At the First Meeting, the Doctor Ignored Me

Yep,  he ignored me.  It was as though I wasn't there--the mere wife of the patient.  I scratched off all my nail polish sitting in the examining room (a little stressed?).

Two months later, at the second meeting, the doctor looked at me and said "I don't think we've met."  Then he described a procedure he'd mentioned earlier, that he could perform on Jerry's heart to increase blood flow.  We'd read up on the internet and were worried about the risk, particularly at Jerry's age.  Also, he feels fine.  The doctor said he didn't want to pressure us, but it would be an idea to do it.

 Sketch of what the Oakland doctor said he could do

I came straight home and called Stanford for a second opinion.  Boy, were they accommodating!  I made an appointment in January, a week after we'd see Dr. I-Don't-Think-We've-Met again.   In the meantime, we got a copy of the results of Jerry's last cardiac stress test.  There were contradictions in the summary;  neither of us could figure it out.

Two days ago, we went to appointment at Stanford.

 Entrance to Stanford Medical Center--so busy it could have been an airport.

First, we saw a Fellow in Cardiology, a patient young doctor who listened carefully, asked a lot of questions, and went over the test results.  Then, he studied the list of  Jerry's medications.

Why, he asked, puzzled, did Dr. I-Don't-Think prescribe Drug X?

We weren't sure.

Does Jerry have any cardiac symptoms?  No.

Has he had any change in quality of life?  No.  The Fellow asked me about that in detail.  No.  (The wife exists!)

Oh, and by the way, Drug X and Drug Y, which the Oakland cardiologist told us to have our primary care doctor prescribe, can be very dangerous if taken together.

Mass puzzlement--him, Jerry, me.

He fetched his Professor Cardiologist.  Together they told us they would not recommend the procedure proposed to us by the Oakland doctor.  Not indicated.  Risky.  What would be the point?  He has no symptoms.  Also,  Professor Cardiologist gave us good news that Jerry has the fitness of someone 15 years younger.

We were so relieved when we left that we didn't even care about the thick traffic on 880.

I'm glad, but honest to God, what if Jerry had had a procedure that was unnecessary and risky?  He could have died.  The Oakland doctor had withdrawn his suggestion at the third meeting, but inexplicably, with no additional data, which left us even more confused.  Why did he suggest it in the first place? 

We're transferring Jerry's cardiac care to Stanford, despite the long trek from Berkeley, the currently-wretched Stanford parking situation (construction), and the overall hassle.  I feel shaken and distrustful of my doctors, which I shouldn't, because I have some wonderful doctors who would be the first to suggest I get a second opinion.

As my sister said, Wow.

My friend Claudia M. said, Are you going to kick that twit to the curb?

Yes.

Eating a heart-healthy lunch before the appointment

So, Now I Know the Name of the Boat...

Yesterday, we went to Pt. Reyes in search of a sunny hike (got the hike but not the sun) and ate our sandwiches at a picnic table behind the Inverness Store.  Nearby:  This boat, which ran aground on a Tomales Bay, God knows when.  It's a landmark. 

After lunch, we walked as close as we could to the boat to check it out. The treads of my hiking shoes got clogged with mud, but it was worth it.   Was the boat's name "Point Reyes" before or after it became a landmark?

Other photos:

I took only pictures and left a lot of muddy footprints

 

View to the north

To the east

Far left: mud

And there it sits...

Are We All Charlie? Writing Rankly and Frankly...

A blogger I've read for a couple of years, one with a huge following, has decided to write infrequently, eliminate the Comments Box, and not write about her relationships with her children and husband.

Bore, bore, bore.

Yesterday she wrote that if she were told she had only a year left to live, she wouldn't spend the time taking cruises (oh, fine!), but she'd pray much of the time so she could experience a deeper relationship with God.

 What, no cruises?

We are clearly not on the same page.

