Walter Is Getting a Little Sister

It has been three months since we extracted a plumbing system from my infected brain. Since then Walter has sprouted from his shaving, my incision has healed, and my CSF flows uninfected. However,  my brain DID NOT teach itself how to properly drain itself. After an extensive eye exam and another lumbar puncture it is apparent my intercrainal pressure is high again. In a predictable world the brain did not disappoint.

Walter peeking out. He is under control now.

Up to this point I had a few MAJOR headaches, and I was able to knock myself out with the wonders of Oxycodeine and Zofran (an anti nausea drug). This cocktail has always done me well and I keep Kyle extremely aware of my Oxy usage as I could easily become addicted to the euphoria it offers; please no judgment here. Also a familiar whooshing sound had reappeared in my ear. This symptom doesn't really bother me until I am ready to lay down and go to sleep. Then this whooshing I had been ignoring all day sounds like I am in the middle of a tidal wave. And there really isn't any way to rid my ear of the loud splashing sound but to turn on the TV and focus on a dumb sitcom like 30 Rock or Parks and Rec. So yes, I have to have the TV on to sleep and I know "they" say that isn't good for your sleep patterns. So with the help of a class II narcotic and bad sleep habits, I was makin' it! I managed to start substitute teaching, attend and stay awake for a 24 hour Oscars movie marathon, and dance so vivaciously at a wedding that I was unable to walk down stairs the next   day.                                                                                      

 

 My possible drug-induced euphoria was cracked Tuesday when I went to an appointment with my colorful neurosurgeon to look through some results and discuss the next step. I had to drive to Research Medical Center because I would vomit if I hadn't (motion sickness: another sure sign that something is not right up there). Dr. Basta quickly caught us in the waiting room before my appointment to ask if I was feeling "crappy" yet. He asked in kind of an ironic tone, but he was jolly. I knew he hadn't looked at my eye exam or LP results yet because when he came into the exam room, he seriously asked to look at my most recent incision. There was no talk of provocative magazine covers or kids' preschool dramas. I unleashed Walter and he quickly glanced at the incision and immediately said "I don't feel comfortable going in on the right side." At that point I can't remember if Kyle or I said "So does that mean another shunt?" Probably the rest of the appointment reads like a sitcom script:

BASTA

I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. I can just suggest treatments. 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT

Well I want to do what is best for my health and my eyesight.

BASTA

I can't guarantee that your headaches and eyesight will stabilize. We know that your optic nerve is swollen and you have two blind spots AND most importantly that the shunt gave you a lot of relief last year.

BEFUDDLED PATIENT'S HUSBAND

Umm...ok. Why the left side? So she would have to shave her OTHER side? [awkward pause as he ponders the fate of his wife's dueling hair patches] Now, I don't have a medical degree, but why wouldn't we just go into the already messed up side?

 

BASTA

[Leaning on a side table and trying to not giggle at the BEFUDDLED PATIENT'S HUSBAND'S awkward pause] We don't want to put a completely foreign object with no immune system back into the area that has previously been infected. If there is any left over bacteria, we would be giving it a missile to grow and then spread to the stomach.

BEFUDDLED PATIENT'S HUSBAND

[Still perplexed and scared of TWO Walters poking out of his wife's head] But we have clean CSF results. Isn't that enough proof?

 

BASTA

[Making sure to direct his attention to BOTH the BEFUDDLED PATIENT AND HYSTERICAL HUSBAND] Nothing is certain in medicine, and there could still be Staph left in her scalp, skull, or ventricles on the right side. However, left side is clear. We don't want to start all over again...right?

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT

[Loudly with furrowed eyebrows] Oh hell no!

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT'S HUSBAND

No, I guess not.

 

BASTA

Hey, we are lucky you have recovered so well and are alive. [BEFUDDLED PATIENT has a "What The Hell" look on her face as she feels that BASTA is being a bit dramatic] So if we decide on a shunt, the left side is the best bet. [Something clicks in BASTA'S brain. He looks at HYSTERICAL HUSBAND'S Mizzou Jacket] You going to Nashville?

