Listen to Your Body

                                               
                                                   

Sometimes, it is difficult to tell if your body is actively trying to help you or just trying to mess with your head. After I had Salmonella, my metabolism seemed to be completely out of sync. I never knew what reaction I would have to different foods.Sometimes, it would make me sick. Sometimes, it would give me diarrhea. The same foods didn't always react the same way.

Then one day, I got the urge to eat a baked potato with cottage cheese on top. No one advised me to do it. I didn't read about it on Doctor.com. I'd never eaten that combination before. It tasted delicious and it kept tasting delicious. In the next three months, I ate baked potatoes with cottage cheese every day. Lots of baked potatoes and cottage cheese. 

When my friend came to visit me from Iowa, she asked what kind of hostess give I'd like to have and I said, "bring me ten pounds of potatoes." 

"Are you kidding? We were thinking of a nice bottle of wine."

"Nope" I told her, "potatoes, please." 

Eventually my friends knew not to come see me unless they brought a container of cottage cheese with them. 

After a couple of months, I added chocolate pudding (not instant - yuck!) for dessert.

By now, my digestive system is back to normal. My taste for other foods has returned.

But why did this happen? Did my body know something I didn't know about getting myself back in order and guide me in that direction? I have no clue. All I know is baked potatoes and cottage cheese were what I craved and kept craving for over three months until I was well.

I guess the moral of this story is that your body and your mind can be a mystery but just maybe they know what they need to heal themselves. Don't fight it. Eat the baked potatoes and cottage cheese (or whatever), just in case.

I Hope Heaven Allows Smoking

I hope they have coffee and cigarettes in heaven - spoken like a true addict, which is what I am.

I started smoking when I was 15. My friend, who was 16, was pregnant. By the time, she was aware of her condition, the teenage love affair was long over but she did what so many girls did then. She married the father to "give the baby a name". His parents paid for an apartment but he never came around. But her sister and I did. Three teenage girls in an apartment with no adults. Wow, freedom!

That's when we began smoking. Smoking was considered cool back then....and we thought it made us look mature.

I didn't even like the first few I smoked but I persevered because teenage girls will do almost anything if they think it makes them look cool.

By the end of that visit, I was addicted. Since then, the longest I've ever gone without smoking is six days when I was in the hospital.

One of us went on to quit, another of us became an alcoholic. I just kept smoking.

Did I ever try to quit? Oh, yes, I was hypnotized to quit twice. Both doctors told me to throw my cigarettes away before I came and I did. When I left their offices, I went straight to the store and bought another pack of cigarettes and smoked all the way home.

I wore the patches for a while....and smoked the entire time I was wearing them. I took pills for a while and smoked the entire time I was taking them.

I used to tease my boss, the Sheriff, and say despite how law-abiding I'd been my whole life, if he ever had occasion to put me in jail. I would probably end up with an additional charge for trying to smuggle in contraband in the form of cigarettes.

I think everybody is addicted to something. Not every addiction is as negative as smoking. If you're addicted to drugs or drinking, those are even more dangerous than cigarettes. If you're addicted to eating, the worse thing that will happen is you'll get fat (which can bring its own kind of problems). If you're a compulsive clean freak, you'll simply end up with a clean house and exhaustion. People become addicted to being thin, which can result in anorexia or bulimia. They can bankrupt themselves gambling or being a shopaholic or bring shame and censure upon themselves for being addicted to sex.

Smoking is a tranquilizer for me. If I'm stressed, I can light a cigarette and instantly feel calmer. It is part of my writing. If I try not to smoke, I sit at the computer with visions of smoking befogging my brain and I don't write a word, or if I do those words seem clunky and graceless.

Knowing my own addiction and the excuses I use to keep indulging myself (see above) always gave me a little more sympathy for our inmates because I know what addiction feels like. Most people do but they don't always allow themselves to realize it.

My doctor always asks me if I'd like a prescription for anti-smoking pills or a referral to a cessation program but she knows what my answer will be.

When my husband was dying of lung cancer, he said, "too late to worry about it now". (Actually, his official diagnosis was Agent Orange rather than smoking but what difference does it make?) He smoked until the day he died.

I expect that will be me too.

Brrrr!

                                                      

From time to time, I have strange symptoms. I don't ever seem to know what causes them. For a while, my sense of smell was wacked. Was it related to my cancer or my congestive heart failure or the Salmonella I had? Everyone shook their heads in mystification.

During the duration my entire house smelled urine soaked although I knew it wasn't. It was strong enough to gag me at times. All food smelled and tasted as if it was spoiled. I opened a can of peaches and had to throw them out because of the odor. Milk all smelled soured. Cooking chicken gave off an odor of rot.

