Hoping This is the End of a Long, Hot Summer

Goodlordalmighty, is all I can say. To say it's been hot and dry here is saying, really, nothing. It's been the hottest, driest summer on record. That means, like, "ever." Over 65 (the last I saw; it could be over 70, for all I know) days over 100 degrees, and a drought more severe than The Joads fled in The Grapes of Wrath.

That hot. That dry.

For me, it's been miserable in other ways, as well. Since I've been "less than" lately--less than entertaining, less than inspired and inspiring--I thought I'd offer an explanation. But I don't want to be boring--good grief, not that! Anything but that! So, rather than re-capping, I'll link. At the end of spring, there was mono. The dog bite. Multiple infections of the new cartilege piercings (cellulitis, various abscesses). The broken toe.

As you've heard me say many times--many, many times--I'm a worrier. The more technical explanation would be something involving the words "anxiety" and "disorder," but that's so ugly and technical, let's just say I tend to worry the tiniest little bit, shall we? To spare you the re-cap, I'll let you read about it here. Or not.

OK. So it's hot this summer, and dry. Things are dying, people are miserable. I'm sick and then keep getting hurt. I took more antibiotics this summer than I have in many, many years combined. I had a milestone birthday, began to fear my body was already in The Big Decline, began to doubt my ability to take care of myself, since I was doing such a spectacularly dismal job of it. Did I mention I broke my toe going up the steps from my office? No mood-altering substances or sleep-walking involved?

I got a little stressed. Just a little.

Around the beginning of August, I began to wake up in the middle of the night with my heart racing lickety-split and pounding hard enough to move furniture. It didn't happen every night, but it kept happening. At home, in hotels--it didn't matter. No pattern I could figure out, not really.

Back when I first went through menopause, palpitations were some of the first symptoms. When I started estrogen, they went away. So my first thought was that the stress had caused a dip in estrogen levels. Or, when I noticed my heart was also racing sometimes during the day, maybe it was anemia, which is always kind of a borderline thing.

So I heaved the big sigh and went to Dr. Mendez. He didn't think it was either estrogen or iron. He listened to my heart and said, "Well, you have an arrhythmia." News to me. He said it sounded to him like it might be a mitral valve prolapse, which isn't that big a deal. He could send me to a cardiologist, or I could just wait and see. I chose to wait and see. By this point, I'm so tired of Intervention by Medical Professionals I'm getting grouchy just driving past a doctor's office. Any random doctor. Any office. I someone wearing a white jacket and I get testy.

The wait-and-see turned out to be a dumb idea. Because the next time it woke me up in the middle of the night, my brain reminded me in that oh-so-helpful way it has that it could be a lot of other things, seeing as how I Come From People with a long, deep history of heart disease. My mother and every one of her siblings, for instance. My brain reminded me that my right arm has felt tired and heavy for a long time. "Hey!" my brain yelled at 3 am, "Remember that your mom's right arm was numb that time? And she went to the hospital? And they had to lickety-split put in a stent so her arm didn't fall off? And her heart explode? Remember that?! I'll bet it felt just like your arm feels!!"

That's my brain. It cackles at me at 3 am. I try to avoid hanging out with it in the wee hours, since it tends to get a little giddy. Also malevolent. Sort of Mr. Hyde-like.

Cut to the chase here. We (me, various Medical Professionals) had been going on the assumption, from not-so-great x-rays, that the arm was caused by the arthritis in the neck, and they (Medical Professionals) had suggested I should get an MRI to get a better look.  So we set that up, and in the meantime, Mendez sends me to a cardiologist. He listens to my heart, does an EKG, says, yes, there is an arrhythmia, and he has no idea what's causing it, and it could be nothing important but we need to do a sonogram and have me wear a Holter monitor (The EGE had one of these years ago when they discovered he has an enlarged "athlete's heart") and--well, of course: once you see one of these guys, you're in for the long haul. You'd bail out and say, "Oh, never mind," but there's always that story in the back of your head about the uncle who cancelled his doctor's appt. because he got fed up with all the tests and office visits, and just after that cancelled visit, his head exploded. Never mind that it was an appt. with a podiatrist. Never mind that! It's A Cautionary Tale, is what it is.