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT'S HUSBAND

Huh? To have the surgery? [pause, looking at BASTA'S eye line] Oh, you mean am I going to SEC Tournament? No, not this year. Maybe when we get good.

 

BASTA

Yeah it is a shame it isn't happening in KC. That was nice. Me and my buddies would go to The Cashew and drink then go get tickets from the street scalpers.

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT

Sooooo....when will we do this surgery?

 

BASTA

By the end of the month [neglecting to give BEFUDDLED PATIENT eye contact]. Where do they have the SEC tournament?

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT'S HUSBAND

Oklahoma City.[He has realized the conversation has veered off course] Oh, wow! That early for the surgery?

 

BASTA

Yeah! We wouldn't want anything to get worse and you want to be better in time for school to be out. She would need all of April and May to recover.[Directing all attention to BEFUDDLED PATIENT'S HUSBAND]. You know Oklahoma is a lot like Kansas City. You wouldn't chose to live there.  

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT

[With a scorned woman voice] But you ARE NOT moving right?

 

BASTA

[Looking at BEFUDDLED PATIENT] No.

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT

OK, because your name is written all over my head. I am sorry, but...

 

BASTA

Don't appologize. I am your advocate. Things like hitting your head happen. It is just the cards you were dealt. You know this reminds me of when we bought a pair of $90 shoes for my infant daughter and they got lost. [BEFUDDLED PATIENT sees the conversation taking another detour but hunkers down and listens to how her brain is like a pair of overpriced shoes only a nuerosurgeon would buy his baby daughter]. I can remember it; my mother-in-law was in town and all of us came home from the grocery store to find that Addie didn't have one of her shoes. And one shoe is pretty useless...right? I became mad and huffy about the fact we even bought $90 shoes, but then we didn't need to be losing them also. During my tantrum [giggle] my mother-in-law taps me on the shoulder and says [giggle] "This isn't going to be the first pair of shoes you lose." Right then I got it...shit happens!  

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT

[Smiling] True, yeah...true! Totally! [a bit confused if the shoes represent the shunt or her brain or just life in general] So do you predict anything happening to this shunt?

 

BASTA

Medicine is not an exact science, so yes there is a chance; but small.

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT

 Let me put it differently. I, an adult, have had both a malfunction and infection in the first year of having my first shunt? Will this string of unfortunate events likely happen again?

 

BASTA

I can't for certainty say yes or no. I have put many shunts in and then never see the patients again. Now some move away, but it is unlikely HUNDREDS of them moved away, so I am assuming their shunts worked well. If you have another malfunction we will go from there, but I would think positive and stop hitting your head [he snickers]. Also an infection doesn't just pop up one day. Either there is an systemic infection or trauma to the shunt and a good majority of patients avoid both.

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT

Ok, lets do it! However, can we negotiate the night in ICU?

 

BASTA

[Looking as if this was NOT a common request] We can keep you in recovery until you are ready to be released to the 6th floor.

 

BEFUDDLED PATIENT

[Feeling as if she won a tiny battle] Deal!

  

I have painted Dr. Basta to be a complete ding bat who most likely has ADHD and can't stick to the point in a conversation. However, my Cluster of Crap would be a lot more boring without his social flaws and inappropriate side stories. Furthermore, I honesty I trust him to be my brain's plumber again. My anxiety was in check the whole time and I am proud to say that for the first time I didn't feel dizzy (or actually pass out) leaving his office. Maybe that is a sign that I am totally at peace with my pending surgery and the ACTUAL end is in sight.

 



  

So Walter will have a baby sister named Meg in honor of some new and kind friends who have two cats named Walter and yes, you named it, Meg. She will arrive on Monday.