I'm always telling myself I have only one year to live, just to see if that gooses me into embracing scary things that I'd really like to do, and also more mundane things like getting the bathroom remodeled (check!) and seeing the Eiffel Tower lit up (next summer, if my courage holds up).   I also have this idea that I'd be more forthcoming about what I really think, so I'll start right now:

First of all, "Je ne suis PAS Charlie"!  Americans are not Charlie, although we do believe in freedom of expression, and of course no one should be killed for saying what they think.  But Charlie Hebdo is a uniquely French tradition, and their cartoons can be savage (I have a feeling their cartoons about feminism would really piss me off).

As Adam Gopnik wrote in the current New Yorker, "...it [Charlie Hebdo] kept alive the nineteenth-century style of direct, high-spirited, and extremely outrageous caricature..."  He writes, "The magazine was offensive to Jews, offensive to Muslims, offensive to Catholics, offensive to feminists..." 

Which brings up my next point:  I have to admit I'm squeamish about poking highly irreverent fun at things other people hold dear.  I know--I'm being politically incorrect about being politically incorrect. But I'm not French, and I'm definitely not Charlie.  (Maybe if I told myself I have only a year to live?)

On a more personal note:  This week Jerry and I went to see his cardiologist with questions about his exercise stress test in September and the doctor's subsequent urging that he have a procedure to remove plaque from an artery.

 This is what an Exercise Myocardial Perfusion Study looks like

Oh, how we boned up for this week's appointment!  Much reading online, trying to figure out what a "hemodynamically significant coronary artery stenosis" is, wondering what the risk of the procedure would be.  Long list of questions.

All for naught.  Now the doctor thinks that with no symptoms, there's no need for the procedure.  Jerry should just keep exercising and taking a statin.  Next week we go to Stanford for another consultation.  I hope the message is the same.  A relief, but there's still that old devil, mortality, hanging out in his cave.

Quilting:  Not doing much.  All attempts seem to stall at the moment, but I'm loving my new fabric drawers. 

New drawers in my studio closet

The remodeled bathroom is presenting numerous tart-up opportunities:

Found these objets in a cupboard and transported them to the bathroom.  Jerry picked them up and asked what they were for.  He does not watch HGTV.

Inverness lavender potpourri supplied by Elisabeth Ptak

One of these days, I'll post pictures of the entire bathroom, by which time I guarantee you won't care.

And finally, me finding out the contractor won't be here today (he's repairing some leaky windows):

 Avec reading glasses and slapped back hair--frankly, rankly* me

*Lifted from Adam Gopnik's New Yorker piece

New Year, New Quilt, More Trips, New Mantra

We all made it!  Survived Christmas.  Hundreds of days until it rolls around again.  Yippee!

* * * * *

In my studio yesterday morning:

Strips leftover from a quilt I made three years ago.

No idea what they will all become.  Whatever it is, it will most likely end up as a quilt auctioned off here to benefit the Berkeley Food Pantry.

* * * * *

"Do it now," is what a lot of elderly travelers have said to us, and we're by God doing that in 2015. We have trips planned this year to a) Costa Rica/Panama Canal/New Orleans/Key West and b) Scandinavia/St. Petersburg/Paris/Normandy/England.

The details take up two binders and a lot of my brain.

I've got two blank books...

 ...standing by to join these:

Our trips since 2006.  What are you going to remember on your deathbed? (Not a new bathroom)

 * * * * *

New mantra:  "What would you attempt to do if you knew you couldn't fail?"

Maybe tap-dancing.  Quilts that are a bit more adventurous.   A family history that tells the truth.  A walk across the Golden Gate Bridge. Lots more.  Have to think.

Happy New Year!  Or anyway Post-Christmas... 

Is that bathroom remodel done YET? And how much tiramisu can you eat in 24 hours?

A.  Bathroom remodel is complete, but bathroom looks like a model home before staging: bare.   Hence, the reveal is delayed.  Except for this:

Jerry taped paper over the window for a little privacy.

