not anymore

August 2, 2012

I have my very own core-strengthening/ balance-training outsized bouncy ball.  I have my very own stretchy, flat-snaky resistance bands.  I have my very own tailor-made exercise program printed-out on stapled paper.  What I do not have is a physical therapist.  Not anymore.

Yesterday was my last day of physical therapy.  I didn’t so much graduate as I did hop from a plane with the above-mentioned tools for a parachute.

For seven months, three weeks out of four, twice a week, I readied myself for what often would be my only outing for the week.  It was as if I was a member of society, of a social club, if nothing else.  I had to do things like tame my beard on occasion and take care not to be wearing on Wednesday what I had been wearing on Monday.  Not anymore.

Granted, because of the relative success of my PT over the past 7 months, I am capable of getting out more often than I was, say, in January or February or March and so on due my steadily increasing mobility.  When I started therapy, I could not operate my ankle to move my foot up and down—muscular weakness and a disconnected neurology to blame.  I could not flex my left calf; it just flubbed about at the behest of gravity all volitional efforts be damned.  My general gait so exactly matched the disinterred zombies in Michael Jackson’s Thriller video (before, of course, they break into that death-defying, much imitated, never duplicated dance) that children watched in horror if ever they saw me in the light of day.

Now I can move my foot.  I can think of doing so and do it—piercing the brain-fog long enough to make demands of my pathetic physiology.  Now my left calf resembles more a left calf than a distended rooster wattle.  Now my hip and knee flexion is more Jim Nabors as Gomer Pyle in the Marine Corps and less Peter Boyle as young Frankenstein’s lumbering fiend.

I will miss the encouragement and admonishment of my therapist, Heather.  She is among that rare class of people who genuinely care for the well-being of others.  She cared enough to keep me on after my insurance decided I was done.  She cared enough to call if I missed a session to make sure I was okay.  She cared enough to make me wonder if I care enough.  Am I as concerned with my health as I should be?  Am I as concerned with the health of others as I should be?  Is life good enough to be well for it?  Beyond keeping up with my at-home exercise program, I hope I can keep up with my at-therapy, self-evaluation program.

I will also miss that angled trampoline against which one gets to throw weighted balls.  Of those, I do not have my very own.

as if into your wormy grave

March 1, 2012

At some point last weekend (I am so frequently obnoxious the exact point is impossible to nail down), I was doing some of my physical therapy homework which in a couple of cases involves a ball. Volleyball-size-ish. Instead of diligence, I tried to interest Adrienne in a game of catch. I cajoled, but no can interest. Fast forward to last Tuesday’s PT session. My therapist had me awkwardly balancing on some foamy things—one foot in front of the other. The next step in the exercise involved catching a ball, volleyball-size-ish, while maintaining aforementioned balance. Then a mechanical problem arose. Who would throw me the ball? Well, I could throw the ball to myself but then I would know in advance the speed and direction of the ball. Well, my therapist could throw the ball to me, of course, that’s what she gets paid to do. But no, as usual, she has holt of my breeches. That left Adrienne. Victory. Let’s play ball! (Sorry to say, this left my photographer otherwise occupied, else we’d have a nice picture of Adrienne in full athletic form. I hope we get to play again today.) [another new exercise here, however]

*

Yesterday was doomsday. Not the implied end-of-the-world scenario, nothing so benign as that. I’m talking real doom here, brothers and sisters. Inescapable, inevitable, indigestible doom. It impends, looms, ratchets nearer and nearer—a mark on the calendar reeled toward you like a pissed-off shark—until . . . BAM! Doomsday.

For the uninitiated, allow me to describe the head-foremost MRI experience with absolutely no exaggeration.

You are ushered into a cold room. They ask you for the final time if you have anything metal in your body or your pockets. Whereas before you were certain of your metallessness, panic seizes you. You check yourself again, patting shirt-pockets without having shirt-pockets, checking your wrist for the watch you don’t own, back-flashing to the war you never fought in to itemize what shrapnel could possibly still be lodged in your flesh.

But it’s too late anyway. You are already being goaded toward the machine; it is gleeful at your arrival and acts surprised—its mouth in an “O” as if you are an unexpected delight. Do not be deceived by its seeming good nature. Look past its amiable mouth into the maw of doom. Behold how cinched the esophageal circumference. You reckon your chances of running for freedom. There are too many of them and you are a cripple. Onward and inward little soldier.