#1-Finding Peace in a Swollen Optic Nerve

There has been a lull in blogging because I was nervous about finding a GREAT and FANTASTIC story for #1 on my Top Ten of Ridiculousness. But then I remembered that David Letterman's Top Ten always has a sub par #1. My #1 is absurd because it involves my thought process and no other adjective describes my thinking better than ridiculous

I have been in a "wait and see" mode for the past month. Wait for an undetermined amount of time and see if the blinding headache, tunnel vision, and whooshing sound in my ears to return. Then when those symptoms come, I get to call for a dreaded lumbar puncture order to measure my opening pressure. Needless to say this game is not nearly as fun as the birth waiting game; where you get to spend nine months eating all the donuts and fried pickles you want and then a baby comes. The result of the current waiting game is a plumbing apparatus in my brain, not a cuddly baby. Patience has never been a virtue of mine. I desperately wanted to wait and learn the gender of all three babies at birth. However, with each baby I buckled at the infamous 18 week sonogram. My lack of patience has made my panic worse many many times. I am sure most medical professionals tag me as a pushy lunatic when I continue to hound them for time lines on treatments or illness durations.

I went to go pick up some medical records from my eye doctor Tuesday and he asked how things were going, so I went into my pitiful diatribe about waiting. He had a few moments, so he suggested he take a look at my optic nerve. A swollen optic nerve had been a hallmark for my pressure being high. It was like he could tell I wanted to know something concrete about the brain situation. He took a fancy-eye-doctor- flashlight and flashed it into my naturally dilated eyes to get a glimpse of the back of my eyeball. The margins of my left optic nerve were "undefined" meaning it had begun to swell again. Hallelujah! A world of relief lifted off my shoulders.

 

Now you are probably questioning why I was so relieved...huh? Here is where my ridiculous thinking comes into play. I had been having minimal symptoms (1) headaches (2) mild nausea (3) ringing in my ear (4) unreliable vision (5) stiff neck. In fact many IIH sufferers endure these symptoms for years before a diagnosis is made. In my heart I knew the pressure was rising, so I knew that the condition was back. However these five symptoms are not acute enough to warrant a new VP shunt to be placed. Leaving me to wonder if I was making up the symptoms and leaving me with no treatment and the possibility of never feeling healthy again. Furthermore no treatment was like getting lost in a black hole. This stung for me especially when I had a treatment (VP shunt) that was working beautifully not two months ago. So when the concrete Papilledema (swelling of the optic nerve) was seen, I became confident that I would get treatment because in the medical world Papilledema was acute enough to act on. I would NOT be lost in the black hole that many sufferers fall into and never escape. I would feel normal sooner or later.

So I am a bit bummed the condition did not go into remission (I was not hedging my bets that it would go into remission), but I am relieved I have acute enough symptoms to get treatment. Ridiculous...right? I never claimed I was a logical thinker. I will have an official eye exam March 6th and meet with Dr. Basts March 12th. Until then, I will have a lot more patience because of my backwards thought process and my eye doctor's ability to act.

     

#2- This is a Ridiculous Amount of Food

This is a HUGE THANK YOU note to all who took care of me and my family with food! I just want to state that so the gratitude does not get muddled in any sarcasm. 

Being a new resident of Lee's Summit, I was introduced to this amazing suburban ritual called a Meal Train.  We had three kids in Columbia and with every kid, one or two meals were dropped off at our house as a get well gesture. We were very appreciative of the meal and felt lucky to have it. However, the Lee's Summit community's idea of get well food puts Columbia's to shame.

Two weeks before my original shunt fitting, a mom contacted me through my preschool about setting up a Meal Train for us after my surgery. Before responding to her generous e-mail, I have to admit I typed "Meal Train" into the Google search box to educate my dumb mind on what it exactly entailed. This is what Wikipedia, the bible of quick and mildly reliable information, told me: meal trains are commonly organized after significant life events, including birth, death, illness, surgery, or new job. Caring friends, family, co-workers, congregation members, neighbors, and communities show their excitement or compassion though the organized delivery of meals.