You don't usually think much about smell. Things simply smell like they are supposed to but let me tell you, when your fragrance detector goes crazy, it is very disconcerting.

In time, my sense of smell returned to normal. I was very grateful for that.

Now that I'm totally over the Salmonella, I feel well. My lone symptom is being constantly cold, not just cold but freezing. It can be 90 degrees outside and I'm wearing my heaviest pants and sweatshirts. (Velour, I've found, is the warmest material you can wear.) I haven't brought any of my summer blouses down from upstairs this summer. 

I have the temperature in the house set at 74 and that's how warm the thermostat says it is but it feels more like 34 to me. My primary reason for taking naps isn't because I'm tired but as an excuse to get under the covers to get warm. My primary reason for taking baths isn't to get clean but to get in hot water and get warm.

My nose is like an ice cube perched on my face. My feet and hands are numb from cold. It feel as if someone is blowing cold air across my shoulders and down my backbone.

Being cold doesn't make you sick and it's not exactly painful but it can be surprisingly incapacitating. You don't feel like doing anything except finding a way to get warm. Sometimes, I sit in the car and let the heater run.

I checked out Google to see what might cause always being cold and found out it might be anemia (I've had a transfusion for anemia but my last labs showed it to be under control.) It could be hypothyroidism but none of the other symptoms are consistent with me. It could be diabetes but my diabetes hasn't been a problem for a long time. It could be anorexia but I know that isn't it.

Of course, WebMD recommends that you see your doctor for tests but I'm pretty well doctored and tested out so I guess I'll just go on being cold. I can't wait for the temperatures to drop enough for the furnace to run. Then I can stand on a heat register.

Vicious Circle

Back in the day, you had a family doctor. He (in my case) was your physician for everything. My doctor back then treated me for various ailments, delivered my son, did surgery on my tailbone, removed John's tonsils.

Then, somewhere along the line, family doctors quit doing surgery. They sent you to a surgeon instead.

Later, still, family doctors now do only the most generic stuff. For everything else, they refer you to a specialist. Or if you condition isn't serious enough for them, perhaps they send you to a nurse practitioner screen you to decide if you really need to see the doctor.

Clinics used to have their own labs. A doctor's visit would end at the lab for the tests the physician (or nurse practitioner) ordered. Now, in Wabash, at least, you have to go to the hospital for lab tests, which might mean another visit to the clinic for a follow-up visit. (Our hospital is now part of a large medical conglomerate rather than being local).

Please don't take these criticisms as implying that I don't like my doctor because that would be the farthest thing from the truth. Fact is, I love her. It is the system that I hate.

I recently had experience with this frustrating cycle. I fell and the trauma caused my eyes to bleed. I would wake up in the morning with bright red blood blobs on my eyeball. I wasn't sure whether to see my family doctor or my eye doctor. I went to the doctor's office and they recommended that I start with the eye doctor. I have declined treatment for cancer and congestive heart failure but everything I love depends on my vision so off I went to the Retinal Specialist as my eye doctor said I should.

The Retinal Specialist evaluated my situation and said I needed laser surgery to stop the substantial bleeding in my right eye. That surgery was scheduled. It did stop the bleeding and they set me up for a follow up visit to check my left eye.

At that time, the RS  was very concerned about my sugar levels and said he couldn't do anything for me until we saw if my they were stable. I'm now blind in my right eye (due to scar tissue) but there was a surgery that might be able to be done though the outcome was iffy.

So I went to see the nurse practitioner and she ordered the lab tests to check if my sugar was fluctuating.

I had been wearing reading glasses, which were almost useless. So I went to the eye doctor to ask if she could do anything to help my vision in my left eye.

Nope. She agreed she'd have to see the results of my lab tests first. She also said when they came back, I needed to see the Retinal Specialist again before I came back to see her. Then, and only then, would she write me a prescription for new glasses (which she said would improve my vision considerably).

I didn't really think I had problems with sugar. My doctor had taken me off all diabetes meds and my sugar hadn't been running high for a long time. When the labs came back, my A1C (I think that's what its called) registered 5.2, which isn't even high enough to be considered diabetic.

So I went to the Retinal Specialist again, test results in hand. He was very pleased. I asked him if he would recommend the surgery.

He said, "well, if I knew your prognosis...."

I said, "well, you don't and neither do I and I don't want to know so for the sake of argument, let's say its a year, would you advise it if it was a year?"

He said no and explained that it was a difficult surgery. More, hypodermics in the eyeball - oh, God! Then try to pull off the scar tissue and insert a gas bubble in your eye to re-inflate the retina. Maybe I'd get some vision back or perhaps not. Long recovery time.

Well, that settled that.

