Just Put Me Out. No Really, You Can Put Me Out Now. Hey! I'm Still AWAKE!

Two years ago I was awake throughout a colonoscopy. The only good thing about that experience was that I came out of it feeling a sort of kinship with Katie Couric. Except that she meant to be awake and I didn't.

I can (but won't) tell you every detail of what transpired in that room and everything the medical personnel talked about. I was on Versed which is an amnesic; it allows the patient to converse, but should wipe out all memory while the patient is under its influence. Except that it didn't wipe out my memory at all -- not then, and not later. I told the nurses that I wasn't out -- that I was really sleepy and feeling dopey, but that I was sure I'd remember everything -- and hey, that hurts! They condescendingly told me that no, I wouldn't remember any of the procedure, including any of the pain.

They were wrong. I can still recall details of that procedure and it's not pretty. In the recovery room, I told the nurses that I had been awake the whole time and they, too, discounted my fear (and my tears). It remains a horrendous memory and even though I'll be given something completely different (Diprivan) on Thursday, I still don't like the idea of anesthesia. Plus, I've heard that redheads need more medication and that we tend to have "patchy results" more often, and I just hope that that's not considered a myth with my surgeon and anesthesiologist! My personal doc told me today that it is, indeed, proving to be true.

While all this was going through my mind this morning, I saw this article on the front page of the Seattle Post Intelligencer. Oh great -- just great! This is all I need! Here's an excerpt:

Soon after being put under anesthesia to undergo a hysterectomy, Diana Todd began hearing voices. As she tried to listen to what the voices were saying, she felt the first cut.

The pain was indescribable.

She stopped counting after the fifth time her surgeon's scalpel sliced into her body.

Lying on the operating room table, the anesthesia drugs had her paralyzed. She was screaming on the inside, but no one in the room knew she was fully aware of the surgery being performed on her.

It's been nearly four years since Todd experienced what is called awareness -- being awake and able to hear or feel what is happening during a surgery when one is supposed to be unconscious.

Similar accounts from patients nationwide (about 28 percent say they experience physical pain when aware of their surgery) prompted the University of Washington to create an anesthesia awareness registry to understand how and why it happens and come up with ways to prevent it. Launched in October, the registry is a forum for patients from around the country to share their stories of awareness. Physicians then look at their medical records, from which names and locations have been removed, to try to determine if mistakes were made.

I promise you that I'm not normally a chicken about medical procedures, but this one's got me a bit (OK, very) nervous. But I can't focus on all this (ha!) until I get through two interviews tomorrow.

Maybe after tomorrow I'll beg to be put under!

Super (To-Do) Tuesday and a View from the Kitchen Sink

Today will be a very busy day -- even without Washington taking part in Super Tuesday. (Go Obama!) I do intend to take part in the Washington caucuses on Saturday, though, even with a swollen red eye. I have a bunch of pre-surgery doctor's appointments coming up in the next two days and, as if prepping for the surgery (physically, logistically and emotionally) weren't enough, I also have two big interviews tomorrow. One is for a board position for the childbirth organization I interviewed with in October and one is an all-afternoon interview with a major Seattle game company -- which is all I can say at the moment. Yes, I'm still juggling other balls in the air and I'll be honest with you: my arms are getting really tired! Once all this juggling comes to an end and I've caught a really cool, colorful, dynamic ball (I still refuse to settle for just any ball; I still want the coolest, most exciting, most challenging ball!), I'll debrief you on what has been a long roller-coaster ride and an interesting and challenging process.

But for now, I'll take part in an interesting meme that has been making its way around the blogosphere -- and what makes it most interesting is that there's worldwide participation. It's simple, really: just post a photo of the view from your kitchen window. Here's Lynda's in Cairo, Egypt... and here's the view from the window of "Swenglishexpat," a Swedish-English expat (as the name suggests!), currently living in Germany. And here's this morning's view from our kitchen sink on this gray, cloudy winter day in the Pacific Northwest:



The bin in the corner is one of our recycle bins. In the winter, we place the recycling bins on a table just under the kitchen window so placing things into the recycling is a simple matter of opening the window and dropping the item! So easy! In the summer, we use the table to eat on and we want the deck to look nicer, so during those months we actually have to take a few steps and open a door to dispose of recyclables. The lengths we go to... sheesh!