After my research, I was hesitant to take her up on her offer because it seemed too generous for me, a Lee's Summit newbie. No was not an acceptable answer to the generous tsunami of edibles that was about to crash into our house. We were about to be baptized into the community with 10 extra pounds and Type II diabetes.

For two weeks last December (after my shunt fitting) a new hot dinner would show up at our doorstep, and then again this December. These families (I say families because there was a dad who made a wonderful roast chicken and potatoes) brought salads, main dishes, sides, breakfasts and, desserts. I remember my mom coming up to visit on my 3rd day in the hospital and saying "You guys won't starve because you have a lot of food in your house."

As Kyle had the opportunity to try other's cooking he was reminded that I do not cook fantastically. Our typical weekly menus are created by the most simple recipes that require the least amount of pots/pans. So Buffey's Chicken and Noodles with homemade noodles really tasted comforting to his pallet. Or Kate's breakfast burritos were more satisfying than his normal morning bowl of Cheerios and a Mt. Dew. He devoured Gretchen's heaping batch of potato soup; he managed to find the large pasta bowls for those soup servings. And Sherri's Chicken Lasagna caused him to repeatedly talk about how he would of never guessed chicken would be tasty in lasagna.

Oh, and the meatloaf Kristen made. Effin' Meatlof; how I hate you! As a kid I never ever liked it and Mom made it once a week, so I had to smell that ketchupy sirloin loaf roasting often. Gag! Then as a newlywed, I thought I would surprise my meatloaf loving husband with one I made especially for him. It was just for him because I had no desire to eat it. Kyle took one bite of that specially prepared beef loaf and said it needed to be cooked longer. I believed him because I wouldn't know better. That jackhole put it back into the warm oven to only forget about it; thus letting it burn up like a large piece of coal.  That is when I proclaimed meatloaf and I were breaking up FOREVER! Oh, but the Meal Train broke that proclamation and Kyle got his meatloaf despite my ban.

Not only did the families bring homemade meals, they got clever and called ahead to see what our Chinese order would consist of before bringing us 5 folded white boxes with red pagodas.  One mom brought two Papa Murphy's pizzas over which made Franki Ann super happy as her favorite meal is cheese pizza. And a supremely generous family provided a take-out meal from Outback; I had never had Outback and I was impressed. Then there is the infamous Sunday morning knock at our door, where Kyle teared up because he was given a very full yellow box of Lamar's Donuts.



Unfortunately, I can't blame the holidays for the past two years of "winter weight" I have gained; I blame that blasted train of meals. It's not like I can say NO to Beth's strawberry cupcakes or Buffey's Chocolate Cake. BTW this cake actually weighed 7 pounds and had two chocolate cake layers and a brownie bottom layer. Then those three layers were separated and covered in home made chocolate frosting. It was a whole new caliber of cake. Who could resist that chocolate craziness? Both Franki and Moe have conned Buffey into making her chocolate cake for their respective birthdays.







The most astonishing facet of my whole drama is not the three surgeries or the inability to stay conscience while vertical. It is how many friends and acquaintances showed their concern for us. With their time and effort my family was properly fed, but without the trans fats of McDonald's or Taco Bell. In hopes to pay if forward, there is no Meal Train I don't urgently sign up for!

#3-If only Edward Cullen were Real...

I managed to have 8 lumbar punctures performed on me as a treatment for the IIH before choosing the VP Shunt as a permanent fix.  For those who have not eaten in the past 20 min, a lumbar puncture (aka a spinal tap) is when a doctor sticks a torturous needle into my spine and attempts to avoid hitting my vertebrae. Kyle and I both know from blind LPs (LPs done without x-ray assistance) that when the needle DOES hit the vertebrae, an electric shock pulsates down the leg. This is why with my therapeutic LPs, I refused the potential pulsating leg option and non-confrontationally DEMANDED the use of a fluoroscope machine to aid a radiologist to guide the needle right to the sweet spot. The purpose of this barbaric process is to collect possible infected CSF, measure pressure, and drain excess CSF.