I have an appointment with the eye doctor next week and maybe I'll finally get a prescription for glasses that will help me see a little better.

In all, I have had eleven appointments with eye doctors, nurse practitioners, labs, retinal specialists and I still can't see.

I miss the old days and the old ways.

The Healing Place

Vicki Williams

Until My friends and I were in our early 70's I was the healthiest one of the bunch. This is so even though Brenda worked out and relentlessly maintained her weight.....even though LeAnn was a speed walker.....even though Blythe walked, swam and biked. LeAnn and Blythe have never smoked; Brenda quit 30 years ago.

Meanwhile, there is me – a plump, mostly sedentary, self-indulgent smoker. I took fewer medicines than them. I had fewer aches and pains than them. I went to the doctor less often than them. (Not to say, I couldn’t keel over tomorrow....)

About 3 years ago, I was diagnosed with lung cancer and congestive heart failure and chose to have no treatment but actually I am still healthier than them and all of the above still applies. I'm not on oxygen, I'm not short of breath, I don't cough. I'm not in any pain. 

I’ve always had a Healing Place and I assumed everyone did until I came to realize that most people appear to be unaware of the vital link between mind and body and the ways they cooperate for good health. It seems most people suffer through an ailment or turn themselves over to a doctor. Either/or.

When I go to bed at night, I count backwards from 21 (which is simply a relaxation technique). At one, I ask to go to the Healing Place. (It doesn’t matter whom you ask, it could be your God or simply the Life Force within all of us).

The Healing Place isn’t always the same. I don’t control the scene with my conscious mind. Instead I have an attitude of curiosity about where I will find myself. The visual starts with something small, like the single blossom of a flower. As I focus on its colors and the shape of its petals, the view expands. I see the flower is blooming on a sand dune. Off to one side is a palmetto. I feel the warmth of the sand on my feet. I hear the soft rush of waves. As I mentally turn, the ocean is before me. A pelican is flying across the horizon. There is a sea-salt tang in the air.

Another night might begin with a cardinal in a tree growing in what becomes a green alpine valley, its floor starred with wildflowers, geese landing on a crystal clear lake, the fragrance of pines. I rest my hand against the bark of a towering tree.

Wherever the Healing Place turns out to be, it is surrounded by a clear gold light...the healing light. It bathes me. I can feel it penetrating my body to wash bones and organs and blood with its curative properties. I call on it to especially concentrate on any particular area of pain or disease.

I think all the senses must be engaged at the Healing Place. You must see, feel, smell, hear and touch to ensure you have brought your total being there. I think the Healing Place is a way of freeing your subconscious to assist in your own health.

The Healing Place doesn’t replace traditional medicine. I would never advocate not going to a doctor for a serious situation, rather it supplements your treatment by giving it an additional boost. I truly believe it can help you find wellness more quickly. I thought the Salmonella I recently had was going to kill me. I assume the 6 days in the hospital hooked up to an i.v. was probably the determining factor but I also believe the healing place played its part in my recovery. 

When it comes your time to die, the Healing Place won't save you. I think that is predetermined but it can help you cope more easily  with less pain and less anxiety. 

Perhaps it is New Age nonsense. Or maybe it is something you’d like to try if you have a throbbing shoulder or aching knee. It certainly can do no harm and it relieves stress if nothing else. I always fall asleep to the smell of roses or the sounds of birds singing. It’s fun to find out where you are as the scene unfolds. My Healing Place is always nature-oriented but wherever it is, it must be safe, serene and beautiful. For you, that might be a cathedral or it might be a sailboat.

Do I think rhe Healing Place is the sole reason I seem to be healthier than my friends? No, I’m sure genes play a large part. But do I think it is a contributing factor? Absolutely.

If you set your subconscious free, do you wonder where would it take you?

Lizards, Frogs, Turtles and Snakes!

I think I am finally completely over my Salmonella. It is rather ironic that for all the worrying (not that I worry all that much) about lung cancer and congestive heart failure, it was Salmonella that almost killed me off. I honestly thought I was dying when I came home from the hospital. I didn't call any of my friends because I assumed they'd over-react and want to call an ambulance. I figured I'd rather just die at home.

I got well oh-so-gradually. One day, there was the tiniest bit of light at the end of the tunnel. Day by day, it got larger until I'm back to normal (whatever "normal" is!)

The Health Department takes Salmonella very seriously and I had to do a lengthy interview about where I might have got mine. It turned out I hadn't done any of the things that usually cause it - no restaurant food, no handling raw chicken, no salad fixings in a sack, no pre-cut-up melon (and wash melons first even when you buy them whole as if there is Salmonella on the outside, the knife can carry it inside) So maybe it could have been eggs or perhaps leftovers kept too long.