You lay yourself down, as if into your own wormy grave, adjusting yourself by the terse instructions of an underpaid scrub-wearer. You feel like a fool, like you feel at Jiffy Lube while being guided into the garage—this way, no, that way, no never mind, you are a fool, just turn off your engine. Once properly positioned, they pull a mask over your head—your suffocation begins. To prevent cranial movement, nefarious wedges of doom are inserted between the mask and your ears. The last thing you hear clearly is “Don’t move!” And the machine draws you in before you hear the “Or what.” Or trigger the collapsing walls? Or initiate the launch sequence? Or what?!

Now you’re in. Want to shift your elbow? OK, no problem, how’s a centimeter suit you? Unless you want to shift both elbows, then you can split the distance however you please. Want to shift your legs, anxiety attack got you feeling a little squirmy? Go ahead . . . “Don’t move, you restless coward, or we’ll have to start all over.” Then again, better stay put.

Your doom begins in earnest: click click click click . . . click click click click . . . YADADADADADADADADADADADADADADADADADADA! [reapeat 10 times] ka-clunk ka-clunk ka-clunk ka-clunk . . . WARWARWARWARWARWARWARWARWARWARWAR! [reapeat 1000 times] tch tch tch tch tch tch . . .[“Don’t move, you impertinent weasel!” and this from nowhere, quite off your guard.] tch tch tch tch tch tch tch . . . NUNU-NANA NUNU-NANA NUNU-NANA NUNU-NANA NUNU-NANA NUNU-NANA! [repeat 100,000]

Your doom, like most dooms, is interminable. You are writing this and yet your doom exists in timeless infinity. You are still there, breathing your own hot breath, suffering the unscratchable, holding the unpeeable, waiting, half-fearful half-willing, to be sucked into the vortex beyond your head. Whether into another universe or a more tolerable hell, you’d settle for either but shall never be so lucky. You are doomed. Have been. Will be. So don’t even think about moving.

With that being said, the MRI wasn’t so bad. I survived. Again. Despite all doubts to the contrary, I am here to tell my tale.

I should also mention that the scans looked pretty good—definitely no growth and my doctor even dared to say the tumor looked slightly diminished. So far, so poisoned to the better. Sally forth, little soldier.

*

At therapy today, I had to do some big boy exercises. Shelby Baptist has a PT branch at the Greystone YMCA. In other words, from where I usually perform my piddly feats of basic motor function, I can watch through large, glass doors as sleekly toned Adonises touch-up their chiseled features and lumbering, lumber-armed Beowulfs hoist, heave, and growl. Today, I stepped through those glass doors.

As I limped through the neat rows of equipment, I thought to myself, “Well, I have never.” As in never had I been in “the gym.” As in, “Yo, Chad, I’m gonna hit up the gym today, comin with?” “Aw, no, Brad, I hit it up yesterday with Thad. Sorry, Bro.” “No worries, Bro.” That kind of gym.

It was fun, though. A change of pace. More strenuous which can only mean improvement. And improvement’s the name of the game. Let’s play ball!

barring a miracle

{Be sure to check out the new visuals page "the culprit."}

February 13, 2012

So this month, the nausea only lasted two days after the chemo round. Today, I felt well enough for some new PT exercises and to eat two-thirds of a twelve inch pizza for dinner. While I expect my post-chemo appetite to diminish more significantly as the year progresses, right now I feel like I’m on one of those shake for breakfast, shake for lunch, eat a sensible dinner diets. The difference being: my “shakes” are still small meals (banana, yogurt, PB&J) and reasonably nutritious and slimming; however, my “sensible dinner” (and here is where I feel like I’m not quite on target) is more like a “sweet Bocephus, pass that cheese log and that sausage gravy so I can dress my salad” kind of dinner. Not so much sensible as senseless. But who needs sense when they’ve got rationale? Mine being . . . I deserve to eat-up when my stomach is calm, when the thought of food itself doesn’t churn my insides. Right? Sounds right. Rational even. And that’s what separates us from the animals, right? Bocephus, pass the butter.

