Radioactive

It's A Braless World

In My Bloodstream: Lisinopril,  Amlodopine,  Omeprazole, Tamsulosin
On The Stereo: Night Moves: Bob Seger

My goodness, these are strange days.  Everyman's dream has come true.  Bras are gone missing.  And yet the viewing opportunity is zero.  Oh well.

  

                                                                  Two boobs in a bra.

Since we last talked in real time, much has happened.  I selfishly took your time to discuss Kath's and my trip, long ago, to China.  I received comments from some of you, thankfully, so I know some of you took the time to read it.  Given Covid 19 and the Hong Kong uprisings, we should be cognitive of what is happening in that country.  We will, in due course, understand more.

Cancer stuff

Almost a month ago, as you know, I had a swath of flesh removed from my wrist and sent for biopsy.  Subsequently I had two weekly follow-up visits.  In that time, drainage had almost completely stopped, and the site continued to heal.  The pathology report had not been completed.

For those who did not read some older blogs, I should describe the state of the wound.  The "hole" had been covered with a product called Integra.  That product is used to stimulate skin growth, while keeping the site protected.  A layer of plastic sheet was applied, to maintain the area, and that, in turn,  was stitched onto the surrounding skin.  Typically, a skin graft will follow, once the site margins are deemed to be clean and free of cancer.

As the pathology report had not been published, both Dr. Harrington and I, believed that the news would not be good.  A larger graft would be needed.  And so too, would be another operation, this time under full anesthetic.  

Last Monday, I returned to Moffitt to have the stitches removed.  I was not certain that I should even go.  It has become more worrisome to go outside.  And even more so, if it is to go to a hospital.  I have long promulgated that a hospital is not a place to be, if you want to get better.  There are sick people there.  Germs everywhere.  Like sticking your head in the oven to see if it's hot.  Don't do it.

I already had the Kat Lady, my nurse, text the doc, to see if I could take out the stitches myself.  We had been given a stitch removal kit at some point, when my surgeon thought I might want to take the stitches out myself, rather than make the trek into Tampa.  There was a period when I had multiple surgeries, each requiring different healing times, and I  was back and forth every week.  Having not used the kit, I thought this would be the time.  The surgeon had often said that I could take out stitches on my own, if I wanted.  I do know how it is done.  Pull.  Snip.  Pluck. Repeat.   Until completed.

My nurse was not as confident as I, knowing she would have to be more involved with the unsurgery than she wanted to be.  Two hands were needed, and one of mine was not up to the task.  Kat's involvement was a necessity.  

As it happened, the good doctor responded that he was looking forward to seeing me.  Great.  That was not the answer I wanted.  All this news came through texts between Kath and the doc.  Upon reflection, I am slightly suspicious that my bride never did ask that question at all.  She is a cunning woman.  She is capable of this type of treachery.  However, going to Moffitt was the right thing to do.  I knew that.  It is just that sometimes doing the wrong thing makes me feel more like me.  Arbitrarian, that I am.

I  had some breakfast and started getting ready for the trip.  I was irritable and impatient.  (Do not be so agreeable.  Do not say to yourself, "when is he not?)   Thank you.

The car needed gas.  Perfect.  The drive was a breeze.  There were few cars on the road.  I would have liked there to be one less.  I will get gas after the visit, I thought.  No need to be late.  One hour and ten minutes later, I pulled into the Moffitt parking garage.  If there was good news, it was that this hospital was specifically for cancer patients, not for the generally sick.  I sat in my car.  Just for a moment.  I thought, just because one has cancer, does that mean he cannot also carry the virus?  A double dip.  Possible.  Hopefully not probable.

At the front entrance, nurses attended.  May as well have been The Brandenburg Gate.  Interrogation and vitals for anyone wishing to enter.

 My temperature was normal, and I was give a mask.  Not the cool Lone Ranger kind.  More the Jesse James sort.  Told, not advised, to keep it on, while on the premises.  And in I went, to be checked in.   And from there, on to the clinic.  I waited almost no time to be called in and given a room.  I believe, at one time or another, I have been in all of these rooms.  I might start leaving an undetectable mark in each, from now on, as evidence to confirm my theory.  I will bring a marker on my next visit.  I know I will be back.