In the end, she simply told me to keep my fridge between 3.5 and 4. And not to eat at buffets. And to not let foods touch each other. And  not to refill plastic water bottles more than once. She told me to always use a mask and gloves when changing the cat's litter boxes or touching bird feeders. And finally, she said not to handle turtles, frogs, snakes and lizards.

I told her I thought I could promise that last one pretty easily!

As for the rest, I started out being extremely cautious and following all her advice but gradually, I have gotten more lax. I don't eat cut up fruit or lettuce or handle raw chicken but I don't worry with masks and gloves. I'd eat at a buffet. I do look at the sell-by date on eggs but you never really know how long they may have set out in a store or warehouse. I only keep leftovers two days.

If you're a healthy adult, you probably don't have to worry. If you do get Salmonella, you'll probably just get well with time. But it can be deadly for the elderly and children. In my case, by the time I went to the Emergency Room my kidneys were in urgent crisis and I was completely dehydrated.

So if your elderly parent or child gets what seems like the flu and it goes on longer than a couple days, make sure to have it checked. I am here to tell you, Salmonella is wicked stuff!

On the other hand, you can't go through life being anal about protecting yourself from every possibility. Like most things, it's mostly a matter of commonsense.

I Just Wanna' Go Home!

                                                     

(Repeat of my Logansport column to explain why I haven't been here for so long)

I haven't been around for a while because I've been sick...probably as sick as I've ever been in my life. I thought I had the flu. I thought it would run it's course but six days later, there was no improvement. I had constant diarrhea, vomiting, aching, felt as if I was freezing. So I took myself to the emergency room, thinking I'd get a shot and a prescription and be on my way.

All the people at the Wabash Parkview Hospital were great but having said that, I had a few complaints. I spent six hours in the emergency room. No one’s fault. The hospital was full. They had to discharge patients to make room for new patients.

I tried to look at the bright side. At least, the bed in my room would be soft unlike the ER cot. Ho. Ho. Ho. How wrong I was. A modern hospital bed looks like a marvel of modern technology. It has enough bells and buttons and whistles to be the control panel for the Starship Enterprise. The head goes up; the feet go down. You can twist your body into a donut. You can summon nurses. You can turn lights off and on. The one thing you can’t do is lay flat no matter how you play with the icons. If you’re short, like me, your feet don’t touch the mattress. They hang out into space.

And there is a drop off in the middle where the bed bends. It exactly fits the shape of your derriere. No matter how I moved in the bed, I fell into this hole. My posterior was already rather sensitive after six days of “flu-like symptoms” (to be politically correct about it). The last thing I wanted was to concentrate on that part of my anatomy but there it fell, inevitably, nestling into its slot.

Because of various humps in various places, you cannot lay on your side in a hospital bed.

Honestly, I believe, with only slight modifications, this apparatus could be used as a means of enhanced interrogation.

To make matters worse, I could only move a few feet from the dreaded bed because of the intravenous pole. They didn’t want me to go to the bathroom by myself but they were too busy, so I didn’t even bother them, I just went. But my i.v. lines kept getting tangled so that I could barely reach the stool. There I’d be, perched on the very edge, hoping I was hitting the mark, with my arm extended to its maximum length in order not to pull out my i.v.

Lastly, of course, was not smoking. They applied nicotine patches. Someone asked me if they helped and I said, “I guess they must, I haven’t killed anyone, have I?”

The non-smoking Vicki exerted iron self-control in order not to take my stress out on the staff. (I think my nurses would agree that over all, I was a cooperative patient) but I dreamed of doing harm to others in order to steal their cigarettes.

I loved my doctor, Dr. Gupta. I begged him to let me go home. He said he would not release me until he thought I was ready to go.

He told me that, of course, I had the option of checking myself out against his strong recommendation and then he said, “and when you come back in two days, sicker than before, we’ll welcome you back.”

I told him, “well, Doc, when you put it like that, I guess I’ll stay.”

He nodded. “Good thinking.”

I’m home now. with a new appreciation for coffee, cigarettes, computers, long soaky baths and the freedom to move freely.

Update: the following week, I had to go to the lab for some tests. My clinic almost immediately called back and said my magnesium levels were dangerously low. Magnesium? Who knew it was so important. They told me to go to ER a.s.a.p..

They first said they’d have to admit me overnight because it took several hours for a magnesium infusion but I refused. Finally, they agreed to do it my way and hooked me up in the Emergency Room. Four hours later, I went home.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the hospital and the hospital staff. I hope they didn’t think I was just being a witch but I feel so strongly that if I’m going to die (and I don’t know that that’s imminent), I want it to be at home....in my own bed, not in the hospital.