull moment. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-32038316051729722532021-02-01T15:20:00.000-07:002021-02-01T15:20:40.799-07:00HIS PERSPECTIVE PART TWO<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tYZGoWTfrzQ/YBg2d6GJQ4I/AAAAAAAAHnQ/tyf4i7CBNlAf6E7s4DHwBC1OxMCSuVWvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/6418C018-1353-47CE-AFE0-F162C768ABAB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1205" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tYZGoWTfrzQ/YBg2d6GJQ4I/AAAAAAAAHnQ/tyf4i7CBNlAf6E7s4DHwBC1OxMCSuVWvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/6418C018-1353-47CE-AFE0-F162C768ABAB.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DAerGIlRNJs/YBh3-adt2CI/AAAAAAAAHnc/-sPPniYPo6Q3UPvy_Ad_rp278HPu04JbQCLcBGAsYHQ/s933/B8FCFCDF-FF8F-4CEE-927F-ECE9B8CB1CA1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="929" data-original-width="933" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DAerGIlRNJs/YBh3-adt2CI/AAAAAAAAHnc/-sPPniYPo6Q3UPvy_Ad_rp278HPu04JbQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/B8FCFCDF-FF8F-4CEE-927F-ECE9B8CB1CA1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;">Welcome back to part two of Donna’s Transplant Adventures (TP).</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Donna gets that much waited for TP. After about a five hour surgery, I was told her surgery went well, with no problems. I was able to visit with her in the ICU. She was in the ICU for one day. They assigned her a room on the Transplant Floor of the hospital. The third day after TP I noticed changes starting to happen. She became quiet and her personality was subdued. At first I thought this must just be a typical reaction in recovering from a TP. After two more days of decline I was very concerned. I started asking the nursing staff if they could explain what was happening with her and would they inquire about my concerns with the liver doctors. They blew off my concerns and treated me as a pesky family member who was overly concerned about his wife. I continued asking every nurse that was assigned to her care, every shift change, everyone for help and NOTHING. Surely they must have seen the changes. By the 5th day after her TP her condition had badly deteriorated. She had something serious going on but without the help of the hospital I started to research her symptoms. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her symptoms presented with unusual smells, tastes, nausea, deja vu, aimless movement, lack of interest and concentration. She kept saying she wanted to “crawl out of her skin”. She thought everyone was her enemy and they were plotting against her. Towards the end she did not even know who I was. A blank stare was all I got. And still no one intervened to help her avoid the damage that was occurring. Her eyes had turned orange. On day six, a nurse came in to administer her afternoon meds. Not long after the nurse left, I heard my sister-in-law scream DONNA! She had just suffered a bad seizure and was unconscious. Her face was red and her lips were blue. The nurse heard the </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>scream and ran back in to call a code.</span><span> </span><span>The rapid response team quickly arrived. About 30 people started to assess her, then treating her with a drug. They prepared to move her to the ICU. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">At this point I had no idea whether this was a stroke, seizure or what. Would she survive? I was fit to be tied. Many tests were done, including a brain wave test, and a MRI. Due to an overdose of immunotherapy drugs given over the course of six days, Donna was diagnosed with a condition known as PRES. (Posterior Reversible Encephalopathy Syndrome). It is damage to the brain due to toxic drug overdose. It is characterized by seizures, altered mental status, visual loss and edema in the parietal lobes of the brain. (Water in the brain). The consequences of this seizure were convulsion </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>spasms, altered consciousness, clonic jerking and shaking, and extreme sleepiness. This bothered me deeply. </span><span>I was amazed how she could sleep through the violent twitching and jerking. Every now and then I would try and wake her to see if she was ok. I was worried she had permanent brain damage. I also was worried the seizures would return. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">She suffered from this for two days and nights. She slowly improved but was unable to walk for a couple more days. Then only by using a walker. She needed help to get to the bathroom. The long term effects of the PRES and seizure have at times diminished her ability to speak and her memory has been affected. She also has some occasional anger issues. Even </span><span style="font-size: large;">today, two years later, she can not walk without her walker. She has some hip issues but neurological damage as well. She most likely will never be able to drive again. I sometimes wonder how bad this event could have been if she had that seizure in the middle of the night when nobody was there to call for help. What could the damage from this have done to her future, or maybe she does not survive. Scary to even imagine. Was there a report filed concerning her seizure and an ICU report of why all this happened.....NOPE!! There never was.....color me surprised. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Donna was scheduled to see an epilepsy doctor. She was prescribed the drug Keppra for one year. The side effects of this medication can be irritability, </span><span style="font-size: large;">depression, tiredness, suicidal tendencies, memory loss and other conditions. She was supposed to remain on Keppra for six months but alas, she was on it for one year, hmmmm, I wonder why?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> So why, you may ask, was she over prescribed so much immunotherapy after TP? This is a question the hospital never wanted to talk about. They went out of their way to avoid talking about it. I have given this question much thought and can really only come to a couple of conclusions. Perhaps the extreme dosage was a mistake by the doctor in charge of ordering it. Or was it given to her in large quantities for a specific reason, but what? </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Looking back at her med charts from the hospital flow charts (records of the drugs and dosages and time given to the patients that nurses record in the </span><span style="font-size: large;">computer system), I was able to determine that Donna was taking four different immuno drugs all at the same time in high dosage amounts. These drugs are the common drugs used for TP rejection protocol, they are SIMULECT (basiliximab) supposed to be an induction immuno drug. However looking at her med charts she received this drug in large amounts starting from the day of her TP until two days after her seizure. (A total of eight days). Another drug known as Tacrolimus, (PROGRAF), was started two days prior to her seizure. This medication has a history of serious side effects. Including PRES, seizures and cancer. Why would they continue with both Simulect and Tacrolimus together? Another common drug used in immunotherapy is Mycophenolate (CELLCEPT). This is a backup med she was receiving 1000 mg’s twice a day. Finally Prednisone (SOLUMEDROL) i</span><span style="font-size: large;">n large dosages. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">It took Donna six days from her transplant to develop PRES and seizure. I believe the reason for the toxic overdose to these meds was due to the unstable condition of the donors liver. So the doctors used large continuous doses to thwart off the possibility of acute rejection, or was there a blood or tissue type matching problem. Could the overdose have been related to the fact that her donated liver had a large tumor and tested positive for EBV and CMV. Was the liver cancerous? The doctors said they “gave her too much immuno suppression drugs”. But they never said why. We can’t see the labs or medical records for the donor so we don’t know if the liver was cancerous before TP. Even today this is a topic they don’t want to discuss (yeah I guess I wouldn’t want to either). Whenever I ask about the donors health conditions </span><span style="font-size: large;">the hospital says HIPAA regulations don’t allow them to disclose this information. It would probably take a court order or involvement from the FDA to obtain information. Donors or donors families need to allow specific info regarding the organs they donate and any health issues that would affect the life of the recipients. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">On one hand organ donation is a great achievement of science, but if not done correctly it can cause people to die. It could also cause sickness and permanent disability. Due to the overdose of these immuno suppression drugs she is excluded from taking these commonly used drugs and instead must take the more dangerous and extremely expensive drugs. As it turns out there are not that many good immuno drugs for TP patients to use. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Expensive liver disease drugs Rifaximan, 3</span><span> month supply out of pocket equals $1950.00. Everolimus one month supply $444.00 out of pocket. You get the picture? </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>LOOKS LIKE SHE MIGHT SURVIVE </b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Donna continued to make slow progress but was not interested in food. She was very weak and not able to walk without help. She needed <b>help</b> to get to the bathroom. One night she needed such help to the bathroom and the order was that two (2) aides help her. Well guess what? The hospital is always short of aides. After she called for help, one small gal tries to help her. Then <b>POW!</b> She falls and lands on her previous hip replacement. I had an agreement with her nurse to leave a porta potty by her bed to avoid this very thing. Of course that agreement was broken....no porta potty....no two aides....she falls and seriously hurts her hip....more X-rays....wound care....pain patches....anti inflammation meds....ice packs....more pain for her. Pain that seemingly was never going to end. Even today she still has a mass </span><span style="font-size: large;">of tissue in her hip area due to this injury. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was clear that I needed to sleep at the hospital in her room to keep her safe while she recovered. That hospital couch was harsh night after night. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Physical Therapy wanted her up and walking even tho she was still recovering from her SURGERY, PRES, SEIZURE, CONVULSIONS, HIP INJURY and the fact that she was as weak as a kitten. She could not swallow food or her meds with that feeding tube down her throat. Her weakness and lack of of balance posed another fall risk, but the surgery team would come in every day and didn’t seem to understand why she wasn’t up and walking around. (Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees). One of the surgeons got extremely mad at her telling</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span><span>her off about her “promise to participate in walking and all other activities asked of her”. The look on Donna’s face broke my heart. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">After twenty days of this hell she got to go home. But it was short lived. She developed “C-DIFF”, a bacterial infection of the colon so back to the hospital for two more days. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Donna continued to improve through February and March, but in April her blood tests revealed her liver enzymes were very high so it was time for a biopsy and God help us. Now everything I had learned about EBV, tumors, and drug toxicity had finally </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>come true. </span><span>She has large B Cell Lymphoma cancer. Surprise, surprise, surprise. Never saw this coming!!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Stay tuned for part three of Donna’s Transplant Adventures while once again she needs to dodge the bullet. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-21103537826169011512021-01-25T14:16:00.002-07:002021-01-25T14:16:54.057-07:00HIS PERSPECTIVE - PART ONE <p style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Yesterday, January 24, 2021, it was my two year anniversary of receiving a new (used) liver. To celebrate this achievement, I have invited a guest to blog about his perspective. He has a lot to say so enjoy.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9oedd-1YcjQ/YA70r5Z-TmI/AAAAAAAAHmk/16ODl3T_oc0rETyog-cnHoVRUhbzbUhuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s933/5ABC8566-7806-4AF1-A083-006B89571ED3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="929" data-original-width="933" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9oedd-1YcjQ/YA70r5Z-TmI/AAAAAAAAHmk/16ODl3T_oc0rETyog-cnHoVRUhbzbUhuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/5ABC8566-7806-4AF1-A083-006B89571ED3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">Hi y’all, Donna asked if I would offer my thoughts regarding her transplant. I said sure, why not. This post is my perspective as her caregiver. These are my thoughts and feelings, not hers. </span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">First let me say how horrible the last couple of years have been for both of us. As awful as it’s been, at least, I never had to experience what she went through, the sickness, the pain, the misery and the fear that I might not survive. Donna had to endure all of it. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>LIVER DISEASE </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Donna’s brand of liver disease is called cirrhosis (scar tissue). When this condition gets bad it prevents the liver from working properly which in turn causes many serious problems, varices (bleeding blood vessels), enlarged spleen and a condition known as ascites. Ascites is a buildup of nasty fluid that collects in your abdomen and thoracic cavity (lungs). The sick liver can’t remove it so it must be removed by a centesis procedure (needle aspiration). Ascites that collects around the lungs, can prevent normal breathing. A buildup in the abdomen can cause a pressure tear in the umbilical area (belly button). If these hernias tear enough they can become dangerous. If the intestine becomes trapped in the abdominal wall, they can be life threatening if not repaired when they are small. Over time these hernias can get large due to the ascites fluid pressing on the abdomen area. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>DIAGNOSES 2018</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Donna is now in need of a transplant but she needs to qualify and then be placed on a waiting list. This is because there are more folks needing organ transplants, but too few organs available. Looks like it could be a year or even longer till she gets an “offer”. In the meantime the hospital is strongly recommending a procedure that should help keep the ascites under control until she gets a transplant. After having this procedure explained by the doctor I was scared to death, I just had a bad feeling about it. TIPS is a stent that connects one vein in the liver with another vein (portal to hepatic veins), rerouting blood from the liver. You can only get this procedure done once so you better hope it is successful. No pressure here, right? So what happens? During the procedure the interventional radiologist TEARS Donna’s portal vein. This creates a large DVT (deep vein thrombosis). Or in other words, a large blood clot that could create a blockage of blood flow or a section could break off and travel through the bloodstream possibly causing a stroke, heart attack, or pulmonary embolism (blood clot in lung). <b>Any of these events could be fatal!!</b> To make matters worse, we were never told about the damage done to the portal vein. Not by the doctor who performed the procedure, not by the hospital or not by any of the doctors, nurses, or techs. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">After this procedure they kept her in the hospital for 10 days, two days is normal. When I asked why they would not release her, they said they wanted her to get stronger, but they were doing ultrasound tests and takings X-rays of that damaged portal vein, and they never told us about any of this. We tried to find the procedure report but it was not loaded on her profile page, and as of today still not on there. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Considering she was at risk, did they move her higher up on the wait list?? <b>Nope, still made her wait till transplant, even though she could have died from this over the course of eight months. </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>TRANSPLANT CALL</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">On January 23, 2019 (the day before transplant), her umbilical hernia tore, and she had intestine trapped in her abdomen wall, this was now an emergent situation. So off to the ER we go. They took images to confirm the intestine entrapment, just great!! This is all we need!! It could have been prevented if one of her doctors had diagnosed it correctly in the beginning. He told us the bulge in that area was not a hernia, but a fluid sack that some people with liver disease get......REALLY?? Over many appointments with him and multiple exams of the hernia, and he never got it right. Now it’s serious and dangerous, so what’s next? They can’t repair the hernia now due to its size and the fact that her liver and associated conditions will not allow a surgical repair. Boy are we screwed now!! </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">There really is no way to hold intestines in the body with a tear like this. Even hernia belts won’t really work well. If the intestine were to rupture and the contents enter her abdomen this could create a horrific emergency, one that she may not survive. I’m starting to wonder if my wife is going to survive all this.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">I take her home and later that night (at 3:00am) the phone rings. It’s the liver department with a possible liver, wow, this seems too good to be true. But we were told we had to arrive at the hospital </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">within a half hour. Why so soon I was asking myself? We dressed quick and sped off to the hospital. We didn’t even have time to fart. Got there and were rushed up to the transplant floor where Donna was prepped for surgery, everyone in a mad dash to save time. But why? </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">The surgeon and his assistant come in our room and start to explain the situation, how the donor died, how old he was, how his liver size was compatible with Donna’s, that the blood types matched and everything seemed ok....I guess, but I had an uneasy feeling about all of this. This is all not happening the way that it was explained that it would. For me, not enough information about the </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">donor and not enough clarification regarding the positive viruses in the liver. