Trip to the Vet

Nick was using his upper torso to pinion the angry burrito of cat, who was writhing within the blanket in massive rage in order to bite Dr. Persico, as she was clearing impacted anal sacs. The owner of the cat was pressed against the opposite wall, letting them handle it. Why interrupt? Nick the vet tech and the determined doctor needed room to jump back each time this enraged animal lashed out with an escaped hind leg, claws a-firin' sixty. Not a good patient. He projectile-peed on the doctor, bit, and in his hissing and yowling, almost spoke English that would have colored the room blue. Like a reverse exorcism, where the patient goes from incoherent animal growls to the inflamed curses found in Winston Churchill's breakfast conversation.

I just got this guy in December. He's fine at home if you leave him alone; try to administer a pill and Stevie Pickles (being his moniker) will tell you to go to hell and leave you bleeding. He was front-declawed as a young cat, escaped outside and lived in a back yard for a year before the kind people feeding him snagged his grey bad self and took him to Dr. Persico's establishment. So his defense is a wonderfully scary top set of fangs, fast as light. He hasn't bitten me, just threatened enough so that I got wise and took him to where I got him, from the vet's, so they could do the proper pilling when he had a tapeworm. One little pill! You would have thought I was trying to murder him for all the fuss he kicked up.

Dear Andy, another vet tech, used his charm up to a point and then resolved to get the pill popper wand to shove the medicine down Stevie's throat, as the cat had declared war and was getting the hang of resistance. Very, very quick he is, for such a large animal. Andy won that time, and the result was a gain of four pounds for the kitty, who is now up to fourteen. Dr. Persico said thank god I was the one who took him, being the kind, patient, animal person that I am. Really, the woman was just buttering my bread, as perhaps she didn't want to see Stevie Pickles at her doorstep with a "No Thanks" note hanging from one ivory tooth.

He's hiding now, recuperating for the next round of which I told him there will be few and far between. If he gets sick, there will be treatment based on the aim of a dart gun or a heavy sedative mixed into his Bits 'n Kits. Believe me, he's nothing like some of the difficult personalities experienced in my life, for everything is up front and all you have to do is have a plan of action, which is to drop him off at the vet's and let them deal with his snits.

Tonight my Kai and Snowbelle will sleep curled next to me, Min will stop in for a visit, and Tulip has her own spot in the living room, a cat bed cushioned and cozy. Steve goes up atop the china cabinet on a blanket, and roams the hall during the dark, early morning hours chattering and calling in a series of questions and statements. He drinks from the tap, sticking his head into the stream, lapping the H2O as it runs down his face. He runs to greet me when I come home along with the rest of them, and seems to enjoy the greeting rituals and fussings.

We all have our foibles, but we are also all the same when asleep. Tuck in, spring days, maple nights.

Dreamville is A-stirrin'

Oh apnea, oh apneaaaa, Thy branches are so lovely....

Good Gertie, all the butterflies, moths and long-legged crane flies (those things that look like giant skeeters) have been set loose, for Pandora's box has been dropped from a few stories up, folks. I breathe more at night than I do during the day. After a visit to Respiratory Therapist Maureen, I find that I have been waking close to 280 times a seven-hour night in search of oxygen. Now I have a little automated mechanical friend that pumps air into me, along with a warm spray of humidity. Three nights of this, so far. And yes, I have more energy during the day along with memory and other good things like recognition of familiar objects. It ain't all there yet, but it is on the way. I can see it.

I was concerned that the cats would no longer sleep with head-harnessed me, all plasticky tubing and air pilot mask. Har. They love it; Kai found a position on the warm hose--but not for long, and Crackhead--oh, I mean, Princess Snowbelle--thought the whole tube business was an expensive cat toy, whack whack whack. My good girls.

My lungs are now working the graveyard shift; it's as if I deliberately have to push and pull respiration in and out, and for heaven's sake, wonder if I breathe enough during the day. A side effect of this treatment besides extreme hat-head, is that I am pumped full of air since my brain is still learning to keep my mouth closed. Save the clever remarks for when you see me. The result is, I have enough gas that I could drive myself home without the car through propulsion. Watch for me on the 33. Once the brain learns, this will end. Sooner would be nice.

It solves a lot of problematic situations, and hopefully, will continue forward. Do you imagine what it feels like to find that you are not crazy? Possibly this could have been found out earlier if I slept around and got complaints of the snoring. Trade-offs, what can I say?

But here I am in Dreamville, how iconic is that? Premonition? Intuition? A view through the haze of hypopnea? It's not something developed overnight, I believe I have had this most of my life from childhood on. It sure do explain the dizzy spells.

I can't wait to hitch to my little Ondine, my Remiel, my Ocean. Dreams are said to become vivid--not yet for me, but I do briefly remember Bela Lugosi appearing. There was another scene where I was opening windows, pulling down curtains to let in the light. Opening my life, perhaps.

You sleep well also, I hope. Here's a debate: Maureen the therapist said that if apnea were diagnosed more often, the doctors wouldn't be able to sell as many pills as they do. It's fair enough common, yet we don't see treatments advertised on television. Can I tell you that I take blood pressure, cholesterol, thyroid and antidepressant meds, all related to the effects presented by apnea? Interesting to see if the blood pressure goes down since the heart doesn't have to work as hard to supply oxygen to my starving brain. What a world.

Peace, sea, ocean salt, diatoms, waves; neap and ebb tides. Look for the siphon holes in wet sand telling of clams pushing water through gills, of life breathing in mudflats as water rushes back to high tide. I am a clam, breathing under the cover of night, my siphon connected to sources of wind and water. Cockle, mussel, oyster, scallop. Sleep tight as a clam, my loves.