A. Two large servings and two small within 24 hours of Christmas dinner.   No picture available.

Q.  Why are you showing us a tied-up box of See's candy?
A.  My sister tied it up to prevent me from eating the remaining chocolates so I could offer them to Food Pantry clients on Monday.

Q.  Why is there another picture of a tied-up See's candy box?
A.  Because I cut the knotted-up ribbon and ate two pieces.   See lower right where snip occurred. And below, post-snip:

 Two chocolates missing.

 Q.  Why ANOTHER picture?
 A.  Because I knotted the ribbon again.

 Q.  How many people think I won't eat more chocolates before 1 pm tomorrow?

Looking for Something to Want

So, with the construction dragging on, I've become a slobbette who unhooks her bra as soon as the workmen leave and settles in her chair to binge on "Income Property."  (Canadians!  They all say "hoose.")

I'm supposed to be getting a Christmas list together for my sister and Jerry, because we like sitting in the living room on Christmas Day opening a small pile of gifts and joking around.  But I've been useless coming up with anything, although I've looked:

I even went online to Nordstrom to see if there's yet another robe Jerry could get me to replace the ancient $20 robe from Target that can't be beat (he loves Nordstrom's 800-number ladies, very helpful, AND they gift wrap).  Plus magazines, newspapers, Amazon.  Here's what I found:

Scented is big:

 Especially this--scented sticks.  Very big.

Watches are big:

Dopey sweaters are still  big. (Can you see Jerry in this?):

This caught me off-guard--am I the only one?

Also everywhere:  cashmere sweaters and scarves.  Everyone but me  likes these (scratchy!).

I found things I can't imagine wanting, like a sleeve for a succulent:

And a green tag that says you eat plants:

Why?

Sometimes the copy was the best part:

Infinitely on trend?   

Finally, I came up with a very short list which I'm going to give you right now, in case you are casting about for things you don't need but would like.  Otherwise, skip it.  I don't want to add to the pressure.

A quilt book
A travel umbrella
A Streetwise plastic map of Paris (swear by them)
Bobbi Brown eye cream (trying to offset encroaching hagdom)
A Mighty Bright book light
Also, more in the Jerry budget:  A Le Creuset grill pan, big enough for two, because we're too cheap (and daunted) to buy an actual grill.

In the meantime,  look who I got to sit on the toilet parked in my studio:

Yes, Mr. Adorable visited last weekend and was open to being bribed into posing for a picture.  (He chose a Tootsie Roll Pop over a See's sucker--no accounting for tastes.)

Hanging Out in an Old Robe for Sanity's Sake

$20 at Target years ago

Yesterday I got up whenever the hell I wanted for the first time in six days.  I flung open the bedroom door: no workers.  I didn't brush my hair, put on a lick of lipstick, nothing, nada.  Just me in my hag suit: robe, socks, and slippers.  I hung out in this outfit until 1 pm.  Bliss.

We had two tile guys here even on Thanksgiving Day.  The painter is chomping at the bit now that my sister and I have chosen the paint color ("Frappe").  The contractor is doing the finish carpentry work today and tomorrow.

Here's what the bathroom looks like:

N

Not very gratifying, is it?  The cabinet, vanity, medicine cabinet, and counters are all there but covered in cardboard ("protection").  

Here's the shower, which has required days of work by the tile guys:

The niche for shampoo and soap yet to be finished.  I think of it as the "shrine."

The closet in my studio is ready for a coat of paint and then installation next week of Elfa shelves and rods for double-hung clothes.

In the meantime, my studio itself has become a parking lot for everything that's been taken out of closets:

Nightmare

Just one day of hanging out in my robe in my entirely private house was luxury.  I puttered.  I caught up.   But by 7:30 last night, my sister was sending e-mails about towel racks and lighting fixtures, and the painter called at 7:58 this morning.  No robe-time until next weekend.