Winter has definitely taken its toll on our yard. The grass has lost its luster and is pale green at best, and brown in many spots. The deck is full of windblown needles and even big branches that have blown onto it in big Seattle windstorms. It also serves as our winter drink cooler because the temperature in the Pacific Northwest in the winter is perfect for storing pop and pre-opened juices outside!

I can hardly wait for Spring when we can spruce up the deck again, barbecue and eat dinners outside, and start planting flowers in our newly landscaped yard!

So, show us the view from YOUR kitchen window and tell us a little something about your photo!

The Official Medical Term is "Sludgeball"

I had a mammogram and a breast ultrasound this morning because I found a lump in December.

The reason that I haven't mentioned this previously and the reason that I sound cavalier is...well, because I am. I'm prone to benign fluid-filled cysts and I was 98% sure that this was simply another one of those pesky but harmless balloons-in-a-boob.

After having my breasts squished every which way to Tuesday (but I swear, it felt like Saturday!), I was sent into another room to have an ultrasound done by the specialist doctor. (They were plum out of techs today, it seems.) He immediately honed in on the familiar black balloon and I said, "Yup -- it's another cyst!" And he said, "Yup, sure enough." And that was going to be that.

Except it wasn't. Inside that round black lake (good) was a white island (not good). He and I both saw it at the same time and, being the nosy, question-asking, prodding variety of patient, I immediately asked, "And what is that?!" He replied honestly, "I don't know, but we'll need to check it out." At that point, my casual, chatty demeanor changed immediately and I shut up. He ran the ultrasound over and around the big round black spot, stopping when the white spot became more pronounced.

"Hmmmmmm..." he said. I hate it when doctors say "Hmmmm..." The longer the "mmmmm" and the deeper and more monotone the utterance, the more I hate it. This "hmmmmmmm" wasn't especially ominous, but it still made me nervous.

"Hmmmm..." said Dr. Maragam. (I know --with a name like that, he chose the right field, eh?!) "Tell you what. I want you to lie on your right side. Let's see if this sludegball likes gravity."

"This what?" I asked.

"Well, we hope it's a sludgeball, anyway. We hope it's just a piece of gunk."

"Is that the medical term?" I asked with a chuckle.

"Well, 'gunk' isn't, but 'sludgeball' is. Let's hope it's a gravity-lovin' sludgeball."

"That's what I was thinking on my way here," I teased. "I hope I have a gravity-lovin' sludgeball in my boobie."

"Me too," he assured me, explaining that if it "falls" when I lie on my side, it's loose in the lake, which would be a good thing. I couldn't help but conjure images of the Loch Ness monster...

As I moved onto my right side, the sludgeball dropped to the bottom of the lake. No wait -- wrong visual; it dropped to the downhill shore of the lake. Good sludgeball!

"Now turn onto your left side and let's see what it does," Dr. Maragam suggested. So I turned onto the other side and he proceeded to move the wand over -- the other breast! I didn't say anything for a few moments. Nor did he. Nor did his nurse.

'Hmmmmmm,' I thought (which is far less worrisome than those 'hmmmmmms' that doctors say), 'Maybe this is for comparison. Maybe there's something I don't get. Maybe I'll sound like a fool if I ask...'

So I asked, never one to mind all that much if I do look a little foolish. It wouldn't be the first time for sure and it certainly wouldn't be the last!

"Um, why that breast, if I may ask?"

The doctor withdrew the ultrasound wand as if it was being burned by my skin! "OH!" he blurted. "Well!"

"I figured it was for comparison," I suggested quickly, offering him an easy way out.

"Well, it would be nice if I could say that, but I can't. I was just being absent-minded!" I decided to give the guy a break. I mean, really -- he has to deal with set after set of these things all day long. It must be monotonous as hell! But still, when it's mine he's dealing with, I want his full attention! (You know you're really old and that you've been married for eons when you can only say that about your mammogram doctor...)