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The surgeon explained that the donor liver was a DCD (donation after cardiac death), and had tested positive for EBV (Epstein Barr </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Virus), and CMV (Cytomegalovirus) viruses. He explained that EBV is a common virus that a lot of people get, and referred to it as the “kissing virus” because a lot of young people transmit it that way. </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Nothing more was said about the EBV virus. He then explained the CMV virus was also positive in this liver, but that Donna had tested positive for this previously so she would have had some level of immunity to it. </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">What the surgeon did not explain was the danger of a female EBV negative recipient receiving a male positive infected EBV liver. No mention from him regarding the very high possibility of cancer. The surgeon did not inform us of the large tumor in the liver which I believe</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span> </span><span>was cancerous.</span><span> </span><span> He also failed to inform us of the biliary damage that the liver had. We have since learned that the liver has ischemia damage and cellular damage. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">There are federal laws on the books that require transplant centers and hospitals to disclose all </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">pertinent information in organ transplant cases. This is called “INFORMED CONSENT”. After the brief discussion we decided to accept this liver because we did not have any information about it that would have created a red flag. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">So here we are at 4:00 am trying to quickly decide whether we should accept a life changing organ that we know very little about. When you buy a house or a car, you have the opportunity to have them inspected, evaluated and see a sellers disclosure so you can make an intelligent decision before you buy, but not in this case. The life of your loved one is now </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">dependent on the surgeons proficiency and honesty. Transplant recipients should have the right to know about the donors medical issues, that pertain to the organs condition. Example, did the donor have cancer, or other diseases? HIPAA privacy laws are in favor of the donors privacy, but not the recipients rights. It’s ridiculous to deny the recipients this life saving information, it might mean</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">the difference between life or death, or they will only live a short life until they die from these other diseases and illnesses.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The FDA allows transplant hospitals to use organs that are infected with potentially deadly viruses. EBV and CMV are now cleared to be used in transplants due to the shortage of donor organs. Even </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">organs that are cancerous are now cleared to use. The rule however is that they are to be used in people who are very sick and might die soon if not transplanted. This was not the case with Donna. Her MELD score (Model for End Stage Liver Disease) was 24, not an emergent condition. The biggest concern is that the hospitals/surgeons need to inform the recipients and explain </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>the</span><span> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">full details and ramifications of the diseased organs. Otherwise it is a blind offer and violators should be prosecuted under federal laws. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I felt extremely hesitant to accept this liver. I did not have the heart to tell Donna that we should pass on it. I also felt a lot of pressure from everyone involved to accept it. It just seemed a little odd that </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">all of a sudden the hospital had a suitable liver or was it just a liver but not so good? Considering 1 1/2 years of suffering and going through three failed TIPS procedures, endless tests and more endless procedures, being so sick she lost over 100 pounds, so to </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">spare her more agony we decided to accept this liver and signed the consent forms. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">As it turned out, the worst mistake I ever made. Just after Donna had gone off to surgery, the surgeon told me the final serologies (blood and tissue tests) had not been examined but he would let me know of any problems........WHAT!!!???? You mean to tell me you are going to </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">implant a DCD donor liver into my wife’s body and you are not completely sure of possible anomalies???</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’m now convinced I’m living in the Twilight Zone. I have a lot of fear and regret. Even today I feel a lot of guilt about this, and did I listen to my natural instincts, or did I succumb to pressure. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">There just wasn’t enough time.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You think you’ve heard everything? Stay tuned for part two of three.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-34100172883019624562021-01-18T14:46:00.000-07:002021-01-18T14:46:13.012-07:00WELCOME TO MEDICAL SCHOOL <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">In my next life, I’m going to be that person that makes up medical words. Honestly, I’ve had too many procedures and problems that I have to look up the meanings for such things. Case in point....bloody nose, aka nosebleed. What is the medical word. EPISTAXIS. (<i>I’m awesome, I’m going to call it Epistaxis to show my brilliance.) </i>Why do I bring up medical words. Oh just wait.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">On November 13, 2019, six weeks after my last round of chemo, I had an appointment at the cancer clinic. It was determined that I had to get another Neulasta shot. All my labs were super low. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-brdb6_9Ynho/YAXV_jAJoyI/AAAAAAAAHlI/X4n8WgmDQWgBMnjWf_iPcHLhRuJbRM0qwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/BB33B6C9-59FE-4CC6-9342-FD3F44DDB122.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-brdb6_9Ynho/YAXV_jAJoyI/AAAAAAAAHlI/X4n8WgmDQWgBMnjWf_iPcHLhRuJbRM0qwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/BB33B6C9-59FE-4CC6-9342-FD3F44DDB122.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">If you remember, they would give me this shot 24 hours after chemo to help boost the cells in my body. According to the doctor I was suffering from persistent cytopenias. What does this word mean? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Cytopenia occurs when one or more of your blood cell types is lower than it should be. Your blood consists of three main parts. Red blood cells carry oxygen and nutrients around your body. White blood cells fight infection and battle unhealthy bacteria. </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This chart shows how fast the neulasta shot brings up the production of cells. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B6En6P-gcOU/YAXYO4Z897I/AAAAAAAAHlU/hzGh47djmGEr9rznudUIZZqaCgXl_8SDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/E889DE63-714C-4D65-928B-9F7877BB9EFA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="989" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B6En6P-gcOU/YAXYO4Z897I/AAAAAAAAHlU/hzGh47djmGEr9rznudUIZZqaCgXl_8SDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E889DE63-714C-4D65-928B-9F7877BB9EFA.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">They also decided I needed another bone marrow biopsy. Oh joyous rapture!! I enjoyed the first one so much. On October 22nd I got that fun and exciting procedure. Let’s remind ourselves how much fun they are. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z55MGY1J3nU/YAXY9ZhGDlI/AAAAAAAAHlc/fY4HL7dTvRoWQWbKbTLyO9MKqbLFUXY1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/850CF8C0-2BA7-46D3-971C-D9005701E67D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z55MGY1J3nU/YAXY9ZhGDlI/AAAAAAAAHlc/fY4HL7dTvRoWQWbKbTLyO9MKqbLFUXY1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/850CF8C0-2BA7-46D3-971C-D9005701E67D.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I remember walking out of that biopsy to a completely dark hospital. What the? They had lost their power. Thank goodness procedure rooms have generators. I didn’t want to have to get another one. The power came back on, which was good because I had to go right up to the cancer clinic. There was no way I could walk up 7 flights of stairs. Maybe two steps but not anymore than that. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Once there, they decided I needed yet another neulasta shot. Rats!!!! Too many pokes in one day for this girl. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My liver Doc, we’ll call him Dr. Aussie, because he’s from Australia and that accent is my favorite accent ever, but don’t tell him that, he might get a big head. Anywho, on September 26th they had their little conference where the doctors and surgeons, our transplant coordinators (hey girl, yup she reads my blog), the cleaning crew and the maintenance people, get together in the conference room to discuss all their patients. Ok kidding on the cleaning and maintenance crews, but you know, just seems like everyone knows your business. On that day they discussed the MRCP that was ordered. What is a MRCP?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>MAGNETIC RESONANCE CLOLANGIOPANCREATOGRAPHY uses powerful magnetic field radio waves and a computer to evaluate the liver, gallbladder, bile ducts, pancreas and pancreatic duct for disease. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">See that long, hard to say medical word???? 24 freaking letters in that word! Aren’t you glad we didn’t have that on our spelling and vocabulary word lists in elementary school??</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">At their little meeting it was discussed that there was a high risk of a bile duct obstruction. Dr. Aussie pointed out that there was a narrowing in the common bile duct and recommended an ERCP for a stent placement. Oh goodness gracious. Why so many procedures. Brent has some ideas why but we will leave that for a different post. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Get ready for your next spelling and vocabulary word. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>ERCP. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>ENDOSCOPIC RETROGRADE CLOLANGIOPANCREATOGRAPHY</i> <i>is a procedure used to diagnose diseases of the gallbladder, biliary system, pancreas and liver. The test looks “upstream” where digestive fluid comes from - - the liver, gallbladder, and pancreas - - to where it enters the intestines. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">In this 23 letter procedure they stick the endoscopy camera down your esophagus. It was done on December 12, 2019. Merry Christmas to me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--ZoH5ZiOhSg/YAX3DU4j7-I/AAAAAAAAHlo/emUQKrx8Zg0Gsq5fcqsEH7nNUGAcnsFkACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/3F5D811A-3F91-40B1-920D-DC2DF3A5B45C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1902" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--ZoH5ZiOhSg/YAX3DU4j7-I/AAAAAAAAHlo/emUQKrx8Zg0Gsq5fcqsEH7nNUGAcnsFkACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/3F5D811A-3F91-40B1-920D-DC2DF3A5B45C.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Get ready to see the actual inside of my esophagus. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">They go in with the camera to find your problem duct. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sKHzz5fawIg/YAX3uX7cP5I/AAAAAAAAHlw/cJqg7mCBjEYtWW0cT_VsqhodJL4kcI3pACLcBGAsYHQ/s975/099C08F5-A53A-4271-93FD-0A5DFF820A4F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="740" data-original-width="975" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sKHzz5fawIg/YAX3uX7cP5I/AAAAAAAAHlw/cJqg7mCBjEYtWW0cT_VsqhodJL4kcI3pACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/099C08F5-A53A-4271-93FD-0A5DFF820A4F.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4AdHLPwXOA8/YAX3000gY5I/AAAAAAAAHl0/kNCEbQT6OVEfZIXTnChsa49gKZu_UN_AACLcBGAsYHQ/s899/B6ABA8E6-CB6E-4C9D-B71C-4013FAF6F391.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="899" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4AdHLPwXOA8/YAX3000gY5I/AAAAAAAAHl0/kNCEbQT6OVEfZIXTnChsa49gKZu_UN_AACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/B6ABA8E6-CB6E-4C9D-B71C-4013FAF6F391.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4sD6gPt1_-A/YAX3-p5NmSI/AAAAAAAAHl8/LqzKjZ5z8IIdCVQ9pzcUhy_V2cidTtKpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s945/B6702389-F055-4887-A989-C7067E9E8511.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="945" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4sD6gPt1_-A/YAX3-p5NmSI/AAAAAAAAHl8/LqzKjZ5z8IIdCVQ9pzcUhy_V2cidTtKpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/B6702389-F055-4887-A989-C7067E9E8511.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_8Gf-NFtYFU/YAX4FfQK02I/AAAAAAAAHmE/hBicQ2dB3d8UCTSYdVlDifG6rAgaDKfsQCLcBGAsYHQ/s977/6D3569BB-5708-4E32-9135-6D0038737CA8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="671" data-original-width="977" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_8Gf-NFtYFU/YAX4FfQK02I/AAAAAAAAHmE/hBicQ2dB3d8UCTSYdVlDifG6rAgaDKfsQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/6D3569BB-5708-4E32-9135-6D0038737CA8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Isn’t it pretty? At least it’s not colonoscopy photos. You’re welcome. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">They then put a stent down in your problem duct and balloon it out. They leave it in there to stretch that sucker to a bigger size. They will leave the stent in for three months to see what it does. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Big, long, hard to say needless words to describe medical terms. I can see them now, laughing hysterically while coming up with them. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Meanwhile I can’t wait till 2019 is over. 2020 is going to be soooo much better. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Famous last words. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-13935393088110908472021-01-11T12:17:00.000-07:002021-01-11T12:17:09.392-07:00ARE WE DONE YET!<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tnwhkqu7uXU/X_yLCTccd8I/AAAAAAAAHkI/yU3IfBAzGV8imN8UxTj9y5GYCp2c9J78QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/A34BAFED-443C-4A88-BF00-D7DABD086B43.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1405" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tnwhkqu7uXU/X_yLCTccd8I/AAAAAAAAHkI/yU3IfBAzGV8imN8UxTj9y5GYCp2c9J78QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/A34BAFED-443C-4A88-BF00-D7DABD086B43.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Another day of chemo. You get tired. You sleep. It couldn’t be the amount of Benadryl they give you before you start that days round. Or all the other poisons they are injecting into your body. I got strong enough from the time spent in the hospital after round four that they determined I was strong enough to get round five. Lucky me. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Three weeks later I was in for round six. You feel like it is never going to end. To this day I can’t watch St. Jude commercials without bursting into tears. I feel so bad for those children getting this crazy disease called cancer. Then I feel the pain their parents are going through. I’ve watched the pain and anxiety on Brent’s face every time I’ve had to have chemo or a procedure. He is one strong man. If any of you are put in the position that your loved one is watching you go through sickness, be supportive of them. Let them talk about their feelings. Let them be angry. They might scream. They will cry. It’s not just you going through all this. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">These are the many hats Brent wears daily. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I5RBIOtl2IQ/X_yVbAlBVII/AAAAAAAAHkY/yp4Fa9zLZ1EIziaplmYMwzex3K3u6uSDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/54AB086D-3C5A-4D6F-97BC-888A7E5CD6D8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I5RBIOtl2IQ/X_yVbAlBVII/AAAAAAAAHkY/yp4Fa9zLZ1EIziaplmYMwzex3K3u6uSDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/54AB086D-3C5A-4D6F-97BC-888A7E5CD6D8.jpeg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">He drives me everywhere. He cooks my meals and get them ready to eat. He gets my thirteen drugs ready daily and also answers the drug questions they ask at my appointments. He knows their names. I don’t. He makes me go for walks daily even tho it hurts because I need a hip replacement. He takes care of all my daily needs. He is the worlds best husband. I love him with every ounce of my soul. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">On September 26, 2019 I had my PET scan where they scan you to see if you have cancer still or not. They made an appointment for me to go in on the 30th. This is a very scary appointment to go to. What are you going to hear? More rounds of chemo, which would be a different kind of drugs, or remission. You go in the conference room. You wait for the doctor to come in. Anticipation. I needed a chill pill. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Finally they came in. What did they have to say. Breathe. Then you hear, YOU ARE IN REMISSION!!! Phew. Breathe out. They go over your plan for future visits. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4eu7naXpIMs/X_yaQr86kdI/AAAAAAAAHkk/dik2SD0zuAI5C4JyekenoQtKVxBRSUwjACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/06F52D25-BBE3-49A7-88BB-FAA29C9A1E1C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4eu7naXpIMs/X_yaQr86kdI/AAAAAAAAHkk/dik2SD0zuAI5C4JyekenoQtKVxBRSUwjACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/06F52D25-BBE3-49A7-88BB-FAA29C9A1E1C.jpeg" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">They gave me this book. I have it sitting out and look at it daily. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I finally got to have my PICC line removed. You have to lay down for a half hour. It’s weird feeling them pull it out. Much easier than going in, that’s for sure. Once you have passed your “I want to get out of here” time, you finally get to ring the bell. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S8tHBIi_hGA/X_ybNTj2iTI/AAAAAAAAHks/3Pq2im1wdvgFYobMifaKmJLq5NP2LvwygCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/63097EA4-99EC-4466-BAEA-EC41CFB015DF.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1538" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S8tHBIi_hGA/X_ybNTj2iTI/AAAAAAAAHks/3Pq2im1wdvgFYobMifaKmJLq5NP2LvwygCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/63097EA4-99EC-4466-BAEA-EC41CFB015DF.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">It’s an extremely happy day in your life. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Hopefully nothing else will happen. Right? Of course not! <br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div> <p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-37015248626331348852021-01-04T13:21:00.000-07:002021-01-04T13:21:48.550-07:00A JULY TO REMEMBER <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">July 2019</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;">After two years of basically being a hermit inside of my home, I felt well enough to attend our family reunion. In fact the last time I went anywhere was to our 2017 reunion. We have them every two years. I have a large family. My mom, 8 siblings (plus their spouses), 26 nephews and nieces, too many kids of those nephews and nieces to count. It’s a 3 day event. Usually in one of the many canyons we have here. Anyway, I digress. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i9_Q2_sw9ZA/X_NPt0GvOAI/AAAAAAAAHik/Sl-AzBK6uD8z7zKRARYLYj5C8_TN63M_ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1678/CB857800-C836-4E40-9BDD-5AEF3532C208.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1678" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i9_Q2_sw9ZA/X_NPt0GvOAI/AAAAAAAAHik/Sl-AzBK6uD8z7zKRARYLYj5C8_TN63M_ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/CB857800-C836-4E40-9BDD-5AEF3532C208.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">We get name tags and everything. It felt so good to get out among the masses. We arrived just in time for lunch. Afterwards there were games, hiking and just talking. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kgnri38ZS2k/X_NQ7_mimQI/AAAAAAAAHiw/12fvHUmPWPcI1X-nhPcrXrKPT-5LlaGagCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/E8F052CA-A3F4-4275-BF4B-B61C790C7B0E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kgnri38ZS2k/X_NQ7_mimQI/AAAAAAAAHiw/12fvHUmPWPcI1X-nhPcrXrKPT-5LlaGagCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E8F052CA-A3F4-4275-BF4B-B61C790C7B0E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">Here I am explaining to some of my nieces the joys of chemo. I kind of get a kick out of this photo because of the way they all have their arms folded. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fNr7IYivSX8/X_NR2H3qdgI/AAAAAAAAHi4/Y5j6jAvd8OgNjhbN_MWJIS0xjL7V6v0vQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1328/B1625FD8-E504-47BE-8C5F-3143B9E31467.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1328" data-original-width="1243" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fNr7IYivSX8/X_NR2H3qdgI/AAAAAAAAHi4/Y5j6jAvd8OgNjhbN_MWJIS0xjL7V6v0vQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/B1625FD8-E504-47BE-8C5F-3143B9E31467.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tyBGg5-aciM/X_NSfO-GkQI/AAAAAAAAHjE/1ARqdfclcuQXzYmlC8ld4yB_-9YqDYlugCLcBGAsYHQ/s1230/604CF3C9-E2A2-4CDB-8753-9CD33A45B9A2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1230" data-original-width="1213" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tyBGg5-aciM/X_NSfO-GkQI/AAAAAAAAHjE/1ARqdfclcuQXzYmlC8ld4yB_-9YqDYlugCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/604CF3C9-E2A2-4CDB-8753-9CD33A45B9A2.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">There also was a surprise wedding. One of my nephews married his long time love. My brother officiated. I was so glad that we decided to go. By the way, it’s not easy getting a wheelchair down a narrow dirt and rock path. But it only took three men to do it. Hehe. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Of course after that day it took about a week to recover. I also had another round of chemo on the Tuesday after the weekend. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Eight days later, July 26th, I woke up in the middle of the night with cold sweats. I had never heard of them. Apparently a lot of chemo patients get them. They can be caused by a variety of reasons. <i>They are often associated with your body’s “fight or flight” response. They prevent oxygen or blood from circulating throughout your body. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I also was disoriented. Scared the crap out of both me and Brent. Time to head to the Emergency Room at the hospital the cancer clinic is in. They ran tests. One thing they found was I was in a hypoglycemic episode. I think my blood glucose was 36. No bueno!! They admitted me to the cancer floor. I was released two days later. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Oh, but no. That couldn’t be the end of all the fun. The day after I was released I woke up dizzy. I took my morning pills, two of which are my anti rejection and anti seizure drugs, and promptly threw them up. I was nauseated all day. Even my Zofran didn’t help. That night I tried to eat and threw up again. Wasn’t able to take those two drugs yet again. Brent called the on call cancer doctor, who told us to come to the clinic the next morning if I wasn’t feeling better. (The cancer clinic is open every day because patients need different infusions daily). </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The next morning I woke up with extreme dizziness. I actually closed my eyes to make it stop. We went to the clinic. The moment they saw me, they knew I was super sick. I couldn’t even move by myself. I asked them for tea to help my stomach. They called in the attending physician, who looked into my eyes, and said, “you have nystagmus in your right eye”. Ummm, what the heck is that. <i>The main symptom is rapid eye movement that cannot be controlled. Usually the movement is side to side. It can also be up and down or circular. The movement can vary between slow and fast. It can be in one eye or both. </i>It can also be called “dancing eye”. Apparently your eyes are dancing to their own tune. Lol. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I was once again admitted to the hospital. We joke about my two hospitals being our “timeshares”. They tell me they are going to have an MRI done. According to the report of my admission, it says they are going to do the MRI with and without contrast plus a MRA of the brain and neck. Had to look that one up. It is <i>magnetic resonance angiography. It is used to see images of the arteries to evaluate them for things such as stenosis, occlusions, aneurysms, or other abnormalities. </i>It’s a good thing I print out and go over everything they have done, because I had no clue they did this test. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Lets talk about me getting said procedures. Being a smaller hospital, on Sunday the techs that run these tests are on an “on call” basis. As they are transporting me to the cancer floor they tell me they are already there doing a procedure so I am next up. Sweet. We get all checked in. We wait. We know that MRI’s can take up to an hour to do so it’s no big deal. We continue to wait. I finally send Brent home to be able to shower and bring me up my own blanket and jammies. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The nurse comes in. I ask her what in the hell is taking so long. She doesn’t know. Goes out. Finally she comes back and informs me that, THE TECH HAS GONE HOME!!!!!!!! Say What!!!!! Oh dear, the wrath of Dazee comes out. I must have said a whole paragraph of swear words. I know, this is shocking to a lot of you, but I was a pirate in a past life. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Three (3) hours after being admitted they finally come get me. The aide that wheels me down knows how mad I am. It’s the talk of the whole floor. I tell him I’m not going to talk to the tech, because it will be a blood bath. When I get there, she does the whole “how are you”. I lay there with my mouth closed. The aide finally says “she’s not going to talk to you”. Said tech goes into cover her butt mode. “I didn’t know I had another procedure. It wasn’t in my queue”. Uh huh, I believe every word spouting from your mouth, NOT!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When I’m finally wheeled back to my room Brent has just arrived back. Needless to say, I was livid. Which made him more livid than me. Apparently the head nurse, the director, the nurse in the clinic, and the tech all had to write a report of what happened. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IZZOEN2oUsY/X_NjpUBCC0I/AAAAAAAAHjQ/TV0amLs48eUfxJDN1j2aV76Z3x9Oky39ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1888/2BE57058-C144-4421-9E56-DA8A1E5736FC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1888" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IZZOEN2oUsY/X_NjpUBCC0I/AAAAAAAAHjQ/TV0amLs48eUfxJDN1j2aV76Z3x9Oky39ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/2BE57058-C144-4421-9E56-DA8A1E5736FC.jpeg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">My daughter and her kids came to see me. I had to ask for an eye mask (you know, the kind you put on to sleep) so I didn’t have to keep my eye closed. It made me cheer up. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6US5YnYHIWM/X_Nkj2zp0BI/AAAAAAAAHjY/lW1m1ExR610VyuRfeLHmetcc3ISwzmxUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1899/F2ED77E9-CD80-4D15-BBA6-4F601D6883AB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1899" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6US5YnYHIWM/X_Nkj2zp0BI/AAAAAAAAHjY/lW1m1ExR610VyuRfeLHmetcc3ISwzmxUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/F2ED77E9-CD80-4D15-BBA6-4F601D6883AB.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">Ordered this purple eyepatch while I was in the hospital. It was delivered when I got home. Thank goodness for Prime. I do look like a fashionable pirate. Arg. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">And you thought all the fun was going to somehow end. Think again. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-59418885479040700272020-12-28T13:30:00.000-07:002020-12-28T13:30:37.527-07:00HAKUNA MATATA<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">HAKUNA MATATA</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What a wonderful phrase </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It means no worries</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">For the rest of your days. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This is my mantra. It has to be. If not, well, I would be deep down in the holes of despair. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9-bzsmp5AgM/X-ofqsNRZvI/AAAAAAAAHg0/XC3W_Tuif7oxXQ6lssgY1-ZrYE6jHzfbwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1102/32A1DEC1-F625-4132-AC16-AE2CDC37E584.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="687" data-original-width="1102" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9-bzsmp5AgM/X-ofqsNRZvI/AAAAAAAAHg0/XC3W_Tuif7oxXQ6lssgY1-ZrYE6jHzfbwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/32A1DEC1-F625-4132-AC16-AE2CDC37E584.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">I know I’ve used this photo before but I wanted to remind you how I looked when I started chemo. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">A few things that need to be talked about today are things you just have to know about when it comes to chemo. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Let’s start with hair loss. It doesn’t just start happening with your first round. That’s because your body is saying,<i> “what the hell are you doing to me? I’ll forgive you this time”.</i> You start brushing your hair and a few strands come out like they normally would. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Then comes your second round. Your body says, <i>“hey, I thought we talked about this!!!”</i> You start noticing a little more hair coming out now. But you just tell yourself, phew, that’s not too bad. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>And then, after round three, dun dun dun, your body says, <i>“buckle up buttercup, you are in for a ride.”</i> You brush your hair and all of a </span><span>sudden you have a huge softball size mound of hair in your hand! With everything I’ve gone through in the past two years at this point, this is the first time I broke down crying. All day crying. Go through a whole box tissue crying. You have a huge scar on your body from your transplant, which you don’t cry about, but losing your hair puts you in a tailspin.</span><span> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c-a0CzCJfBg/X-oj5lIoQ1I/AAAAAAAAHhE/HZR3vN3CLXYFrL8hDYOqdYviiC0vqMYuACLcBGAsYHQ/s960/9DEBE044-C16C-4873-93D4-3ED6974E09B5.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="913" data-original-width="960" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c-a0CzCJfBg/X-oj5lIoQ1I/AAAAAAAAHhE/HZR3vN3CLXYFrL8hDYOqdYviiC0vqMYuACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/9DEBE044-C16C-4873-93D4-3ED6974E09B5.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">I had my daughter-in-law come over and cut it closer to my head. Figured I wouldn’t continue crying if I was losing short pieces of it at a time.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Here are some photos of my continued journey of the loss. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uOEFwHvSg8A/X-ok2RN9MoI/AAAAAAAAHhM/TVNRN_StkNc8n6g9VOdmpd7MmlZ9gZ5GQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1640/0ADC3133-72EE-4726-851E-C4E4C650F4CD.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1640" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uOEFwHvSg8A/X-ok2RN9MoI/AAAAAAAAHhM/TVNRN_StkNc8n6g9VOdmpd7MmlZ9gZ5GQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/0ADC3133-72EE-4726-851E-C4E4C650F4CD.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GCZvQc2hpvw/X-olJ7_jYeI/AAAAAAAAHhU/29pE6H20esQk0aZ-xLyoP720-sgT2FJggCLcBGAsYHQ/s1840/98E3A26F-620A-4E3C-A0D4-C3E15695D390.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1840" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GCZvQc2hpvw/X-olJ7_jYeI/AAAAAAAAHhU/29pE6H20esQk0aZ-xLyoP720-sgT2FJggCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/98E3A26F-620A-4E3C-A0D4-C3E15695D390.jpeg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">This is my brother Phillip. I posted about his trip to see me in my previous post, “C The DIFFerence A Week Makes”. I’m sure when he visited me this day at home he was taken aback by my hair loss. I myself was taken aback that he had more hair than me. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You continue losing more hair until you are finished with treatment. Then it comes back in but not all over your head. A few here and there. It takes longer than you think to get a glorious head of hair again. Good times. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Let’s go on to some something you might not know. When you lose your hair, you also lose your nose hair. I know right, I had no idea. So if your nose runs, there is NO HAIR in there to stop it from streaming out of your nose. I had to start shoving tissue up my nose. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OkroN0gG5yk/X-ooR25pyLI/AAAAAAAAHhg/VoWuBlbhSh4oHm47HNcHHc2tsdoTplukgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1908/32D0CAAF-2FAE-429F-8EB1-5B81FACF3294.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1908" data-original-width="1620" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OkroN0gG5yk/X-ooR25pyLI/AAAAAAAAHhg/VoWuBlbhSh4oHm47HNcHHc2tsdoTplukgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/32D0CAAF-2FAE-429F-8EB1-5B81FACF3294.jpeg" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I actually went to an appointment with my liver doctor looking like this one day. This is the day I learned the BREAKING NEWS. There is an item like this </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-33_EJ_XoMEs/X-oo74pptVI/AAAAAAAAHho/yjiyXhN7EfYWp3Sjt6hLjLN7m7zMse0eACLcBGAsYHQ/s816/F6C6A36F-B587-4F5C-A068-534DFB450E5E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="725" data-original-width="816" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-33_EJ_XoMEs/X-oo74pptVI/AAAAAAAAHho/yjiyXhN7EfYWp3Sjt6hLjLN7m7zMse0eACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/F6C6A36F-B587-4F5C-A068-534DFB450E5E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">WHAT THE? A nose tampon? Why have I never heard of these before? They actually will use them for patients that get nosebleeds because their platelets are extremely low. I never had a bloody nose. My platelets got super low, but not extreme. It isn’t uncommon to see other patients in their chairs getting platelets or blood transfusions. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I might have to invest in some nose tampons because even a year later I get bad runny nose syndrome. I made up that it’s a syndrome, but it’s my blog so I can say what I want. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Stay tuned next week for more interesting and amusing facts. </span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div></div>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-23033392532024535562020-12-21T12:05:00.000-07:002020-12-21T12:05:29.743-07:00YOU WANT HOW MUCH?????<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-REleeIDWRhY/X-DZ2tUuBhI/AAAAAAAAHgE/06tPfyUj5skO-5aAxsC7R9pYH4HSKqDyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/4AEF2EE8-AD90-4ADA-AAC8-939EA47936A9.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="923" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-REleeIDWRhY/X-DZ2tUuBhI/AAAAAAAAHgE/06tPfyUj5skO-5aAxsC7R9pYH4HSKqDyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/4AEF2EE8-AD90-4ADA-AAC8-939EA47936A9.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">On May 7, 2019 the cancer clinic told us that the Rituxan chemo drug that they were giving me just wasn’t doing the job. They had decided it was time to do the whole regiment of drugs. This is called R-CHOP. </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Look at that picture. I had hair. Also I was wrapped in those awesome warm blankets you get in the hospital. I was cold most of the time. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-53WEHM8IOh4/X-DagUsAFOI/AAAAAAAAHgM/FdxNWyaO7tgGeT9La21Xqe8THoC4CnS8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/E45B6E73-A290-4C0E-9C88-069C8CDF81F0.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-53WEHM8IOh4/X-DagUsAFOI/AAAAAAAAHgM/FdxNWyaO7tgGeT9La21Xqe8THoC4CnS8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E45B6E73-A290-4C0E-9C88-069C8CDF81F0.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>I always thought that there was one bag that had the chemo in it. Nope, R-CHOP is five (5) different drugs. On chemo days they always weigh you and take your height. This is so the pharmacist can mix your drugs according to</span><span> </span><span>your height and weight. Who knew? (well you do now since I just told you). You’re welcome. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>I had two rounds of the Rituxan before they started the six rounds</span><span> </span><span>of R-CHOP. In my case I was getting chemo three weeks apart.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>They don’t give you the drugs all at the same time. One at a time. This way you are devoting 5 to 6 hours a day to the process. They have snacks and drinks you can have. If you’re there for longer than 4 hours they will get you a plate of food. (at least at the</span><span> </span><span>hospitals I spent my time in). This was not just that icky food I had during most my hospital stays before and during transplant. You got a menu. You got to choose what you wanted. They bring it right to your chair. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Menu items included pasta, </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">sandwiches, pizza, regular meat dishes, soups, salads, and a chicken wrap. Oh and dessert. Be still my beating heart. Of course, (don’t tell anyone I told you this, but I would order enough </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">so that Brent could have half). My favorite was the wrap (big enough for two), cheesy potato soup (for me), a half chef salad (for Brent), a chocolate milk shake for him, and my favorite, cheesecake with caramel sauce. You pay enough for the treatment, so they can afford what we ordered. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Speaking of being billed for services. Let’s go over the cost of being super sick. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5AOMI0CTcxc/X-DgJJTRsnI/AAAAAAAAHgY/yZhAZQL-NYMgvtbPrmgYogegt82PUYGDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/8D6534A5-7A59-4DCB-81DD-B5E0BE9841A7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="961" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5AOMI0CTcxc/X-DgJJTRsnI/AAAAAAAAHgY/yZhAZQL-NYMgvtbPrmgYogegt82PUYGDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/8D6534A5-7A59-4DCB-81DD-B5E0BE9841A7.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">This was the statement of total charges from January 1, 2019, to the end of May. You read that right. $1,178,339.12. One million, one hundred seventy eight thousand, three hundred thirty nine hundred, dollars and twelve cents!! That’s how much was billed. The amount paid was only $80,402.09. All I can say is, thank God I’m on </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">disability Medicare. The hospitals and doctors have to accept the payment given and I’m not charged for the difference. If you or a relative are on regular insurance you might be asked (or forced) to pay the difference. Living in other countries that don’t make you pay the difference sounds somewhat </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">better right now, doesn’t it. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Let’s talk about the chemo drugs. Here’s a list and charges for the ones I was given. This is for the all </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">the rounds I got. Remember I had 6 rounds plus an additional two of Rituxan. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Rituximab. $106,032.00</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Cyclophosphamide. $9,794.40</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Doxorubicin. $2,718.90</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Vincristine. $1351.80</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Prednisone. $571.50</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Neulasta. $45,646.68</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Neulasta is a shot that they give you 24 hours after chemo. It helps your white blood cells to regenerate faster. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sidebar: Does it bother anyone else that when they show cancer patients on commercials they don’t look like they have cancer? I mean, that’s just false advertising. You look a sickly color. Show it how it really is. Don’t make it look like it’s a walk in the park! </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">If you add up all my charges for the year 2019, which includes all the transplant, chemo, tests, procedures, lab work, etc, the total amount is $1,344,445.37. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Yikes</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">According to my accountant Brent, the amount of charges for the years 2018 through 2020 is over <b>$2,300,000.00</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">And you wonder why so many people file bankruptcy due to medical bills. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-20431795630021720182020-12-14T13:32:00.000-07:002020-12-14T13:32:20.538-07:00Ummm...NO!!!!<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XLhsJhU9PaI/X9edDRex8PI/AAAAAAAAHe8/5WdyedRwdCwNBQBOTLOkrEuiD5v44B-BACLcBGAsYHQ/s1645/0936E074-5313-43A6-9ABC-C022D6CCD2A9.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1645" data-original-width="1198" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XLhsJhU9PaI/X9edDRex8PI/AAAAAAAAHe8/5WdyedRwdCwNBQBOTLOkrEuiD5v44B-BACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/0936E074-5313-43A6-9ABC-C022D6CCD2A9.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’m sure you’ve all seen this <strike>welcome</strike> unwelcome sight if you have been admitted to the hospital. “We must see your urine output”. Ok. Whatever floats your boat. Glad it’s your job. Not mine. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When I got admitted to the cancer floor, I walked in the bathroom and not only see one “hat”, but two!! Ummm, what you talking about Nurse Ratched?? I see no water. You’re hiding it!! Well, guess what? You get to POOP in one of those hats!! DAILY!! Much screaming in my brain. <i>I do not like pooping in a hat, you can not make me you big rat.</i> I’ve never had to do that in all my hospital admissions. Ok maybe when I had C-DIFF, but that was different. Breathing, breathing. I asked her how people felt about this fine adventure. She said the female patients accepted it, but the cry baby sissy face males didn’t. Don’t know what they’re looking for in said poop, but have fun. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The first room I had, had a self leveling bed. Oh, my, gosh. That was heaven. Hospital beds are the most uncomfortable things ever. Ok, not as uncomfortable as those darn tables they put you on for procedures, but you know what I mean. When ever I moved on this gift from heaven it would inflate and deflate to fit my body. So so cool. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Your room on the cancer floor are negative pressure rooms. The door to your room is always closed unless someone is coming in and out. It has a air system in them that sucks the bad particles out. Therefore when you have visitors (before covid hit), they could come in your room without masks. But if you need to be taken down to get a procedure, or just to take a walk, you have to put on a gown, gloves, a N95 mask, and socks. They don’t want you catching any bug since you are immune compromised. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">One other thing I had done on my first admission was a Bone Marrow Biopsy. They have to check to see if your bone marrow has cancer in it. If so, you might have to get a stem cell transplant. Thank goodness the shot of deadening goes into your pelvic bone, cuz that sucker hurts like living hell.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">This is the needle they <strike>shove</strike> stick into you. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dFq47zu7ktM/X9e_myNOCpI/AAAAAAAAHfk/m_ohHbEfEcYY_NlELW2YUEDGPL89IugjQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/FA4B2CF7-8BA7-4841-931E-AE6E252CFAAA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1548" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dFq47zu7ktM/X9e_myNOCpI/AAAAAAAAHfk/m_ohHbEfEcYY_NlELW2YUEDGPL89IugjQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/FA4B2CF7-8BA7-4841-931E-AE6E252CFAAA.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">It’s called a Jamshidi Needle. Even the name says JAM. For your info, the verb definition is <i>to squeeze tightly into a space, shove something into position. </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I can’t imagine the pain of feeling that needle grinding into your pelvic bone to get the sample. Let’s all take a moment of silence. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D8vOPsTlKLA/X9e-cGDxo-I/AAAAAAAAHfU/f2LpeCIZxlgWDcSkeX1kJkIc9-AxBB6igCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/E11FD308-E6CE-4305-AC9F-1536C0EE5525.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D8vOPsTlKLA/X9e-cGDxo-I/AAAAAAAAHfU/f2LpeCIZxlgWDcSkeX1kJkIc9-AxBB6igCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E11FD308-E6CE-4305-AC9F-1536C0EE5525.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> A week after I was released from the hospital, I had a cancer clinic visit. I hate to say it, but I looked kind of like this. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J-e_vxRFpN4/X9er-ozVgsI/AAAAAAAAHfI/yimA7GN7HfweBFgs1T2Nz4H28FeNOBM8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1530/48D1C19D-B127-47AC-AC6E-7A014AF2D8FB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="835" data-original-width="1530" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J-e_vxRFpN4/X9er-ozVgsI/AAAAAAAAHfI/yimA7GN7HfweBFgs1T2Nz4H28FeNOBM8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/48D1C19D-B127-47AC-AC6E-7A014AF2D8FB.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">Yup, I had jaundice. (That is not me, I can’t believe we didn’t take a picture of me, what the?) Jaundice happens when your liver enzymes are not doing well. Your bilirubin lab goes high. Your bilirubin rising also causes itching. Not fun. And you know what I learned by reading over my reports from this visit? The yellowing of your eyes is called SCLERAL ICTERUS. Why don’t they just call it jaundice? Geez. </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Here’s another stupid thing I read. On that visit they LOWERED the dose of my anti anxiety drug. Hello!!! We must have been in “too many things happening overload” to have not questioned this. Like they thought my anxiety level would go down!!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">That same afternoon I had a liver clinic visit. According to my doctor, my liver enzymes were demonstrating signs of improvement. Plus, Joyous Rapture, I get to have lab work done twice a week. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>I’m having the time of my li-ha-ife </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>No I’ve never felt this way before</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Yes I swear it’s the tru-u-uth </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>And I owe it all to my bad liver</i></span></div></div> <p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-18200290981060495192020-12-07T14:34:00.001-07:002020-12-07T14:34:57.335-07:00Why Are You PICCing On Me?<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Km-TupTB_R8/X85hMk2Pm3I/AAAAAAAAHds/rpu0gJKEepYvb5EIfptgGyKl9XwvR4qAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/C12D442A-520E-46F1-B606-17F3F60D7C2D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1162" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Km-TupTB_R8/X85hMk2Pm3I/AAAAAAAAHds/rpu0gJKEepYvb5EIfptgGyKl9XwvR4qAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/C12D442A-520E-46F1-B606-17F3F60D7C2D.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">Battle scar for getting the chance to live a longer life. Stretch marks scars for giving life to three beautiful children. I wear my scars with pride. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>After leaving the hospital the second time when I got C-DIFF in February 2019, I started the process of recovery. I had to go get lab work done every week. I was doing ok, but then my Alk Phos started rising.</span><span> Alk Phos is a liver enzyme. </span><span>On April 5th a MRI was done. Then a liver biopsy was done.</span><span> The normal range for this lab is 40-120. Towards the end of March, it started rising. On April 12th it was around 1500. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I had a visit with my doctor on that day. We went over the MRI and biopsy report. At this time he diagnosed me with EBV-PTLD, Posttransplant Lymphoproliferative Disorder. EBV is the Epstein-Barr Virus (Mono). My male donor was positive for this. I was negative. So I developed it from him. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">SIDEBAR</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>One thing you might not know is when you get on the transplant list, they will talk to you about whether you want to wait for a good organ, or if you will sign a paper saying you will take an organ that has some kind of virus, like HEP-C, EBV and CMV. They will transplant these organs because they have medications to treat the symptoms. If you want that “good” organ, you can be on the waiting list for a lot longer. We did sign the paper. They are supposed to tell you before you go into surgery that the donor has some of those viruses and do you still want to take it. You have to sign a informed consent. </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Then my liver doctor broke the great (NOT) news that I had Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. NOOOO! Of course I immediately started crying. Why is all this freaking stuff happening to me. He said that on the MRI they saw a lesion (or tumor, they both mean the same thing) on the right quadrant of my liver. It was 1.9 cm or 3/4 in. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xSXf9WGL-Qw/X850IOrpQlI/AAAAAAAAHeA/hnIQC5QtkqYcLvZNO3RvqLcP8NECd6uOQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/4458B7FC-9BB5-4377-B94C-5120CC12F592.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xSXf9WGL-Qw/X850IOrpQlI/AAAAAAAAHeA/hnIQC5QtkqYcLvZNO3RvqLcP8NECd6uOQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/4458B7FC-9BB5-4377-B94C-5120CC12F592.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What is the difference between Hodgkin and Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><ul style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(33, 37, 41); color: #212529; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 30px; text-align: left;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Non-Hodgkin lymphoma is more common than Hodgkin lymphoma.</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The majority of non-Hodgkin patients are over the age of 55 when first diagnosed, whereas the median age for diagnosis of Hodgkin lymphoma is 39.</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Non-Hodgkin lymphoma may arise in lymph nodes anywhere in the body, whereas Hodgkin lymphoma typically begins in the upper body, such as the neck, chest or armpits.</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hodgkin lymphoma is often diagnosed at an early stage and is therefore considered one of the most treatable cancers. Non-Hodgkin lymphoma is typically not diagnosed until it has reached a more advanced stage.</span></li></ul></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">At this time he took me off of my immunosuppression drugs. We were told that most patients that have chemo after a transplant don’t need them because chemo kills all the cells in the blood that know you have a foreign agent in your body. He also told us that a percentage of transplant patients will get this. Well aren’t I just the lucky one! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">He said that the Cancer Clinic would be calling me and sent me home. We were home for about a hour when they called and asked if I could go up there right now. Ok. That was fast. I packed my bag and we headed there. I was admitted. It is a crazy feeling to be told you have cancer and get admitted the same day. Your head is spinning. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The next morning we met with the Oncologist. She came in with a bunch of paperwork because the liver doctor told her that Brent researches everything. (he once told Brent that he asks more questions than medical students, and a lot better questions at that). Well, Brent cares about me and will look for all answers to his questions. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She said they were going to start me on Rituxan, one of the chemo drugs. She was hoping that this one drug would work by itself, but I would have a PET scan done after two doses to see how it was looking. Before I would get the drug, I was sent to get a PICC line put in. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JVaa_k0QII8/X855K50_o6I/AAAAAAAAHeQ/J_NAfvA9nJ8Pbh6SNp-bDREZLZmp-xP2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/C3A502D6-6772-4637-AB1C-39394AA1626E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JVaa_k0QII8/X855K50_o6I/AAAAAAAAHeQ/J_NAfvA9nJ8Pbh6SNp-bDREZLZmp-xP2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/C3A502D6-6772-4637-AB1C-39394AA1626E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">A PICC line is a thin, soft, long catheter that is inserted into a vein in your arm, leg or neck. The catheter is positioned in a large vein that carries blood into the heart. This is done with the help of an ultrasound. The Tech started with my right arm. She kept looking at the ultrasound. Apparently I have weird veins. The catheter would get to a place where there shouldn’t be a valve opening. Oh no. What have we here. A valve that is opening and closing. It would block off and crimp the line. (A small percentage thing). She pulls it out and moves to my left arm. Yes another poke. Errrr. The left vein doesn’t have that problem. She gets it to my heart and then waits for the machine to say everything is working the way it should. She then stitches the piece you see in the first picture that is under the clear piece. The stitch’s (2) holds it in place on your arm so it doesn’t move. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rvcB7SNDLB4/X857a3l-oZI/AAAAAAAAHeg/Pw6n1NS6frEu7z4TekkM6HdgEHWMF9M3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1882/CF985D40-100D-469D-9677-8574C1DD091C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1882" data-original-width="1230" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rvcB7SNDLB4/X857a3l-oZI/AAAAAAAAHeg/Pw6n1NS6frEu7z4TekkM6HdgEHWMF9M3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/CF985D40-100D-469D-9677-8574C1DD091C.jpeg" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LNh8o9c3gPs/X857lyFUANI/AAAAAAAAHek/sTXiqeBO7WkQoQM1_U_sk6pMUwyGqvkdwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1859/B58DFAF1-6DA4-4660-B858-A8DBDF5C9135.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1859" data-original-width="1202" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LNh8o9c3gPs/X857lyFUANI/AAAAAAAAHek/sTXiqeBO7WkQoQM1_U_sk6pMUwyGqvkdwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/B58DFAF1-6DA4-4660-B858-A8DBDF5C9135.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">At least with a PICC line you don’t have to get poked every time. Even your labs are drawn from them. Phew. They have to be cleaned around the injection site every week so it’s lots of trips to the hospital. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I was released from the cancer floor three days later. But there was a lot that went on during those three days. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What were they? You’ll have to wait till the next chapter. Hehe</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-24150784443173759232020-11-30T09:45:00.002-07:002020-11-30T09:47:10.140-07:00C The DIFFerence A Week Makes<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5Ot2Q3CYC7I/X8QfQRYhlHI/AAAAAAAAHcs/7J0m3nISQhkR92S4FXxTraw-PFvVuYGygCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/E0433570-AA68-47BF-9D62-70281FB2A5BE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1194" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5Ot2Q3CYC7I/X8QfQRYhlHI/AAAAAAAAHcs/7J0m3nISQhkR92S4FXxTraw-PFvVuYGygCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E0433570-AA68-47BF-9D62-70281FB2A5BE.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><div style="text-align: center;">Gross stuff coming. But first, another memory from a sibling. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>From My Brother Phillip</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>In early 2019 Dazee was in the hospital recovering from her liver transplant. She had been on my mind a lot. I felt paralyzed being so far from her during this time. My family prayed for her constantly. One week in February, I was able to find a reason to go to Salt Lake. It was a short trip, but I planned to take some time to see her in the hospital. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>However truth be told, after a long day and getting in much later than I expected, I didn’t feel like going to the hospital. It was about 9 PM and snowing outside. Based on my schedule, I also knew I wouldn’t be able to see her the next day as I was flying back out. But, I really wanted to see her, so I quickly checked into my room and headed to the hospital. I can’t think of anything I’m more glad I did over the last few years. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I really didn’t know where I was going so my wife Alisa talked to Melodie to find out the details. I arrived at the hospital and started looking for the right floor. I remember the smell making me anxious. (I don’t like the smell of hospitals). When I got to the right floor, I started looking for the room I was told she was in. I remember being surprised that no one questioned what I was doing. I thought it was odd they’d simply allow some guy to roam around the area after 9PM. I went into the room I was told she was in. Some dude was lying in the bed (freaked me out) so I had to go to the Nurses’s station and ask where she was. Finally I found her room. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>When I walked in, I saw her lying in bed asleep. I also saw Brent sitting in a chair next to the window doing a crossword puzzle. I sat next to him and asked how she was doing. I was blown away with how much he had learned about her condition. I’ve never forgotten that. We chatted for a while and then she woke up a bit and saw me sitting there. She smiled and said “Phillip?” I thought my heart was going to burst. It made me so sad to see her lying there in that condition. On the other hand, I was equally as happy that she had received her new liver. We talked for a while, and even though she desperately wanted to show me her scars, I’m happy to say that I was strong enough NOT to look at them. (I’m a wimp and may have fainted). </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I’ve always been so glad that I was able to make that trip and see her. She lifted my spirits. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WXWIWdAJJuE/X8Qq6rJ0CuI/AAAAAAAAHc4/MLGQw9is35sORrgoDKBhyGVHU_oC0j8vACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/2E7B1D7C-BC6E-4E72-B91B-47833CFE3687.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WXWIWdAJJuE/X8Qq6rJ0CuI/AAAAAAAAHc4/MLGQw9is35sORrgoDKBhyGVHU_oC0j8vACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/2E7B1D7C-BC6E-4E72-B91B-47833CFE3687.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>On February 19, 2019 I was finally released from the hospital. Yippee ya hooey. When we left, in my possession, were 21 different drugs I had to take daily. Yes, you read that right, 21. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hwtz12gImrI/X8QsNo65UcI/AAAAAAAAHdE/EVnK8IbPFboFTT7c2UAyjyH8jA-fGA5GQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/66D2E378-CD58-4922-8140-62797E12D658.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1531" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hwtz12gImrI/X8QsNo65UcI/AAAAAAAAHdE/EVnK8IbPFboFTT7c2UAyjyH8jA-fGA5GQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/66D2E378-CD58-4922-8140-62797E12D658.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Everyday Brent gets my meds ready in different cups that I take throughout the day. He’s a rock star. Today I’m down to 13 meds. Still a lot. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">One week after my discharge, on February 26, I got the worst diarrhea of my life. Every half hour, (it felt more like 10 minutes), I was running to the bathroom. Actually it was a slow walk. I called the liver clinic and asked them what to do. At first they told me to take some anti diarrheal medicine. But then they called back and told me to go back to the transplant floor at the hospital. What the heck. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">What was it? C DIFF. By the show of hands, how many of you know what that is. Wow, look how many of you know. I’m impressed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It’s an inflammation of the colon. A disruption of normal healthy bacteria. Mine was in their words “a severe infection”. <span face="-apple-system, sans-serif" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(60, 64, 67); color: #3c4043; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;">The primary risk factor for C difficile colitis is previous exposure to antibiotics; the most commonly implicated agents include the </span><b style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); caret-color: rgb(60, 64, 67); color: #3c4043; font-family: -apple-system, sans-serif; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;">cephalosporins</b><span face="-apple-system, sans-serif" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(60, 64, 67); color: #3c4043; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;"> (especially second and third generation), the </span><b style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); caret-color: rgb(60, 64, 67); color: #3c4043; font-family: -apple-system, sans-serif; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;">fluoroquinolones</b><span face="-apple-system, sans-serif" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(60, 64, 67); color: #3c4043; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;">, ampicillin/</span><b style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); caret-color: rgb(60, 64, 67); color: #3c4043; font-family: -apple-system, sans-serif; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;">amoxicillin</b><span face="-apple-system, sans-serif" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(60, 64, 67); color: #3c4043; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;">, and </span><b style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); caret-color: rgb(60, 64, 67); color: #3c4043; font-family: -apple-system, sans-serif; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;">clindamycin</b><span face="-apple-system, sans-serif" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(60, 64, 67); color: #3c4043; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;">.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">They decided I needed to be admitted. Everybody that entered the room had to put on hazmat gear. Gowns, gloves, masks, basically everything they now have to wear for COVID. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Still trying to recover from the previous 21 agonizing days in the hospital from my transplant and seizure, I was moving really slow. Like a snail slow. When you have C DIFF you do not have time to wait for an aide to come help you. When you feel the urge you have to go RIGHT NOW. We made them get a bedside commode. Brent slept at the hospital the two nights I was there. I would barely make it to the commode. This type of diarrhea is just like water. This hero of mine wiped up more poop than should ever be expected by any husband. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">One time the aide came in, and instead of pouring it (the infected poop) into the toilet, she poured it down the sink!! WTF!!!!! And then she even left the catcher thing in the sink. My poor husband put on the hazmat stuff and cleaned out the sink and catcher. This goes above and beyond what any spouse should have to do. Just another time that we should have made a huge stink (haha) to management. We have learned now to make complaints. A lot of doctors don’t like us much anymore. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Thank goodness I was only there for two days. With another medication (antibiotic) to add to the 21 drugs that I was already taking. It’s crazy to think I was now taking a NEW antibiotic to clear up what a previous antibiotic caused. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Is the worst behind me??</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-29703739089268839192020-11-23T09:28:00.000-07:002020-11-23T09:28:17.389-07:00NO TRUST<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7mK82mNfDIk/X7rrxx24N1I/AAAAAAAAHbU/jJz3nvWhCf4lNqxapyAh1ElAOc9lf0ohwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/CEE9485F-1B39-4969-9557-E8D1E80C8E63.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1215" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7mK82mNfDIk/X7rrxx24N1I/AAAAAAAAHbU/jJz3nvWhCf4lNqxapyAh1ElAOc9lf0ohwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/CEE9485F-1B39-4969-9557-E8D1E80C8E63.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;">I have trust issues. I admit it. Some of them go way back before I was sick. But throughout this journey, I have only been trusting very few people. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>FIRST</b></span></div><div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">As you know, I had my transplant on January 24, 2019. Remember the three TIP’s procedures I had? I told you how the first one the doctor did I was screaming throughout the whole thing. Low and behold when they went to take out my liver, they found in my lower portal vein, a deep vein thrombosis. Yup a nice ole BLOOD CLOT. Looking back on it I think, wow, what if that sucker would have broken off. Would it have gone to my brain, caused a stroke or worse yet, death? TRUST?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>SECOND</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What caused my seizure? I developed PRES (a brain disorder). In my case, it was caused by an electrical malfunction, as a result of my transplant. It was caused by certain powerful drugs. The offending medication? Tacrolimus, aka Prograf, the number one anti-rejection drug given to transplant patients. I was given way too high of doses involving four different drugs after transplant. Therefore seizure. I can no longer take that medication. We did get the doctor to admit he gave me too much later at one of my many doctor appointments. TRUST?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>THIRD</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b6lcUcbSJBk/X7r4GNqscJI/AAAAAAAAHb8/648y1ipruYwO5hsAU8ExEbBfyxyIfTqXACLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/3BFB97E8-7B35-4B7F-BD53-44B829729AB2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="797" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b6lcUcbSJBk/X7r4GNqscJI/AAAAAAAAHb8/648y1ipruYwO5hsAU8ExEbBfyxyIfTqXACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/3BFB97E8-7B35-4B7F-BD53-44B829729AB2.jpeg" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Above photo my right hip with lidocaine patch for pain. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">2.5.19</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">They would no longer allow me to have a catheter. They wanted me to get up and wobble to the bathroom. That’s how I walked, wobbly. I was still unsteady on my feet from my seizure. Brent talked to my nurse Ross that evening. He promised Brent that when I called for help to get to the bathroom, he would make sure there would be two aides. Of course, when you call for help it could be 15 minutes before someone arrives. I already had issues with holding my water. Finally ONE very small aide came in to help me. I told her two people were supposed to help me. She said to just hold on tight to my walker. We started towards the bathroom when suddenly I felt myself slipping. Before I knew it I was headed towards the door jamb. I started yelling. I hit my right hip that had been replaced a year earlier, but never healed all the way because of going right into end stage liver disease. Oh....My....Gosh. The pain. She finally got Ross in there. He sat me down on the toilet and I thought I was going to go through the roof from the pain. I don’t even think he gave me a pain pill. Needless to say, the next morning when Brent got there, he was pissed!!! When the surgeons came around for their walkabout, he let them have it. According to the report they wrote, “<i>Husband furious with all caregivers about post operative course. Risk management called”. </i> They freaking deserved his anger. Two days later on another walkabout report Dr. GagMe (the actual surgeon that did my transplant, not his real name but close) said I was having panic attacks when standing. You think GagMe? After that horrendous night, Brent slept at the hospital every night with me. TRUST?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pDREVHkEb_c/X7r94jR91KI/AAAAAAAAHcM/xnaekKEdtHoCaUsnky-ok-fDQIUkaDnBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/B29A532D-98EE-4A82-A2A3-17FF8739E353.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="838" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pDREVHkEb_c/X7r94jR91KI/AAAAAAAAHcM/xnaekKEdtHoCaUsnky-ok-fDQIUkaDnBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/B29A532D-98EE-4A82-A2A3-17FF8739E353.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The lovely feeding tube. I look like hell by the way. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Fourth </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">They put a feeding tube in my nose when I went into ICU. I had trouble swallowing with that sucker in there. I had to take tons of meds everyday. I couldn’t swallow those. They had to grind them up and push them through my feeding tube. They made some tech come in that did an ultrasound test while sticking things down my throat. Gag, gag, gag. Other damn tests they put me through during this time. Let’s send her up to the rehab floor. 2.8.19. NOT ACCEPTED. Their reasoning. Because I didn’t want to participate in physical therapy. WTF? I never said that. Medicare wouldn’t cover it. Liars, liars, all pants on fires. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Also 2.8.19. Psychiatric Consult. Dr. GagMe was thinking maybe I was sick in the head. I passed that consult with flying colors. I told him I just wanted to go home. I also had panic attacks when Brent would go home to shower. When he would get back, he would have me look in his eyes and calm me down. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Back to the feeding tube. Everyday Dr. GagMe said he would send me home the next day. Every day that was a lie. On 2.12.19 he told me he would let me go home on Monday the 15th. He came into my room and told me he wasn’t going to because I wouldn’t eat. I lost it. Here is what he wrote on his report that day. “<i>Patient very emotional today with angry bursts of crying. She said she is refusing to eat unless we take out the feeding tube”. </i>I remember telling him I just wanted to go home. I was tired of him always going back on his word. His exact words to me were, “<i>I will take it out, but if you don’t eat so many calories with each meal, I will put it right back in tomorrow”</i>. My sister Margaret was sitting right next to me on the bed, holding my hand while I was crying. When he said that to me, she looked right at him and said, “<i>you should never have told her she wouldn’t be able to do something. She will prove you wrong”</i>. He got told off by two women that day. Bwaa haa haa. Needless to say, he had to eat his words the next day. He finally gave me the ok to be released. TRUST?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I was finally going home after spending 3 horrible weeks in the hospital. It’s got to get better, right? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div></div></div>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-30213848086605133962020-11-16T07:49:00.000-07:002020-11-16T07:49:06.594-07:00What’s Going On??????