C'mon Over, We Have Oxygen

I just got off the phone with my brother who had his thyroid removed earlier this week, the gland being full of cancer. He has lupus and gets lumps, tumors, anywhere in his body---ten years ago, one was removed an inch from his heart for which he also received preventative radiation. Too much radiation, according to his thyroid doctor, thereby causing the cancer.

His voice is raspy, as was mine after my surgery, but his outlook is good, glad to get rid of it. In ten weeks he has to go back for more radiation. My little brother, the one carried around on a pillow like a small Jesus, suffers more health issues as an adult, yet also has a happier life in that he has a terrific wife, two great kids, a cat and his own home. Maybe. Who am I to say?

Myself, I am going for blood tests to determine if there is any iron deficiency, accounting for the fatigue and memory loss. This is from the very nice young man doctor who has prescribed a CPAP machine for my moderate/severe sleep apnea that I pick up later this week. I can't wait, and am hoping to use the word apocalypse the day after.

My skull: there is a very high arch to the palate of my mouth, which makes the area that my nose has for intake smaller. Large tonsils, a small airway in my throat and a wider neck stop air from entering, so all in all, I haven't seen necessary oxygen levels for anyever. I stop breathing thirty-nine times an hour. This is a relief, a fixable relief, for it means I am not crazy, thank you, and will probably start remembering things like what day it is. I can only hope that it also untangles some of the time constraint mess I have gotten into. Scary part is that some of this is central apnea, meaning my brain forgets to tell the diaphragm to bring in air. Woof.

Anywhateverelse, I present this entry as a record to be referred to in later years, nothing really meant for entertaining here. Apologies to the audience. However, do tuck in under the covers and position the pillow for the best respiration. You will feel fresher in the morning and may even roar the sun up. Watch for a lovely sunrise, the gold and pinks revive senses and tell of garden flowers which sleep themselves under beds of leaves and straw. Oh berries, tell us of your sweet dreamings. Good night.

Continued Breathing

...is something all of us like to do. Having received (and lost) the results of the sleep test, there seems to be both obstructive and central apneas going on in the wee hours between dusk and dawn. Obstructive doesn't bother me as much as the idea of central apnea, which is when your brain does not put out the signal to breathe so the lungs go on hold until the brain is starving for oxygen and the reptilian medulla shrieks for god's sake breathe. I always thought it was a party trick that I could stop breathing and not feel the need to inhale, that holding breath was a form of deep meditation that led to diving for pearls in the Sea of Japan. Apparently, not when you're sleeping.

Really, I have to find the papers, looked and looked already..can get another copy later during the upcoming visit to the specialist, but this is what I have lived with for almost thirty years; not knowing where the hell I am or anything else for that matter. Except my son. And now my students. The mother instinct supersedes any lack of oxygen, just ask any woman with children. But now, where the H are those print-outs? All in all, I can't wait to get my CPAP machine chugging away, inflating me with air and humidity, you just watch the difference.

My appointment to see the sleep doctor is next Thursday, the 25th; then there has to be another appointment for a respiratory therapist who explains the machine to me. Good heavens, could this take any longer after diagnosis? I will awaken at age fifty-eight, not recognizing who that is in the mirror anymore and let's get going for time is short. My job is hanging by threads due to certification requirements not met. If I lose this, what on earth? This business is classified as a disability, I can only hope it buys me time.

How odd that I usually sign off this blog with a sleeptime wish, and here it has become my lifeline to the living. Check in with your doctors, people; for years I thought this was an offset of thyroid mess or depression. I can't tell you how many doctors, different antidepressants, vitamins, or frustrations have been lived through, not to my benefit. I ended up at a nutjob pill-pushing psychiatrist who had me on Ambien, clonozapam, Prozac and Effexor all at once. Many doctors have tried different combinations of meds that included Trazodone, Lexapro, more, less, morning, night, and get out of the house more. And now this diagnosis that gave me such vitality the day after; I felt years younger, saner, smarter and like the me I remember again. Hope, o hope, that this is a solution towards a life with fewer panic attacks, thank you.

Thursday cannot come soon enough, there are five nights left to sleep before the doctor, and then how many more before the treatment is implemented? My shelf has been cleared, the electrical outlet awaits, the anticipation has me waiting my turn. Sleep well.

Writer's Market

Sent away for the newest Writer's Market book, which tells one how to get work published. Never submitted anything outside of college publications, wonder if the essay style I seem able to produce is worth anything outside of therapeutic rambling. Something new to try, either way.

Currently I am holding my breath for the diagnostic news on official paper from the physicians involved. The sleep center said the work was sent to my personal phys, whose office said they hadn't received it yet who could care less that my oxygen deprived brain is fizzing less than the remnants of three o'clock in the morning last call tonic and vodka with long-gone ice on the counter of that bar we used to go to in the seventies before heading out to a Your Host breakfast and bothering waitresses with stupid drunken ordering but leaving generous tips. I was going through an anti-religious backlash back then, with images that I was having a good time.

Really, this is a short post of rant about wanting results only because it feels like I have been in a closet with Grandma's winter coats muffling me. If this diagnosis falls through, it will only cause me to push forward harder, for there has been an experience of brightness caused by the night treatment during the polysomnography. Sorry this is boring. I am whining perhaps, but do not underestimate the excitement I have within. Life, breath, oxygen, ahead.