February 14, 2012

Yesterday my therapist asked me where I wanted to be in a month. Put on the spot, I balked. I went to the place where I store my thoughts but when I switched on the light they all scattered. I had to say something so I scrounged whatever came to the rest of my mind. Walk straight. Get out of the “fall risk” category. Operate my left foot in accordance with my nervous system. All good things and yet I felt like I had blurted answers for the sake of answering not for the sake of solidifying my intent. Because that was the real question. It wasn’t tricky, it wasn’t loaded. When you finish here, where would you like to be? I left the session feeling false, like I owed more than I had given. Or worse, like I had taken without giving at all. (Granted, I have a tendency to color scenarios beyond the actual spectrum of the occurrence. My wife will tell you. It’s a vestige of my Romanticism, I suppose—this feeling too deeply, this seeing too distantly. So sue me.)

Nonetheless, the question remains. I’ll light a candle and step quietly into the place where I store my thoughts. Where do I want to be in a month? Physically. Barring a miracle. But first, this question. Why did yesterday’s answers feel empty?

[Time lapse bracket because this is real time thinking folks. Shhhh.]

[ . . . ]

There’s this . . . it’s no secret but it’s indescribable. Since the beginning, since my first seizure and subsequent scary discoveries, since the first symptoms—the wooze, the wobble, the whirl, the many, many more that begin with letters other than W—throughout these years of alternating deliberate ignorance and unwanted certainty, one of the most difficult aspects of my condition is just that . . . it’s not a secret but it’s indescribable. Where do I want to be next month? Not necessarily where the symptoms cease but where they cease to be misunderstood.

[ . . .]

There’s this . . . where I’ll be next month is just a way-station, a quick smoke before re-boarding the train. Where do I want to be next month? Not necessarily off the train as long as it’s moving forward. And I don’t suppose it matters much whether to Lonesome Dove or Laredo, just as long as it’s moving forward.

[ . . .]

There’s this . . . next month my physical therapy will be up to me. No therapist to impress. No funny equipment to photograph. No big balls or tiny trampolines. Next month? Not necessarily walking straight or moving in perfect sync with my nervous system but I’d like to keep trying.

Straighter. In syncer. Stronger in as many senses as I can mange.

Conclusion for the time being? I’m like everyone. Big goal, small goal. Anything but empty answers. What say next month we all be in a better place? Too Romantic, for you? How about let’s be in a less shitty place? Not necessarily somewhere entirely unshitty but somewhere where the shit’s been swept-up a bit.

Oh and there’s this! I took my first big boy shower of the 2012 today. (My photographer refused to document the occasion. Scruples, I guess.) Valentine’s Day and Jonny graduated from the bathtub. Six and a half weeks of rinsing baby shampoo with a plastic cup. Next month, you ask? Does it get any better than that? Probably— but a stand-up shower is a great start.

riddle my guts with buckshot

January 31, 2012

Month one is one day from being in the books. Let’s re-cap January. It was not the best of times; it was not the worst of times. I neither died nor spent more than a minute or two wishing I had. Most importantly, even though I fell flat on the floor one night trying to, I can make it to the “commode” (my PT’s phrase which was more unsettling than any other she could have chosen, especially since she probably chose “commode” in an attempt to not be unsettling) unassisted and, shall we say, successfully complete my intended transactions.

Let’s re-cap the re-cap. Suckiness was moderate. Potty independence!

***

Yesterday, I ran an experiment to explain a phenomenon associated with trips to the downtown (UAB) Kirklin Clinic where reside my neuro-oncologist, my regular lab, and, in the ineffable horrors of Mordor, that chamber of doom, that sinister capsule of torturous din, that loneliest of solitudes—the MRI machine.

Over the years of my tumor’s tenancy, I reckon I’ve been run through that tube at least 50 times. You might suppose that as an old pro I would be able to make it through the exam with ease. You’d be more than just mistaken, you’d be doing your supposing in a galaxy so far, far away you’d be as likely to run into some droid-peddling Jawas than to comprehend the terror I undergo every single time for every single second of those thirty minutes that I am suffocating! paralyzed! trapped without recourse! in that whirring, whomping, Armageddoning tomb.

In short, magnetic resonance imaging is not my cup of tea.

Back to my experiment. I wanted to test the degree to which various factors of my doctor’s visits resulted in my typical cyclonic stomach activity. Were there any Pavlovian triggers? Any particular moment/ site of dread-inducement?