In the meantime, there's the 5-year (because my dad had colon cancer) colonoscopy, with the new findings of diverticulosis and a polyp (benign~~yay). And, also in the meantime, I get the notice that it's time for the yearly mammogram. I call to make the appointment, and she asks, "Have you noticed any lumps?"

I say, "Yes. There are always lumps."
"Any new ones?"
"I can't really tell, but it feels like maybe. I mean, I never know."
"What does your doctor say?"
"I haven't seen him; it was time to come in for the mammogram, so I'm doing that instead." Duh. Why am I going to call him when I can just skip the middle man, right? Save the co-pay!

Foolish woman. That's not how it works. They have to know whether to do a screening mammogram or a diagnostic mammogram, so first I have to go get an exam, and then he has to write out orders.

That's what they tell you. I believe they're all in it together, trying to force as many office visits and co-pays and insurance claims as possible. That's what I believe. Imagine my increasing levels of 1) grouchiness and 2) skepticism.

Good grief. Tiring, irritating, scary. All of that.

(This has been a summer of nothing but medical visits for the humans in this house. The EGE hurt his shoulder, and in trying to find out what was going on, (because he could no longer lift his arm to shave the back of his head, for example) we discovered that there's so much damage from arthritis that everyone who saw the x-rays thought he'd had surgery to have part of the bone removed. Also in the course of finding this out, he found out he has scoliosis, something no one had ever noticed before. Nothing has to be done about the latter, but he had to have physical therapy for the former. Duh. It's a wonder, they said, that his shoulder works at all.)

So I go to Mendez. He does an exam and writes orders for a diagnostic mammogram and an ultrasound. I've had many of these, but not lately. On Monday they did the horrid version of the mammo, with spot compression. If you've had that, you know what it's like. If you haven't, I'll just say this: yelping was involved, the kind your dog does when you accidentally step on his tail. Mine was probably more high-pitched and not nearly as effective: if your dog yelps, you apologize and try not to step on his tail again. I yelped; they said, "Grasp this bar over here and hold your breath." They were two of them; they were bigger than I am.

Yesterday: cardio ultrasound. No sign of a bad valve. They couldn't do the monitor hook-up because their computer is down, so I'll be called to come back later.  Ha: yet another $25 co-pay! Yet another insurance claim!

Today: another exam and the results of the mammogram, which say things are probably benign, but we'll have to do it all over again in six months. Sigh. We did this for several years, the every-six-months-routine, and it gets old really quickly.

So. The result of all this is: not much. Because of the still-puzzling arrhythmia, no  caffeine or alcohol--maybe forever. No wine with dinner. This was my last indulgence, and it's gone.

What I'm forced to confront is that I have to work even more diligently to my reaction to stress and on my tendency to worry. I always think I've conquered this. I am always wrong. The benefits of being a Type AAA is that you get a lot of stuff done and have a lot of energy. The downside is that you tend to be kind of tightly wound, which is not good for all varieties of internal organs and kind of makes people want to smack you.

The stress of the last couple weeks has been just the teensiest bit overwhelming. My weight has dropped below 125, which is where my immunity to colds and stuff tends to flag. I didn't catch Glenny's cold at Art and Soul, though, so that's a good thing, but I've been hunkered down, sleeping as much as possible, trying to chill. It's laughable, I'm sure, watching someone determined to force themselves to relax. If I could draw cartoons, I'd draw my cartoon self, teeth gritted, seated in meditation, jaw clenched, chanting, "Relax! Relax! RELAX, DAMMIT!"

I've learned a lot in these last few weeks, lots of amazing lessons to process and implement. And that's always a good thing.

So. This was pretty boring after all, wasn't it? Sorry about that. Go treat yourself for slogging through it, OK? A glass of fabulous wine--or, if you're like me and like cheapo wine: a fabulous glass of wine--would be perfect. Sip some for me, too, please~~
XO