To make this whole vodka-worthy situation worse, the needle prick sometimes doesn't clot correctly and the spine leaks CSF. The leak leads to brain sagging... I inappropriately picture my back brain lobes resembling old boobies without a push-up bra. Then the droopy lobes cause a mind bashing headache. Now the medical answer for this sagging is disgusting and I often wonder who and how this remedy called a blood patch was discovered. It had to be one of those accidental discoveries that involved a boat-load of alcohol and/or drugs.

I have had 2 blood patches. My first one was explained and executed with sweet care by an anesthesiologist named Dr. Poe at St. Lukes in Lee's Summit. Dr. Poe was from Louisiana and his southern twang hypnotized me as he extracted what seemed like a quart of blood from my arm, and then within the same breath injected that sweet vampire nectar into my spine. The hope is that the new blood will clot the temporary hole and suspend the brain enough to where it wasn't sagging. Dr. Poe's procedure worked perfectly and as he used words like Ma'am, Y'all, and Piggly Wiggly Buggies (shopping carts for you damn Yankees), my headache vanished. My brain received that much needed push-up bra and I didn't even care that the support was provided by blood freakishly taken from my arm veins.

 

Ironically, a pic of my Twilight gang seeing Eclipse in matching T-shirts.



The second patch did not involve a gentleman, but an arrogant short man who resembled Sammy Davis Jr. All I can remember from the second patch is telling Dr. Sammy Davis that I needed to be laying down or I would pass out. As he heaved with frustration, he said "Nope...that is not how it is done" and started pulling blood from my arm. Then I heard him exclaim "Oh Lord!" as I fainted off to the right of the bed. I am not sure how they did the creepy patch while I was unconscious and why there was so much blood on the bed sheet and floor, but my head felt a whole lot better and I was released quickly not having to encounter the impatient doctor again.

When I went to a post-op appointment after getting my shunt, Dr. Basta told me that I would not have to ever have another LP again. If infection or pressure problems were probable, he could just tap the shunt and leave my spine alone. I call bull shit on that because I am looking at having one soon.

#4- It Would be Helpful if I Could Ninja Roll out of the Recliner

A head incision, a monkey named Henry, and a recliner are the characters in this story. Ah...my recliner. I do love it greatly. I avoided ever buying one because they are so hideous looking and impossible to blend into any style of living room. However, after my original VP shunt surgery, I found it hard to sleep in a flat bed, and I often rolled over on the bad side causing gross pillowslips and a ton of pain the next morning. Therefore, I surrendered my anti-recliner stance and began to desperately want one.

My fellow zipperhead planned better and purchased her duo of recliners BEFORE coming home from her surgery. Good thinking Gretchen! So thanks to some Christmas money, Kyle and I headed to Nebraska Furniture Mart to claim our comfy chair that would ruin my living room motif (I didn't really have one anyway). We settled on the biggest, cushioniest, ugliest chair in that small town of furniture. It had a "bump," non itchy brown material, and it rocked. Lastly, it reclined ALL the way back and remained in that reclining position, making it a perfect nest for a few weeks.

Henry, our friskiest child, is always climbing onto and off of laps when he's not jumping off couches, benches, and tables. He just has amazing balance and curiosity of how his body will land the higher he goes up.


So it wasn't too alarming when he climbed onto my lap one cold winter afternoon. I was taking advantage of the full reclining feature the chair offered when he wiggled onto my lap. Then he crawled up to the lumbar/headrest part of the recliner. Smack! 1/2 my body weight mixed with his made the recliner tip backwards. Like, all the way backwards. As in "I'm now staring at the ceiling with my legs in the air" backwards.