Fortunately, the sludgeball dropped obediently when I turned from side to side, obeying the laws of gravity and relieving us of any worry about cancer.

So today, for the first time, I was ever so grateful for gravity's effect on my breasts. Which just goes to show you that perspective is everything!

And speaking of perspective, I couldn't resist posting this:

"Eye" am Really Nervous!

Eye just want to warn you that Eye'll probably be a bit distracted this week because my surgery date (February 7th) is fast approaching and Eye am getting really nervous!

This isn't the first surgery I've had. In fact, I've had quite a few surgeries in the past, from exploratory laprascopic surgery the year before we were married (the concern was that I might not be able to get pregnant... ha-ha!) to abdominoplasty (to attempt to give me my body back after the twin birth) to a hysterectomy (due to uterine fibroids), as well as a few other minor procedures. But this one has me stymied (st-eye-mied? sorry -- I'll stop now...) because it makes feel so much more vulnerable that the other surgeries.

I mean, the eyes are the "windows to the soul" right? They are the part of the body that we tend to use (usually, anyway!) use when we communicate with others and they are where we tend to focus our attention (usually, anyway!) when others communication with us. The eyes show us love and compassions and pain and happiness and longing, and I simply can't imagine not having both that window and that mirror. I know, I know -- this surgery doesn't actually touch the eyeball itself and going blind isn't even a possibility. So maybe I'm just being dramatic. But still, I'm nervous!

So what will they be doing? Here's an official explanation, along with a few graphics, thanks to this site:

"Eye muscle surgery, or "strabismus surgery", involves either increasing or decreasing the tension of the small muscles on the surface of the eye. These muscles move the eye in all directions. This type of surgery is typically performed in a hospital outpatient surgical facility. During the surgery the eye is never removed! Rather, a small incision (approximately 1/4 inch) is made on the clear membrane covering the white part of one or both eyes. Through this incision, the appropriate surgery is then performed on the surface of the eye to eliminate the strabismus. The inside of the eyeball is not entered during this type of surgery. Contemporary strabismus surgical techniques involve "hidden" incisions where there is no visible scarring of the eye surface as a result of this surgery.

In adjustable suture surgery, the surgery is performed under general anesthesia in the typical fashion except that temporary suture knots are placed. Several hours after awakening from anesthesia, the eye alignment is evaluated. If it is good, permanent knots are tied. If the eyes are not adequately aligned, an adjustment in the muscle tension can be performed. These final steps are completed with the patient awake and the surface of the eye anesthetized with eye drops. When appropriate, this technique can enhance the surgical outcome."

It's the description of that post-surgical "adjustment" that gives me the heebie-jeebies! I can't help but picture the doc pulling on the string that'll be hanging from my eye and my eyeball moving around like a marionette. Yuck! Hopefully I'll still be pretty well doped up when he has that fun...

I did see another specialist last week for a second opinion and she concurred with my doctor's assessment that I'm a good candidate for surgery, so I really have no reason (other than irrational fear) not to do this. Insurance will even cover 90% of the cost ($5000 per eye)! But please excuse me if I seem preoccupied; I'll try not to dwell!

This Gives Me Goosebumps...

...but more than that, it gives me HOPE!



If you're young and assume you vote doesn't matter quite yet -- it DOES! If you're old and assume your vote doesn't matter anymore -- it DOES! If you've given up hope, thinking that the downward spiral this country is currently enduring is beyond repair -- it ISN'T.

Yes, we can all VOTE FOR CHANGE!

In Case of Emergency, Call the ICE(Y) Spouse

A few years ago, a little ditty about ways to be safe in an emergency made its way around the Internet.

One of the suggestions on that list was to enter your spouse's name on your cell phone under "ICE" for "in case of emergency," with the explanation that it gives emergency personnel an idea of whom to notify if they need to reach a close family member.

It's a good idea and of course, we implemented it. But we can't help but chuckle every time we see our names in the phones' contact lists, wondering what non-emergency personnel would think, should they find our phones. They probably assume we're just in one long, unending feud or that someone got snooty one day and the other followed suit.