<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AIMl-s5igmk/X7KHtZ8xrfI/AAAAAAAAHaY/4T_oaKXhXuMpise_hiEy4WvS3HAU3L56QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1507/0F9BDC93-0B82-4C28-BC94-97AFD2CCFBFB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1507" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AIMl-s5igmk/X7KHtZ8xrfI/AAAAAAAAHaY/4T_oaKXhXuMpise_hiEy4WvS3HAU3L56QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/0F9BDC93-0B82-4C28-BC94-97AFD2CCFBFB.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Warning, this post may cause different emotions. Be advised. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’ve asked my siblings, children and grandchildren to write things about an experience or two they’ve had with me in my hospital experiences. Please enjoy. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>From My Brother John</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>I visited Dazee the day of her surgery, thinking she had been out of surgery for a while and was now resting. Instead I found a team of doctors and nurses (as well as her husband Brent) around her getting her to sit up and trying to adjust her to lay down in her bed. Once she was laying down, one of the doctors started talking to her, asking her questions and such. She was very much out of it from the drugs and anesthesia, and gave short answers. Good thing Brent was there to hear the instructions because she was in no condition to comprehend it all. It was quite the mad house in the room and I waited awkwardly for her to be settled down so I could say something to her. </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Finally she was laying down with covers over her body, so I went up to her and said a few words, like “hi Dazee, it’s John”. Ha, she was so drugged up I wasn’t sure she would know who I was. She sort of acknowledged me, and said something about dad that totally didn’t make sense. I spoke no longer than a minute. Brent and I both had the understanding that the timing wasn’t great for a proper visit. He thanked me for coming. The next day I visited her again, and sure enough, she had not remembered a single thing about my visit the day before. We had a good second visit. </i> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The thing that struck me when I first read this memory from my brother, is my mentioning dad. He passed away 7 years ago. I feel like he must have been there with me during surgery. I like to think we had discussed some things. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Weird things started happening two or three days after transplant. It was night and Brent had left for the night. I was laying in my bed. I had a nurse that would come into my room and say she would be right back, but then would be gone for three hours. I kept pushing my call nurse button, but they would say they couldn’t find her. I then watched as they changed the room diagonally across from me where they had a camera set up where they could sit in there and watch what I was doing. I could hear them in there laughing. There was a older couple that were walking down the hall, I would scream for them to help me. They would just look into my room and go on their way. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It seemed like the whole hospital was in on the spying they were doing on me. The Director of the Transplant Clinic. All the nursing and doctor staff. They even told me that Brent and my kids were against me. They told me they were sending my sister in law Melodie to Germany to spy on me from there. When she got home I asked her to come really close because I had a question that I didn’t want Brent to hear. I told her I knew what she and the family were up to and I didn’t trust anyone. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I know now that I was hallucinating. But when you are going through it, you constantly tell everyone you’re not. They just look at you and give you that smile. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>From My Sister in Law Melodie</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>In January 2019, I had just returned from seeing my newest grand baby in Germany. Dazee had had her liver transplant a couple of days before I came home. I had visited her on Monday and she seemed a little different. Given the incredibly invasive nature of a liver transplant, I figured it was somewhat normal, but I was still concerned. She kept asking me if I had really gone to Germany. </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Brent ran home to take care of a few things and returned quickly, anxious to take his place as</i> <i>guardian of his love. I visited again on Wednesday and suggested he run home again. He refused. He was gravely concerned and I was noticing how off she was. She was fearful the nurses were laughing at her (which is so unlike her normal thought process). She started complaining that the water in her cup tasted like dish soap. Brent went and purchased her a bottled water, but she said it tasted like dish soap too. </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Now, I know this is something to watch for with SEIZURES, taste being thrown way off. The nurse came in to check for bedsores and I held her hand to help lift her, but then she started choking and having some foaming on her lips. I said Dazee! Dazee! Brent said, “I KNEW this was coming!” He came over to us and the nurse pushed whatever button she needed to to get a team in there. </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iziEB-UQrTw/X7KMn9vDQrI/AAAAAAAAHao/WWG0UNhRGjcNa4lgYJig-h6LjtILmzwVgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/49E6B3C0-E5C2-4B43-87C0-BD2C7D0BB9FA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iziEB-UQrTw/X7KMn9vDQrI/AAAAAAAAHao/WWG0UNhRGjcNa4lgYJig-h6LjtILmzwVgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/49E6B3C0-E5C2-4B43-87C0-BD2C7D0BB9FA.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>SHE WAS EXPERIENCING A SERIOUS SEIZURE </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>They told us to leave the room. Brent refused. He started putting chairs between me and him and the pathway so they couldn’t force us out. We watched as they worked on her, continuing to tell them we were staying. When they got her stabilized they told us they were moving her to ICU and a social worker took Brent and I into the waiting area. He was angry and upset. I was too and I knew I had to stay until he seemed more settled. I think he wanted to punch everyone out. His frustration was palpable. I cried on my way home and felt like I was a little bit in shock. I feared she was not going to be Dazee anymore. That was the most difficult day. </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Later when visiting her, she kept saying she wanted to die. Those words are hard to hear yet understandable given the incredibly difficult, painful, powerless feelings she must have been experiencing.</i> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I do not remember any of this. All I remember is waking up in ICU. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-35644796397391091952020-11-09T09:19:00.001-07:002020-12-28T11:36:32.293-07:00WAIT.....WHAT????<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AjUpXRZAz14/X6g6Jg04RXI/AAAAAAAAHZw/cP7fhNzSnFsX_xebfjqp-InbAcUPEYAuACLcBGAsYHQ/s633/E4D22398-1154-442C-B699-16FE4AB09430.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="633" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AjUpXRZAz14/X6g6Jg04RXI/AAAAAAAAHZw/cP7fhNzSnFsX_xebfjqp-InbAcUPEYAuACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E4D22398-1154-442C-B699-16FE4AB09430.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This is a round door handle. Why do I show you this? It’s to show you how my belly button looked and felt one night. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jjGVksE4lwI/X6g65KVGRgI/AAAAAAAAHZ4/SmAUlbRX-ngXA094XgsW0fO2HKq8HB3CACLcBGAsYHQ/s960/2ABEF256-E482-448D-BEF1-EDF1B8DC52C9.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="642" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jjGVksE4lwI/X6g65KVGRgI/AAAAAAAAHZ4/SmAUlbRX-ngXA094XgsW0fO2HKq8HB3CACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/2ABEF256-E482-448D-BEF1-EDF1B8DC52C9.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">You can’t really tell from this photo but it looked and felt like that door handle. It freaked us out. Why do liver patients get these lovely hernias. It’s because with all the ascites (fluid buildup) that keeps expanding your belly it causes them. I’ve had babies. Your stomach gets huge. Never got a hernia from that. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> On January 23, 2019, we made a trip to the ER. The doctor came into the room and took a look at it. Tried to push it back down. Couldn’t get it to do it. He proceeded to call the liver team. They sent a surgeon in to take a look and see if he could get it back down. I started to see if I could push it back down. Lo and behold I did it. Finally the surgeon walks into the room and wonders why they called him down. They watched me for awhile and let me go home. Keep in mind this was about 11:00 PM. Get home, go to bed and fall asleep. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">About four hours after I get home, January 24, 2019, at about 3:00 AM my phone rings. I sleepily pull myself awake and it’s </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">THE CALL</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It’s the Transplant Folks. They inform me that I am the primary candidate for a liver. Can I get to the the hospital in a half hour. Geez, I’m asleep, in my jammies, and kind of scared. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">We get there. They hurry me into a room. They get a lab tech into the room, and he proceeds to take a ton load of tubes of blood. After he leaves, the nurse hurries me into the shower and gives me a shower. The Transplant team comes in and goes over a bunch of paperwork. You’re trying to take it all in. They tell you they can only tell you a few things about the donor. It was a male and he had committed suicide. I wish they wouldn’t have told me that part. It made me incredibly sad. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">SIDEBAR</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Most times when you get a transplant, after you get to the hospital you have hours to get ready. The organ might not be there yet. Organs can come from regional hospitals or further away. If they know the harvesting team at that hospital, and trust them they let them do it. If the hospital is not regional, they may need to send a transplant surgeon on the hospital’s private jet to pick it up and help harvest it. Then they have to fly back. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">We get all the paperwork signed. I won’t let go of my husband’s hand. I have an incredible fear of being put out for surgery. Especially one that can take up to five to eight hours. It’s from watching stupid movies like Coma, where they tell their family members they have died, but they are actually keeping them on life support to harvest their organs. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">They are saying that they are waiting for me in surgery. What the??? I’m pushed out into the hall. I still haven’t let go of his hand. I’m scared. He’s scared. They let him go down the hall with me until they are ready to take me to the surgery floor. We say our goodbyes. He must have given me a hundred kisses. I could see the anxiety in his eyes. We say our goodbyes and off I go. I am so glad I didn’t have this transplant during COVID. I can’t stand thinking I would have to go through this surgery without him there with me. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">They stop you right outside the surgery door. The anesthesiologist comes out and explains what his role is and has you sign his “I will charge you separately” paper. Yes I mentioned my fear to him of being put under. They then roll me into the the operating room. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I hear the nurses say that the liver is there. They use two surgeons. Sometimes it’s a surgeon and a resident/fellow co-surgeon. At this time I hear that Doctor FATTY was going to be the other surgeon. No!!!!!!! He’s in the back getting the liver ready. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">They put me on the surgery table. They’re putting all kinds of things on me. Heart monitor, this monitor, that monitor. I’m terrified. I want my husband. The anesthesiologist puts the mask thing over my mouth and nose and tells me to breathe deeply. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">And then I wake up. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’m in my room. I’m looking around. I see my husband. I ask him if I have a new liver. I guess I thought it didn’t happen. He told me that I did get a new (used, haha) one. The surgery lasted 5 hours.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Physical Therapy (they are spawns of pain) came in the next day. They made me get out of bed. We were going for a walk. What??? Didn’t they realize I just had a major surgery? Well, that complaint didn’t work with them. Pain masters I tell ya. Thank goodness they didn’t make me walk far. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The next few days I don’t remember a lot that went on. Things were about to change. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><br /> <p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-58322336128300408552020-11-02T09:19:00.002-07:002020-11-02T09:19:50.031-07:00Things And Stuff<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_oCufOfzFYg/X58lOHoX7ZI/AAAAAAAAHYY/I-03GxzTF7cC30xh-nGIIS3O-JcAW7PFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/BEBCB368-ADDD-40D9-8F10-5AA5AF0A17C9.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1095" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_oCufOfzFYg/X58lOHoX7ZI/AAAAAAAAHYY/I-03GxzTF7cC30xh-nGIIS3O-JcAW7PFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/BEBCB368-ADDD-40D9-8F10-5AA5AF0A17C9.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Hello there. I know you’ve been sitting on pins and needles wondering what today’s post is going to be about today. Here it is. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Drum roll please............</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Things and Stuff</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The photo above is a little trick one of my nurses, her name was Madigan, showed me. She was my favorite nurse ever. She was my nurse on many of my hospital stays. I am a lip balm user. When in the hospital I was always loosing it. She came in, poked a hole in the tissue box, just big enough so the balm would fit in snuggly, and stuck it in. I use this trick to this day.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When you have your Time Share at the hospital, especially a Trauma One hospital, you learn all the codes. They do a tone so you know to listen for what’s happening. You all know Code Blue is the worst, every department has to get there stat. Doctors, nurses, lab techs, security, and whatever departments that need to be there. I loved listening to the codes. Code Trauma One meant the helicopter is on its way and they would give the minutes that it was going to arrive. Code Trauma Two, could be helicopter or paramedics with a severe case. Still bad but not close to death. Code Stroke could be called for the Emergency Room or a hospital floor. Rapid Response was someone could have fallen on the floor and something like that. The codes would be followed with a building number, floor number, room number. So were Codes Blue and Strokes. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">One funny experience happened to me. I was in the room waiting to go have one of my TIPS procedures done. Heard the tones. My ears perked up. Then came “Code Blue, Building 5, Main Floor, (about that time I’m like, oh my gosh, that’s where I am), and then Room blah blah. What the??? That’s me!! Am I dead? About a zillion people showed up. Turns out there was a part on the computer by my bed. The nurse had pushed it without knowing. Phew, I thought I was a goner. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xvnuRRSHv0E/X6Agv7OG06I/AAAAAAAAHY0/1mp1om4o1jsViJ9WI4t4KUx25v5YyG6ygCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/56AD1C28-6C36-469B-BC46-74CD68B984F6.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xvnuRRSHv0E/X6Agv7OG06I/AAAAAAAAHY0/1mp1om4o1jsViJ9WI4t4KUx25v5YyG6ygCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/56AD1C28-6C36-469B-BC46-74CD68B984F6.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You know these boards they have in your room. They put the date, your name, your nurses name, your aides name, and the custodians name, (I kid). I just couldn’t have it sit there. I’d go over and write things on it. At the bottom they have little faces to rate your pain level. Well, since I’m adult enough to know how to rate my pain, but young at heart enough to go write things on it. They wouldn’t let me go home till I pooped. As you can tell I let them know what my poop situation was. </span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Then there are the times I had visitors. I’m going to mention a few of the special times. These all happened before my transplant. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I have a sister-in-law that I’ll call M. She came to visit me one day. I wasn’t feeling good. I was sitting over by the window. All of the sudden I knew I was going to throw up. She hurried and grabbed a barf bag and rubbed my back while I threw up. What you need to know, and why this is such a special memory for me, is because she has a really bad gag reflex. If she sees someone throwing up, she will too. She would not allow herself to do it that day. You rock M. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My kids and grandkids would visit me too. One day my son J. and his wife brought their kids to see me. They were 4 and 2 at that time. I happened to be in a room on the side of the floor that we could watch the helicopter take off and land. They would wait and wait for that to happen. And being a Trauma Hospital, it happened quite a bit. They must have gotten their love for watching that from me, because I could see it even while laying in the bed. One cool thing about being on the 10th floor. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LSKDlv--xb4/X59Hnzq-RfI/AAAAAAAAHYo/UxupZt2Cw-sEK6e4Sv5IMJBQaMrDOX-dwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/11E1DF7D-7511-4D5B-958C-7A19852FB7C6.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1048" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LSKDlv--xb4/X59Hnzq-RfI/AAAAAAAAHYo/UxupZt2Cw-sEK6e4Sv5IMJBQaMrDOX-dwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/11E1DF7D-7511-4D5B-958C-7A19852FB7C6.