As a baseline, this data: I usually leave the house feeling fine, start getting a little nervous as we approach our final turn, detect a stirring of butterflies when we park, and then, invariably already late for my scan, the cyclone. Invariably too . . . the commode.

My hypothesis: Since I had no MRI scheduled for the day, my dread would either be non-existent, negligible, or minor. My secret expectation: the mere association would riddle my guts with buck-shot.

Conclusion: Dread—non-existent upon entering the premises, minor at labs having blood drawn, negligible during the doctor visit. Turns out, my hypothesis was correct and my secret expectation was unwarranted.

Geez, what a gas-- conducting unnecessary experiments and reporting the results to you, my exasperated reader, using extraneous, nay, superfluous, yea even a turgid lexicon.

***

That being said, I’ll keep today’s report on point. My physical therapist was slightly impressed by my improved gait and muscle control. I was rewarded by graduating to one of the big, bouncy, therapy balls [new visuals]. I had assumed that my personal regimen would never include those things. But you know what they say about assuming . . . it makes an ass out of you and ming.

All assumption aside (which makes an ass out of you and mption), my ass got introduced to a big, bouncy therapy ball. Was it a little scary at first? Yes, me being a fall risk and all. Was it difficult to exercise on? Yes, me being a weakling and all. Was it kinda awesome? Yes, yes it was.

jinxes and telekinesis

January 25, 2012

Today, I went to physical therapy by prescription whereas for months I have been ignoring the prodding of my family. It’s an interesting thing, “doctor’s orders,” how it can be the coup de grâce of a persistent disregard of “sound advice.” And get this: I think therapy is going to be a tremendous help in untangling my gait and in preventing an atrophy of my left leg. Who’d of thought? Well, there’s my family . . . common sense . . . medical precedent . . .

But other than that . . . fine, let’s do this thing. Twice a week. And every day at home while consulting my exercise sheet. I predict my nemesis shall be the “Angry Cat Stretch.” [see PT sheet]

January 26, 2012

Today, I performed my physical therapy at home. Performed. Ha! Like the world’s worst circus act kind of performance. Like a squirrel in the last phases of road-dying before officially becoming road-kill kind of performance. Like DiCaprio in Romeo + Juliet . . . well, you get the idea.

It can only get better because it cannot get any worse.

I might have just jinxed myself. Tomorrow will tell.

January 29, 2012

I did not jinx myself. I can sense, if not palpably then psychologically, strength returning. Strength returning! What a vital phrase. The boxer on the seven count rising with a grin. This is no springtime sally into a new season of viridescence, no gradual babble toward a meager brook waterfall. This is strength—vital not vernal. The grizzly sloughing its deep hibernation and prowling for nourishment, be it flesh or flower, a return of strength its only object.

Back to a humbler reality. I’m no boxer. I’m no grizzly. Besides, I’d rather be green than grizzled.

I am weak but getting stronger.

There is one exercise, however, that I cannot perform unaided as yet; and in a traditionally functioning body, it would require the fewest calories, the least exertion—my treasonous left ankle refuses to flex my pathetic left foot. [Note: this is not the Angry Cat Stretch which I predicted to give me the most fits.] This inflexibility is a source of giggles (glad to serve some purpose) for the wife and the son as they watch me attempt to achieve this practically paralytic feat. <<<<<<<< a pun! (Glad to serve some purpose.)

I stare at the bastard foot willing it to move, emptying my bag of other people’s tricks—Uri Geller, Obi Wan Kenobi, Criss Angel. Nothing. I’m not discounting telekinesis, mind you, just my own paranormal capabilities.

Another technique I try is to mock my left ankle by showing it how ridiculously simple is the thing it can’t do. My method? Flex my right foot, whistling whimsically, back, forth, up, down, and for flourish, a roll about, and for max scoffery, a yawn or two while checking my watch. I don’t own a watch. I think we can all agree that to check an actual watch is much less derisive than checking an imaginary one. Needless to say, this technique is useless.

Ah well. It’s only been a few days. Speedy recoveries are for HGH sluggers and the T-1000 cyborg from Terminator 2 doing that liquid metal regeneration thingy.

Maybe the ref only just started counting. Maybe I’m a fat enough bear to hit the snooze button once or twice. Maybe come spring . . . who knows? . . . maybe I’ll do that liquid metal thingy.