Or that bitchy is as bitchy does.

I can hear it now: "Hey, I found your wife's phone. And dude --your wife sounds like a total bee-atch, man!"

Word from Elisabeth

She says: "hi, im alive. sorrz, cant write right now. ill myspace zou late."

(Two K-words: Köln and Karnival)

Wisdom: Likely Intact. Sense of Humor: Definitely Intact!

Having four kids within five years of each other has presented some entertaining scenarios.

All four kids had chicken pox together in 1992. That was a lovely, bonding opportunity for us all (she says sarcastically) which culminated in a trip to the emergency room with 2-year-old twins who had climbed to the top of a dresser to find -- and share -- a bottle of Benadryl. (That's a separate post... and one that I really should write, shouldn't I?)

Later, all four were all in braces at the same time. I have no entertaining tidbit to pass on about that situation. The only "joke" there was definitely me writing checks every month that approximated our mortgage payment.

I'm sure I'll have some entertaining (for you, maybe!) stories to tell next year when all four are in college and we'll be paying tuition for three of them. Stand by for that (she says sarcastically).

But today's story is the next installment in the Wisdom Tooth Saga, in which all four kids have their wisdom teeth extracted in quick succession. Actually, that's not entirely true because Elisabeth had hers out last year (or was it the year before?). It's the other three who are having the surgery done now (as in, these approximate days). Kat had hers out in late December and is still on "wisdom tooth maintenance."

And today was Peter's turn. As I write this, Peter is on the couch downstairs with Danelle, and is finally coming down a bit from his drug-induced stand-up comedy routine that we've been enjoying since the minute he woke up from the "thur-dury" as he's been calling it, due to a gauze-filled mouth. If those drugs just strip away inhibitions and make people more who they really are, the comedy routine is entirely apropos, as Peter is definitely a born comedian! (This picture was taken within moments of him waking up from surgery.)

After Kat's surgery a few weeks ago, she woke up crying, even sobbing at times, interrupting herself to say, "I don't know why I'm crying! Really, I'm fine. I'm just cryyyyying!" Fortunately, the nurses assured her that crying is an entirely normal reaction that many patients have after this surgery. Judging from their reaction to Peter's antics (they were cracking up with the rest of us), Kat's reaction is much more common than Peter's. "Thur-dury! Thwell. And it dudn't even huuwt! I think we thuld all jutt roll on oudda here!" He was Peter-the-Happy-Drunk-Stand-Up-Comic and we were all his audience. But just as were were about to order cocktails and enjoy the rest of the show, it was time for us to go.

So that's five out of six of us who have now had our wisdom teeth removed. For the record, here are our very different reactions:

Tom: Had the surgery after we were married, when he was about 31. He woke up suddenly, bolted to a full sit and was ready to go. He even insisted in stopping at the video store on the way home.
Me: I had the surgery at 19, accompanied by my then-boyfriend. The first person I saw upon waking up was the cute, young male orderly who helped me sit up. I (apparently... or so the story goes) proceeded to ask if I could hug him and, too impatient to wait for an answer, hugged him -- twice. Fortunately, my then-boyfriend had a sense of humor.
Elisabeth saw the whole thing as a scientific experiment and asked the oral surgeon to take part. She asked him to tell her a number and a color while she was out (being on Versed, she'd be able to converse, even while "under") and then quiz her multiple times as she was coming out from the anesthesia. He did. She failed. And failed. And failed. Her conclusion: the amnesic anesthesia was, indeed, an amnesic. That girls is a perpetual student!
Kat: Cried upon waking. Probably the most normal reaction, and the only one (so far) in our family who had it.
Peter: See above.
Aleks: We'll wait on Aleks' surgery for two reasons: 1.) He's not complaining of any pain yet and these surgeries are expensive (even with insurance -- and even with dual coverage, as Peter has). And 2.) I greatly fear for his reaction, upon waking! I have a feeling he'd engage those nice, friendly nurses in a political, philosophic, religious, social, and existential debate... both crying and laughing as he espouses his not-entirely-open-minded viewpoint!