My friend, Rihanna, the PA, came in first, and she had a look at my arm, and we made smalltalk.  The doctor would be in shortly.  She returned, shortly.  Alone.  She would remove the stitches and then Dr. Harrington would see me.  He was involved with another patient.  

Out with the stitches.  Rihanna could handle the task with her eyes closed.  She was expert.  My team at home could have done this, I thought.  It might have taken longer, but still....

She told me to tell her if I needed a break.  The stitches were plentiful.  But really, no problem at all.  She tidied up the trash and said she would get the doc.  Back in she came.   Alone.  Again.  I suggested that I leave.  The work had been done.  I was stitchless.  What more was there to do.

She left me again and returned, advising me that my doc had one other patient to see before me, and then would be in.  She had just finished that sentence, when Dr. Harrington burst into the room.  He is a gem.  He does not just operate, he gives you care.  If he is needed, he will never bail on you.  Schedule or not, he will ensure your needs are met.  

He, obviously,  had realized I would only take a moment of his time, and darted in to say a quick hello.  The pathology had just been received, and my margins were clear.  The delay in receiving the test results, he surmised, was because the removed area was so large, and so discolored, that considerable time was required to ensure that the edges and the lower portion, were cancer free.  

Both of us, and probably Rihanna as well, were relieved by the news.  We all had expected the worst. The conversation moved to the need for a skin graft.  What we have now might be sufficient, but my arm will take an incredibly long time to heal.  Months.  And therefore it is still subject to infection problems.  The Integra will eventually meld with my flesh and I should be fine.  In any event, nothing can be done now, due to operating room shutdowns instituted as a result of the pandemic.  I will see him in three months.  Earlier if need be.  We will continue our conversation at that time.

It is peculiar that we moan about our entrapment in our homes.  All I wanted to do, was to end this appointment and go home.  Home.  Sanctuary.  Kathleen.  Safety.  Comfort.

                                              Hard to look at the time without distraction.

I left, found a gas station, as promised, and charted my trip home, by way of Costco.  If I was to be out, I may as well obtain necessities for the next few weeks.

Whiskey.  What else?  At home I continue to receive glances from murderous eyes.  I cannot tell you from whom.  Apparently I have the ability to make our house smaller than it is.  A gift, perhaps.  Whiskey will help sooth the savage beastess.  (female beast)   Hopefully.

Our Covid 19 story next week.  Yes or no?   I will give you the facts.  You can decide.

On The Stereo: Angel From Montgomery: Bonnie Raitt W/ John Prine

I will miss John Prine.  We saw him, thankfully, in concert, a few years ago, in Fort Myers.  His guest on that evening, was Kris Kristofferson, who was well into his dementia.  Prine helped him get through a few of his old hit songs. The lyrics were missing from his lips.  The moments were sad.  The struggle was difficult to watch.  But it was clearly evident that John loved the man who helped him get his start in the music business.  He was repaying a debt.  And respecting a friend.

John Prine was one of my most favorite singer-songwriters.  His lyrics were insightful.  He loved his music, and his audience loved him.  His stories covered the full extent of his life.  His narrative was honest and moving.  In a single  reminiscence, he could make you laugh and bring a tear to your eye.   He could take you with him as he reflected on his past.  A fellow passenger on his journey back through time.

He was my age, and I am honored to have listened to him and been witness to his craft.  Only the good die young.  I'm still here.  He graduated.  Rest in peace.


Hang tough my friends.  We are well into our shutdown, but I fear there is much left to overcome.  I urge you all to remain positive and thankful.  It is not the time to be spiteful, suspicious or vindictive.  The world will end a better place if we support each other.  Goodness improves our mental health.  We need to be good.  In our thoughts and in our actions.  All of us.

Meanwhile, I will continue to keep an accurate accounting of the knives in our kitchen drawer.  None missing as of last count.

Love from the Southland.  Be in touch again next week.

Comments are most welcome.  Criticisms are tolerated.

I hope you are getting your share of hugs.  We do our best.  In this, most loving, house.  Our home.

jrobinmullen@gmail.com