Now what I do?  Henry just rolls out of the situation effortlessly with a back ninja roll. I would have done the same (without the accompanying grace) if I didn't have 19 staples in my head. And the fact we fell into a corner made it impossible to roll out sideways.  Here is a pic of the little monkey peeking out of his demolition. He, of course, thought this whole thing was HILARIOUS!



My Monkey smiling at Dad before he helps me up

With such concern Franki, Moe, and Henry tried to pull me up; it was really cute, but they didn't know really how much I weighed. Luckily Moe is a responsible kid and was able to follow one command: Go Get Daddy! He ran downstairs to "Daddy's Workshop" and told Kyle he needed to help me (as if he hadn't heard the earth-rattling crash!). So Kyle comes upstairs to this ridiculous situation. Unfortunately, I did not learn from that and had two more recliner tips, but I was able to do that ungraceful ninja roll I wanted to execute earlier in the year.

A Heavy Whole Body Agitation

Putting the Top Ten on hold so I can share about my panic and how it might just be manifesting it's ugly head right now.

After every medical situation, I seem to have a period of high anxiety/panic. After the insomnia pre-term labor thing (don't know what to call it), I had two unproductive weeks. After the Thyroid Storm, I had at least a month where panic plagued my mind to such an extreme I could not care for my kids. When I had original VP shut fitted, I struggled so much I was inflicting physical pain to myself as an escape from the mental discomfort. Then after the Spring shunt malfunction I struggled a week or two with tears and anxiety. By Spring, I used my medication like it was prescribed so my "crazy" period was shortened and a lot less severe. As a result of all this, the past 5 weeks I have been waiting for my bacterial meningitis/pulling the shunt situation to cough up the panic hangover I've experienced the past 4 times.

Last week I thought maybe I dodged the panic by using my medication correctly and beginning to write about my story, so I rejoiced. However, today I woke up with that pre-panic comatose feeling that prequels high anxiety. It is not about what my mind is thinking or worried about. It is about the heavy whole body feeling of agitation. I wake up with it, and it follows me to the shower, to my daily activities, and then to bed where it typically keeps me awake. With this agitation I stay hyper-vigilant of my emotions and obsessively try to put a reason to why I feel this way. This morning when I woke up with the heavy feeling I came up with a list of whys...

1. I forgot a refill on my SSRI, Paxil, so I had to skip a day until I got it filled.
2. I am in the "beautiful" time of the month so that could be messing with my nerves.
3. I am off all the pain killers and from the past (a whole other story) I know my system unintentionally gets addicted to opium derived drugs quickly, so I may be feeling a little "withdrawal" 
4. It is cold and no chance for sun/Vitamin D exposure.
5. No exercise lately
6. Crumbing eating too

So today I try to fix all that. First, I fix my diet. I have been eating Eggo's leftover pumpkin waffles on sale at Hy Vee for breakfast, they really are so tasty. But today I make a breakfast of steel cut oatmeal, blueberries and Greek yogurt. Then I fill my script and immediately take one and a Vitamin D supplement while I try to linger in the Hy Vee parking lot to get some sun on my face and forearms. When I start shivering, I decide I have had enough Vitamin D. Though I truly wanted to skip it and stay in my recliner, I make it to a Lee's Summit Momma's meeting. Isolation is horrible for panic/anxiety/depression, so I go because that is what I am suppose to do. However, after the meeting is over, I feel the heaviness get heavier. I go home and try for a walk, but it is too cold outside. So I manically clean the house to get my heart rate up; then maybe I can consider that exercising. As for the "withdrawal" and "beautiful" time theories I reassure myself that time is the only cure for those. My last aid is to try writing. Maybe writing will make me feel like I have some kind of control over it...that heavy feeling?

Now tomorrow, just ONE day after trying to fix the heavy feeling, will be a pivotal day. Either I will wake up feeling a little bit better or the same. If I feel the same, pure panic will take over because I will IRRATIONALLY think I am in the throws of a major panic episode and fear will keep my mind from settling down and resting. I sure hope tomorrow will be better and lighter.