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Another day my sister A. came walking in the room with this pillow. Don’t ask why it says And Ever, but I think it’s because she will love me now and forever. I have loved this pillow from that day on. The cool thing was that every night my husband would stack about 8 pillows around me before he left. First of all because those beds are not the most comfortable things in the world. Also, the bed I was in was not level. The right side was lower for some reason. By stacking the pillows, it stopped me from falling out of the bed. I wish I had been smarter then and demanded a different bed. Oh they would hear the mean side of Dazee if it was happening today.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">One day the PA came in and could see I was depressed. (You would be too if you had been in the hospital for two weeks). She told us to go outside for a walk. What the??? That’s allowed?? We wrapped me up in blankets covering my head and down to my toes. Went outside. Sat over by a fountain, when I looked towards the parking lot and saw my daughter M’s kids. We didn’t know they were coming. What a surprise. We sat outside and talked. Loved it. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">On November 11, 2018 we got a call from the transplant team telling me that I was the backup for a liver that was available. When you are a backup you need to go to the hospital so they can do testing and stuff. The doctor came in and said they were still waiting to hear if the primary patient was going to accept or deny the liver. There was another problem. Apparently the donor was a 6’ 4”man. The team was trying to determine if his liver would even fit in my 5’ 4” body. No need to worry, the primary recipient decided to accept the liver so I was sent home. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Alert....Alert. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Cliffhanger.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Next week we will be to the point of my life that you have all been waiting for. At least you don’t have to wait for a new season. Bwaa haa haa. </span></div></div> <p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-42678757944838288492020-10-26T09:27:00.000-06:002020-10-26T09:27:25.857-06:00Do The TIPS They Said, It Will Be Fun They Said<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L-yWKkaKDO8/X5X02TrV-RI/AAAAAAAAHXc/AtYJ-jw0_f42Ec7YxqNtmBkb1pG880IfQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/30E164F2-772B-43E4-9AE6-F2CA90C86A3A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1099" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L-yWKkaKDO8/X5X02TrV-RI/AAAAAAAAHXc/AtYJ-jw0_f42Ec7YxqNtmBkb1pG880IfQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/30E164F2-772B-43E4-9AE6-F2CA90C86A3A.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">TIPS</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What is this you ask? The actual description is Transjugular Intrahepatic Portosystemic Shunt. It’s a procedure that is used to reduce portal hypertension, and fluid buildup. Let’s discuss.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">A few posts ago we discussed all the fluid drains I was getting. My doctor keep saying, we really should be doing a TIPS procedure on you. His words were always, “I’ve had patients that have had this and lived for years without needing a transplant”. One thing people need to learn about my husband and I is we remember everything we are told. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I was actually admitted to the hospital on May 29, 2018, not the date of my journal entry. (That was when I finally passed my 6 min walk). Once again the doc was trying to talk us into the TIPS. The hubster and I were now fighting over should I or shouldn’t I. He didn’t trust it. You should know he will research everything that happens medically. I was so tired of getting fluid sucked out of my body. I finally used the “my body, my decision” saying, so begrudgingly he gave in. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">TIPS PROCEDURE #1</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">On May 31, 2018 I had the TIPS procedure done. This picture is what your veins look like before. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CfumefECT9w/X5X_UnnfOCI/AAAAAAAAHXo/Q5_cHsZhmogi0FW331GTH1PNUlHjJ4LCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/509F2E4A-8B15-4E49-A2F9-8B098E7B1A82.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CfumefECT9w/X5X_UnnfOCI/AAAAAAAAHXo/Q5_cHsZhmogi0FW331GTH1PNUlHjJ4LCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/509F2E4A-8B15-4E49-A2F9-8B098E7B1A82.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">The procedure involves bypassing a percentage of blood passing through the liver. The shunt goes from the portal vein into the hepatic vein. This is done to reduce pressure buildup on the venous system. After they put the TIPS in it looks like this below (green). </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CL7XgNjphmE/X5YAM27U6CI/AAAAAAAAHXw/i_6yVRBNDesmazUcLXccdeXrM_Evq_zrwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/D605C077-60D1-4A2B-B110-88E955F71E6A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1192" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CL7XgNjphmE/X5YAM27U6CI/AAAAAAAAHXw/i_6yVRBNDesmazUcLXccdeXrM_Evq_zrwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/D605C077-60D1-4A2B-B110-88E955F71E6A.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This is what the shunt looks like. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m89i6gB6ydY/X5bqVZV4tSI/AAAAAAAAHX8/PRXFUIvloH8MgsUdEpJLxNjZM90BARgtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/E0A91142-673F-4BB4-8040-0DE496E72677.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="827" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m89i6gB6ydY/X5bqVZV4tSI/AAAAAAAAHX8/PRXFUIvloH8MgsUdEpJLxNjZM90BARgtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E0A91142-673F-4BB4-8040-0DE496E72677.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Now I have to talk about what happened during the procedure. First of all, the nurse had dropped the vial of medicine to put me out. The doctor was telling her to get another one stat because they were ready to start. They finally got it into the IV but it didn’t work. She started going into to my jugular vein. I started screaming in pain. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I kept screaming for them to stop but they didn’t. I don’t know if I finally went out, or if it was over, but I just wanted my husband. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Because of all the other things I was going through, I wasn’t released until June 12, 2018. I was put back on the transplant list as active. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">All through the summer I did ok. But then I started retaining the liver fluid again. Noooooo. On September 11, I had a doctors appointment where I complained about it. It was decided that they would have the TIPS doctor go in and look at it. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">TIPS PROCEDURE #2</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">On October 11th, she went in, to do a revision, and it is noted on my surgery report that there was a large caliber varix (varicies) that was stealing flow away from my main portal vein. It was catheterized, and an angioplasty with balloon was done. Can you say, What The Hell???</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I was sent home because it was an outpatient surgery. Later that night I developed a fever and chills, and couldn’t breathe. Oh joy, trip to the ER. After a CT scan it showed that I had tons of fluid in the sacs on both sides of my chest. They did a thoracentesis and sent some of the fluid to be cultured. It was also determined I had Pneumonia. I was admitted to the transplant floor which we lovingly call our Time Share. I was released two days later. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Was this my last TIPS procedure? Oh heck no!! On December 19th I was in for another one, PROCEDURE #3, because I was having fluid sucked out yet again. As per the newest surgical report, it was because of a MALFUNCTIONING TIPS. You read that right. Within a 6 month time frame, I had three of these procedures. Normally only one is required. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Therefore, if any of you ever need a liver transplant, and they offer you a TIPS procedure instead, think strongly about getting it. They can be very dangerous. They don’t always work, you won’t live ten years longer (as we were told ), and they are expensive. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Needless to say I have learned to listen more to my in house doctor, the Hubster. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-34592824196743282062020-10-19T09:31:00.001-06:002020-10-20T11:28:01.759-06:00Lactulose Is Not My Friend<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">On January 30, 2018 I was officially put on the Liver Transplant List. Even tho I hadn’t quite done all the steps I should have on the 6 minute walk. I got close so they said good enough. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I was always so cold. I would sit with blankets on and when the sun was coming in the windows I would position myself as close as I could just so I could “feel the heat”. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AYdCa_FlF9w/X4yHJrj5LdI/AAAAAAAAHWg/0JcDA39cWjo0Hpcwhx2EWMKngISvgp2FwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/AD7A7E2B-CAE4-4035-9AF0-9159492EEAB0.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1168" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AYdCa_FlF9w/X4yHJrj5LdI/AAAAAAAAHWg/0JcDA39cWjo0Hpcwhx2EWMKngISvgp2FwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/AD7A7E2B-CAE4-4035-9AF0-9159492EEAB0.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">They put you on a drug called Lactulose. The cup you see is about the amount you’re supposed to take, in my case, 3 times a day. It tastes horrible and gives you the worst diarrhea you’ve ever had. They make you take it so you don’t get encephalopathy. You build up poisons that affect your brain. ie: declining ability to reason, memory loss and personality changes are a few of the symptoms. </span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Journal Entry June 17, 2018</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I went to my doctor’s appointment today and he admitted me to the hospital right then and there. It was because I was suffering from malnutrition and frailty. I was also put on “status 7 hold” on the transplant list. This means I’m still on the list but not able to receive a liver until they take me off the hold. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I so hated the hospital. I got depressed. My anxiety got really bad. I get claustrophobic in closed off spaces. (that’s a whole other story not related to my liver). They even put a sign on my door saying DO NOT CLOSE THE DOOR. One morning the lab dude closed it when he left. I laid there and was trying not to go into full panic mode. About the time I was going to call the nurse, she came in and asked why my door was closed. I told her and she said I should have called as soon as he did that. I said, “yeah, I can see myself calling and saying ‘they closed my door’.” They would have got a big kick out of that. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Right now I’m giving a shoutout to my husband. I love him so much. He was there every day. He was there from 8 in the morning till 10 at night. Three nights he slept there because he was so concerned about me. He would brush my hair, helped me brush my teeth and helped me get into the restroom before I lost everything. He also wiped my butt afterwards. Romantic right?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This includes the night we try to forget. Sidebar: this is how Lactulose deceived me. I “got the feeling” that I should get to the restroom. (Do not ever put that off when on Lactulose). Hubster and aide helped me off the bed and TRIED to get me to the toilet before I exploded. No such luck. It started streaming out before we got in there but at least we made it to the door. Can’t even tell you in words what me and the floor looked like. The aide put out a “CODE BROWN DRILL”. Three more aides showed up. They got me undressed and into the shower. I stood there in total embarrassment while they washed me off. Thank goodness they had a hand held showerhead. They used it to get everything down the drain. They tried to make me feel better by telling me about a patient who had a code brown disaster. He was still lying down on the bed and it squirted over the bed and hit the wall. Yikes. CAN YOU SAY WORST NIGHT IN MY LIFE. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">I think EVERY doctor out there should have to have a ml or two of Lactulose right before they go to the office. You never know when the feeling will hit you. Imagine them in a exam room with a patient, or about to do a procedure. They get that anxious look on their face and try to get out of the room before pooping their pants, or better yet, have it running down their legs, and out of their pants. Oh my gosh, I can’t stop laughing right now. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Before they would release me to go home I was required to pass the 6 minute walk. Physical therapy would come in and get me ready. The first day, I didn’t pass. I was having a hard time breathing. The next day they put an actual oxygen mask on me. Took hold of the walker and headed out the door. NOOOO. Doctor ‘FATTY’ was standing in the doorway of the room all the transplant doctors and PA’s would work in. He had the worst scowl on his face when he looked at me. He actually asked PT why I had oxygen on. They said I was a mouth breather and needed it to breathe. I felt his mind telling me he didn’t want me on the list anyway. Needless to say, I didn’t pass that one either. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The third day they came in to try it again. I was so depressed about the day before. They told me they had faith in me. Being a visual person, I asked them to show me on the food table how far I had to walk. They showed me that I would have to walk around the whole table and a little bit further. The hallway in the hospital actually looked just like what I had been shown on the table. I put my big girl panties on and we went out in the hall to do it. I was bound and determined to pass that sucker. I called on my guardian angel to help me, they started the timer, and off we went. I KILLED THE TEST!!! The coolest part was at every nurses station we passed they would cheer me on. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Needless to say, I was taken off Status 7 hold and they released me to go home. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Once again I slept with my phone by my pillow waiting for “THE CALL”.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-55220295002599522882020-10-12T10:20:00.001-06:002020-10-20T11:26:18.831-06:00Thoughts From My Journal Part One<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This weeks post is going to be about my musings from a small journal I started when I was diagnosed with End Stage Liver Disease. </span></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> <span><b>March 23, 2018</b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Today has been a bad day. I couldn’t breathe very well. Got really sick. Had an appointment to check the oxygen level in my arteries. Being a hard stick, they had to poke me three times.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c7ZyvWhNAzU/X4NVPNw7hzI/AAAAAAAAHU4/buhrkSZoj1IzvSGh1CHJ3aQfOdil1JViwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/66AB677D-99B0-4306-9C08-748DBEE0992C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c7ZyvWhNAzU/X4NVPNw7hzI/AAAAAAAAHU4/buhrkSZoj1IzvSGh1CHJ3aQfOdil1JViwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/66AB677D-99B0-4306-9C08-748DBEE0992C.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><div style="text-align: center;">At first it looked like a vampire bite me. Then tonight it looked like this. (starting to bruise). After finally getting what they needed, I went to go get the test that shows bubbles in my lungs. I started talking to the tech. It turns out that her kids go to the same Charter School as my grandkids. She even knew them. That is so weird, because of the size of Salt Lake, to have someone know your family, is weird. </div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Talk about weird, you should see me walk. I am retaining water in my legs and feet, therefore I have elephant ankles and legs and walk like a zombie. Keep your kids away from the next pic, it may scare them for life. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K7c8dp06RKw/X4NXR0ZQCyI/AAAAAAAAHVE/-wSg7muASj0cldMQOoJhxXkwYCNjzZyoQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/5AFEBA3D-AA27-4A87-AF72-8FED03A39713.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1175" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K7c8dp06RKw/X4NXR0ZQCyI/AAAAAAAAHVE/-wSg7muASj0cldMQOoJhxXkwYCNjzZyoQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/5AFEBA3D-AA27-4A87-AF72-8FED03A39713.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The photo on the right is what my feet look like today. </span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>March 26, 2018</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Today has been a bad oxygen day. I feel like I’m getting weaker by the day. Food tastes like crap. Especially meat. I’m to the point that I eat soup more than anything. Especially Pho. Even my beloved Coke Zero doesn’t taste good. I’m drinking really super cold ice water. I’m limited to 2 glasses of liquid per day.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aRBpODne4a4/X4NzgYwjGUI/AAAAAAAAHWM/fgyW61RRWTkLgrdocVawl4F3RgY8g5piwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/5EA9B872-CDBC-4261-80C7-960250DF8CD6.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aRBpODne4a4/X4NzgYwjGUI/AAAAAAAAHWM/fgyW61RRWTkLgrdocVawl4F3RgY8g5piwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/5EA9B872-CDBC-4261-80C7-960250DF8CD6.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This cup is 550 ml. I can only have two of these a day. </span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I think I might start drinking hot green tea. Coffee just tastes awful anymore. My whole life has changed food wise. My husband keeps me on Boost and protein shakes. The doctors are concerned I’m not getting as much protein as I need. Well, if meat and eggs didn’t taste so awful, my protein would be better. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’m depressed today. I don’t like feeling like crap every day. But I do realize I have a very sick liver. I just hope I can get a new one someday. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>March 27, 2018</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The best news of the day is they put me on oxygen. I’m supposed to sleep with it and use it when I’m walking. Even around the house. The only time I don’t need it is when I am sitting. It’s too much of a pain to take it on and off, so I’m just leaving it on. The test they gave me the other day that tested the oxygen in my arteries came back as abnormal. Which means the oxygen levels weren’t what they should be. Who knew, oh wait, I did. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>April 3, 2018</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>Today I attempted to make some hamburger vegetable soup. I got so weak that my husband sent me to sit down. He did all the cutting of vegetables, frying of hamburger and getting the V8 juice into the pot. When the liquid got warm I was able to do all the spices. That even wore me out. But the soup turned out so good with plenty to freeze. Which is good because that is all I ever want to eat. </span><span>The only salad I like anymore is the one you get from Olive Garden.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span> </span><span>I started drinking Diet Coke. I know, you might want to sit down to get over the shock. Coke Zero was starting to taste too sweet. I’m not able to take sweets. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My life as I knew it 5 months ago has totally changed. The weight is falling off of me. I wonder what else is in my future. </span></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-3392394935398886432020-10-05T08:54:00.003-06:002020-10-20T11:24:33.725-06:00AS-CI-TES, OH OH<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">DISCLAIMER</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> <span>I am not responsible for any throwing up you may do during this post.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Ascites, that lovely liquid you get when you have liver disease. Is it just one color? Good question that you just asked. No. There are different colors which mean different problems. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cY5lj9s9Pw4/X3o89-Ir7OI/AAAAAAAAHSw/bvZfxIcPI7QA7HQO94KKcdIUDV99iDf9wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/31339E1D-E6AF-4E02-AC25-C636BDF973DF.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="851" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cY5lj9s9Pw4/X3o89-Ir7OI/AAAAAAAAHSw/bvZfxIcPI7QA7HQO94KKcdIUDV99iDf9wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/31339E1D-E6AF-4E02-AC25-C636BDF973DF.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Now look at the above mentioned colors</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K0xyMZYNoyE/X3pAY6CZjDI/AAAAAAAAHTI/ewWeL_CMzAcKQ_69G5C0iydYv42yHvsxgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/222E2DA0-3342-476D-B849-137E29EBABA4.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K0xyMZYNoyE/X3pAY6CZjDI/AAAAAAAAHTI/ewWeL_CMzAcKQ_69G5C0iydYv42yHvsxgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/222E2DA0-3342-476D-B849-137E29EBABA4.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’ve had the cloudy/turbid color. Shows I had an infection. I’ve also had the pink or blood tinged. Meaning, mild trauma. The other color I had was the milky. Cirrhosis, thoracic duct injury. Don’t be jealous, you too can get liver disease. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Now for the fun and exciting PARACENTESIS. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rZ3XX_QjudM/X3pCx0EDtFI/AAAAAAAAHTU/-RCc1hm-VIgbCCnb6C5yt5n-Lursbgh5wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/4B1BC1B3-5D6E-4795-8552-B9D754B64B93.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="728" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rZ3XX_QjudM/X3pCx0EDtFI/AAAAAAAAHTU/-RCc1hm-VIgbCCnb6C5yt5n-Lursbgh5wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/4B1BC1B3-5D6E-4795-8552-B9D754B64B93.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">They stick that tube in your side/stomach area. The belly you see is not a pregnant belly, it’s full of fluid. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I had my first foray (A sudden attack or incursion into enemy territory) into the world of getting that naughty liquid out of my stomach, on Oct 24, 2017. The last one I had was Jan 13, 2019. The largest amount of sludge was 10 liters. The smallest, 2.6. In all I had 23, yes you read that right, twenty-freaking-three para’s!!!!!!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Next we have the THORACENTESIS. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HMN3L78qFao/X3pHaCHZbEI/AAAAAAAAHTo/jdgPv9jbH3U4dJlUuzOuxuPmLhpo6aumwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/027B734C-56B4-40E3-BAB4-4EA6B8213D0B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1190" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HMN3L78qFao/X3pHaCHZbEI/AAAAAAAAHTo/jdgPv9jbH3U4dJlUuzOuxuPmLhpo6aumwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/027B734C-56B4-40E3-BAB4-4EA6B8213D0B.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This procedure hurts. They are pushing that tube in between your ribs. You don’t realize how hard is for you to breathe until some of the liquid is taken out. IF YOU EVER HAVE TO HAVE THIS PROCEDURE, make sure you go to your happy place. Breathe like you are delivering a baby. Deep breath in, deep breath out. You will either get a pain in your arm, or like me, you will start coughing. TRY NOT TO COUGH. It is horrible. It is a non stop cough. You will feel like you might not make it. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My first trip to thoracentesis land was Feb 2, 2018. My last one was Dec 5, 2019. The largest amount they took out was 4 liters. The smallest was 1.05. In all I had 13 of this procedure. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Time for a story problem. I hate story problems. I don’t care how many apples left New York, how many oranges left California. And the stupid question they ask. Where the the damn trains meet. Ok, breathing. My heart rate just went up. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Back to the math. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">If you have 23 paracentesis with a grand total of 106.08 liters of sludge taken out, plus 13 thoracentesis with a grand total of 28.15 liters taken out, how many gallons does that equal? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Do you have your answer?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">28 Gallons of stomach gunk</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">7.5 Gallons of chest crap. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Grand total: 35.5 freaking gallons!!!!!!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Imagine carrying all that liquid around in your body. Could you stand it? Next time you go buy gallons of milk, hold at least two and walk around with them in your arms down by your belly, for as long as you can. Good times. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Now get ready with your barf bag. Please, please my dear readers, I can’t stress enough. If you are showing signs of liquid build-up in your belly, get yourself to a doctor or ER room pronto!!!! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--nTpRP13AZk/X3pN4ZnJJnI/AAAAAAAAHT0/V6aMYXlzkFwaXXLSItHkW8MtbWG30SskwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/1E015804-B5AC-4583-9BC2-D0852721B9AE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1230" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--nTpRP13AZk/X3pN4ZnJJnI/AAAAAAAAHT0/V6aMYXlzkFwaXXLSItHkW8MtbWG30SskwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1E015804-B5AC-4583-9BC2-D0852721B9AE.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">This lady has ascites horribly bad. Open sores are not an option!! I’m surprised this lady was alive to take this photo. Notice her legs. They are normal size. She is not overweight. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You can now gargle that nasty taste out of your mouth. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Be sure to join me next week for:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">All You Want To Know About Liver Disease But Are Afraid To Ask</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-63720378052971443582020-09-28T09:37:00.001-06:002020-10-20T11:22:37.092-06:00Tests, Tests and More Tests<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QN4cfnf2QiE/X3DQwAi4zEI/AAAAAAAAHSM/OajwXQoAaO8miYcjnsnpBSor8sH0_5dogCLcBGAsYHQ/s1620/70271F20-DA99-428B-B315-7F47775D5783.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1091" data-original-width="1620" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QN4cfnf2QiE/X3DQwAi4zEI/AAAAAAAAHSM/OajwXQoAaO8miYcjnsnpBSor8sH0_5dogCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/70271F20-DA99-428B-B315-7F47775D5783.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Welcome to your first day of medical school. I bet you can hardly wait. And what a great field of medicine you have chosen. Liver Transplantation. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What does it take to get on the liver transplant list. Tons of tests, that’s what. Let’s get started. Get your learning caps on, as always there will be a trick question. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">First you meet with the transplant surgeon. Last class we learned how much I enjoyed that one. Next you meet with the social worker. If you have a spouse in the room with you, they are asked to leave for a minute so they can ask the “are you in an abusive relationship” question. No I am not so they let him back in. They go over most of the emotional issues that can arise. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Then you meet with the financial person. They have called your insurance company to find out if they will cover you. They then tell you how much you will be responsible for. If insurance doesn’t cover much they give you information on things you can do to get money donated. Fun times. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">After that, all the physical tests are ready for you to pass. First off they send you to the lab to get your BLOOD DRAW. Most the time when you get a lab draw they take two or three vials. Haha. They took 37 (it might have been 27, but that’s still a lot), vials of blood out of me. I’ll have to ask my coordinator, (hey girl). Thought I would need a blood transfusion after that. You also get a URINE TEST. As a woman, those are hard to direct your pee into that tiny cup. I have been known to drop that damn thing into the toilet. Just sayin’. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">HEART TESTS</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">EKG and STRESS TEST. You will be asked to either walk on a treadmill on an incline, or ride a stationary bike. Here they determine the blood flow within your heart. Since I had yet to recover from my hip replacement, they had me lay on a table and then injected a drug that mimics the effects of exercise. ECHO TRANSTHORACIC with BUBBLE STUDY. They inject saline after agitation with air to create micro bubbles that the ultrasound looks at in the right heart chamber and the coronary sinus. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">LUNG TESTS</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">X-RAYS. I especially like when they make you put your arms in the air. PULMANARY FUNCTION. This measures your lung size and air flow. HEPATOPUMANARY. Breathing test</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">LIVER TESTS</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">ARTERIAL BLOOD GAS TEST. Measures the oxygen and carbon dioxide in your blood. I will also mention that this one hurts. MRI or CT scan. Here they check for tumors and blood supply. LIVER BIOPSY. All things they can’t see from other tests. ULTRASOUND. Here they check for liver size, shape and circulation. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">MISC TESTS</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">TB TEST. DENTAL EXAM. If you have bad teeth they have to be fixed before you can get on the list. PROSTRATE or PELVIC EXAM. I told them I wouldn’t get a prostrate exam. That’s where I draw the line. MAMMOGRAM. COLONOSCOPY. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">SIX MINUTE WALK</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This test was by far the hardest test for me to pass. It gives the doctors clues about your heart, lungs and blood vessels. You must be able to walk 380 yards in the 6 minute timeline. 380 yards equals 1140 feet which equals a quarter mile. I failed this test 2 times. I failed it one more time but that will be brought up in another chapter. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Now it’s time for the trick question you all were waiting for me to give. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">How many tests does it take to get on the transplant list???</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">EIGHTEEN. Yes you read that right. If that was your answer, you have passed.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Congratulations. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><br /> <p></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-736207340421432317.post-67322089179022459572020-09-21T08:34:00.001-06:002020-10-20T11:21:19.960-06:00Bedside Manners......Oh My<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AUILpUjaQ9Y/X2eebeO-ifI/AAAAAAAAHRU/RnkW7uGp9zox33qgQQ9BaKdJJdodzZlygCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/E932AB49-1229-46EE-9DB9-14FC43CE1871.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1917" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AUILpUjaQ9Y/X2eebeO-ifI/AAAAAAAAHRU/RnkW7uGp9zox33qgQQ9BaKdJJdodzZlygCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E932AB49-1229-46EE-9DB9-14FC43CE1871.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Surgery is not my friend. Three weeks after my hysterectomy, this is how my stomach looked. I looked very pregnant. I also was getting dehydrated. Of course, more times than not, when you need to talk to your doctor it’s the weekend. We headed to the Instacare in the hospital nearest us. They examined me and said that I wasn’t dehydrated, and wheeled me over to the ER. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">ER doc comes in and examines me. I just love the questions they ask. Especially how are your BOWEL movements. I said “well my POOP is kind of dark and looks like wet coffee grounds”. (don’t throw up its all good). He’s concerned that I might have sepsis. Sepsis occurs when chemicals release into the bloodstream. It can damage multiple organs. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gAwAYmt_w6E/X2eoBmDz98I/AAAAAAAAHRk/5OkgEw_o5iEe_9eGjs8j_BkuQsBaDYSXgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/58B88227-AB7D-4383-B44B-318E5B9BD0C0.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1649" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gAwAYmt_w6E/X2eoBmDz98I/AAAAAAAAHRk/5OkgEw_o5iEe_9eGjs8j_BkuQsBaDYSXgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/58B88227-AB7D-4383-B44B-318E5B9BD0C0.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Remember when I showed the photo of the fluid they drew out of my chest sac, this is the fluid they drew out of my belly. Those bottles equaled 6.2 Liters. (1 1/2 gallons). I was admitted to the hospital. After testing the ascites, they determined I had Spontaneous Bacterial Peritonitis. Another infection. It was also determined that I had End End Stage Liver Disease. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I had the most awesome doctor while there. He was actually the Head Doctor in Charge of all the doctors. Don’t exactly know what that title is. His bedside manner was so cool. He would pull up a chair, we’d sit and talk. We’d even try to crack each other up. He loved my purple hair, and he explained everything so well. After 3 days of seeing me, he apologized that he needed to start doing his job, but was going to assign me one of his better doctors. See, so cool. I was in the hospital for a week. With two more fluid draws taken from my body.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Five days later I was back in the ER at the big Medical Center. I was having a hard time breathing. After running ultrasounds they found I had fluid in my plural area (around the lungs) and ascites in my belly. The fluid around the chest area makes it super hard to breathe. I was again admitted to the hospital. They sucked the liquid out of both places. I met the liver clinic doctors who informed me they were going to take on my case. I was released 5 days later. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Two weeks later I was in the Liver Clinic meeting with the Transplant Surgeon. He was going to determine if I should be able to get on the transplant list. All I can say is his bedside manner was completely opposite of the doctor at the other hospital I told you about. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> One of the first things he said to me was, “YOU A FATTY”. Yes to my face. He left the room to go out and get a measuring tape, proceeded to have me lie down, and measured how high off the table my huge ole stomach was. Then he said I needed to follow everything he told me to do and not to do. I said ok. Here were the 3 he told me I couldn’t do. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">1. No being a prostitute. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">2. No going to jail. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">3. No getting a tattoo while in jail. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">WTH!!!!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Do I look like a prostitute? NO</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Have I ever gone to jail? NO</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Do I have tattoos? YES</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Would I ever get one in jail? NO</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Needless to say, I left the clinic in tears. Not only because I was told I needed a Transplant and could actually die before ever getting one, but because of how his bedside manner was. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This is the start of a wonderful journey. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Dazee Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08323163539682131873noreply@blogger.com1