I am still hesitant sharing about my mind's thoughts because they are irrational a lot of the time. Plus they are not very funny and hard to make fun of. However, I can't truly share my story without sharing my authentic self  rather than just comical superficial stories about my neurosurgeon, Diego, Ebony, and Walter. So sitting here with this heaviness is where I am right now, and I hope anyone else who struggles with similar problems will empathize.

#5-A Christmas Eve Tale

After being released from my initial shunt surgery last December, my stomach gradually began to hurt. From near-OCD research on websites and group forums, I expected my gut to occasionally hurt due to the new junk being introduced to my perineum (stomach lining). Probably needlessly reminding you that a shunt acted as a long straw from a brain hole, that had too much fluid, to my stomach lining where large amounts of fluids could be absorbed. Another end source for a shunt is the heart which is called a VA shunt (Ventricular Atrial). When the VP shunt was originally suggested, I was highly relieved. The idea of connecting two of my most significant organs (brain and heart) with a piece of man made tubing seemed a bit out of my safe zone.

I was happy that I didn't feel the described burning sensation when the shunt released extra CSF (brain juice) down my water slide of a catheter. Then 6 days out, a general stomach discomfort began. It felt like I ate one too many Hostess cupcakes. The next few days the stomach status moved from "belly ache" to "possible organ exploding". Nausea was also making things worse. I called the neurosurgeon and left a message. The next morning I am awakened at 8am by a call from Dr. Basta himself. He  neglects to even say hello before he starts blasting question after question at me: Is your stomach incision raised? Is a fluid sack under the incision? Are you vomiting? Do you have a fever? I say no to all questions while I hear him literally pass the phone to his nurse. The RN comes on the phone and tells me to go to Lee's Summit Medical Center to have an x-ray done. I follow up with "what could be wrong?" She said she didn't know, and that is why the x-ray was ordered.

We got the x-ray completed and the nurse called me the next day on Christmas Eve saying Basta could not see anything wrong on the x-ray. However, an x-ray wasn't the best image for possible fluid collection (so, why was an x-ray ordered to begin with?). I needed to have a CT done back at Research. She had also worked me into the schedule so Basta could "lay eyes on me." At this point, I was a bit alarmed; there had to be something wrong to warrant a phone call from the doc himself and an x-ray and CT to be ordered. I downed an anti-nausea pill, called a grandma to watch the kids, and canceled on a friend who was visiting in order to make the trek back to Research. The CT was performed and we headed up to Basta's office. Unfortunately, since we were a schedule add-on, we had to wait almost two hours to see him. Once we were in a patient room I noticed my hands were shaking and my breath quickened; I was nervous to be there on that exam table. Unknowingly, my panic trigger was beginning to morph from my pre-motherhood insomnia to this particular office.

As he opened the door and walked in, he announced that I needed to "clean my pipes out." Was that a medical term? Was the catheter blocked? Did that involve a hospital stay? Why is he smiling? These were all the questions going through my head.  Seeing I was confused, he emphasized "you need to POOP!" My face turned red and I began to incessantly apologize for wasting his time. In some kind of weird way I felt like a failure as a patient because there wasn't anything wrong with me. When we arrived back home, Kyle's mom asked if everything was ok; I looked down and said that I was fine. When she asked for more details, I quietly muttered that I was only constipated.  In Liz Lemon fashion I wanted to yell,  "I worried a bunch of people, had 2 different medical tests done, and made a last minute Christmas Eve neurosurgeon appointment because I couldn't POOP. Yep, I am the idiot. Blerg!"

In fact I hadn't had a BM since the surgery. So while the kids poured milk into a glass for Santa's visit, I was shooting Milk of Magnesia in the other room. Ironically, my stomach pain disappeared after my pipes were cleaned.