Waiting for a Diagnosis

Well, with tuberculosis in the news because of an infected doctor making the rounds at several local hospitals, I decided I might as well join the fun.

I think I have TB.

We'll know more tomorrow after we get the results from my chest X-ray.

All's I know is, I have all the symptoms except the ones I really wouldn't mind: loss of appetite and unexplained weight loss. Those would be excellent, really. The only time in my life when I had appetite loss was when I was preggers with M. Peevie, God bless her. I was so happy to be un-hungry, and the doc confidently (if insultingly) reassured me that she'd easily live off the fat of the land, so to speak.

But back to the topic at hand: my imminent death from tuberculosis. The symptoms I could do without are non-productive cough, chest pain, and a fever that keeps coming back at night, with chills and night sweats. It's hard to catch my breath sometimes, especially after a huge coughing fit.

Wait, where are you going? Stop backing away! You do not need to worry about infection, as TB is not typically spread through blog contact.

The good news from Dr. Zippy today is that my blood pressure was back down to normal and my weight was down by about three pounds. (It wasn't unexplained weight loss, however, as I spent the last month trying not to drink much alcohol, limiting my caffeine, and reducing the number of times I ate potato chips for breakfast.) I also improved my spirometer score, pushing the little red marker up to about 350, and once to almost 400. Not perfect, but definitely an improvement over "Are you even alive?"

But the TB-type disease is making me tired and a teeny bit cranky. Plus, I stupidly googled "TB treatment" and learned that treatment is complicated and lengthy. Four simultaneous antibiotics, one of them for 6-9 months; blood and sputum tests; no alcohol for the duration; and no Tylenol for the duration. As a person who hates and fears pain, takes Tylenol at the first twinge of a headache or any other kind of ache, and is allergic to all pain relievers except acetominophen, this might be the worst aspect of treatment.

If I actually do have TB, which, of course, is highly unlikely, except I really do love speculation about worst case scenarios, which is why we're having this conversation, I will be all achy, cranky and needing an adult beverage for six to nine months. Look out, world.

And if it's not TB, then what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks is going on inside my chest? The docs agree it's not pneumonia--I guess they can hear pneumonia through the stethoscope. Is it just a particularly long-lasting strain of bronchitis? Is is chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD)--which, BTW, is the fourth leading cause of death in the U.S.?

Cancer? Brain tumor? Catastrophic lung failure, require double lung transplant?

Stay tuned.

American Idol: Predictions and Very Important Analysis

I'll put my Big Prediction right up front, so there's no surprises:

Adam Lambert will be the next American Idol.

Probably every AI blogger in the universe is making this prediction--although when I googled "who will win Idol 2009," I got a little Danny, a little Matt, a little Kris. Not so much lovin' for the girls--except my fave girl, the little redbird Allison. That girl has a smokin' hot voice--but she really is just a girl, and does a 16-year-old have what it takes to win?

I think Adam will beat her--but I also think that the judges will use their "save" vote for her if she gets booted before, say, Anoop or Lil. (Anoop-Dawg is the favorite among the fifth grade male demographic in our completely unscientific poll, however.)

For some reason, there's a little bit of hating going on for Adam out there in the ether. I don't get it. He's talented, cute, and creative--what's not to love? They're calling him a "screaching troll," the "gay screamer," and "over-theatrical." He totally channels Freddie Mercury, and maybe a little bit of David Bowie; some say he's the new David Cook. (But I wasn't done with the old David Cook!)

About the show tonight:

• What's up with Paula and gloves? Does she have really bad eczema or something, and she has to cover up her hands and arms? Tonight she wore long white gloves. M. Peevie, who usually has a great deal of respect for fashion statements, announced the gloves "looked weird."
• Flo Rida was better than I expected, being not a big fan of the rapping genre.
• Kellie Pickler was pitchy, dawg. I mean, she was pretty bad. I was sitting on the toilet (sorry--was that too much information?) and I could hear her hitting notes that were not even close to the mark from the other room. Paula would have had a hard time getting rainbows and unicorns into her critique of that performance.
• Only 30K votes (out of 30 million) separated Anoop and Scott on the bottom two rungs of the Idol ladder. Scott got the axe and didn't get saved even though he delivered a tender rendition of Survivor's "The Search is Over.

One more minor prediction: Anoop will be the next to go. Sorry, A. Peevie.

What do you think?

UPDATE: Please take a sec and vote in the AI poll to the right, because it's so fun to have a little blog interactivity. Thanks!

UPDATE#2: I'm trying to get the poll to work. Any ideas?

UPDATE #3: I never could get the poll to work, so I took it down. I'll try to put up a new one soon. 4/14/09

My Downward Spiral Into Probably Fatal Lung Disease, or Maybe Just Self-Pity

I learned a new word today: spirometer. Those of you with lung disease or asthma will know what I'm talking about. It's a device to measure the amount of air you can push out of your lungs in one deep breath.

As you may be tired of hearing, I have been having a little trouble in the lung department ever since my overly generous son A. Peevie shared his flu with me three weeks ago. My illness developed into bronchitis that makes my chest feel like a prop on Million Dollar Baby. You know, a punching bag. Did I really need to explain that?

I've been calling my doctor about every four or five days, complaining about the cough and the chest pain, and she keeps telling me it's a virus, it's going to take time, chillax, mon. I bullied her into giving me some prescription cough medicine the first week, and the second week she finally gave up some antibiotics.

(BTW, this is my normal MO with doctors. You can't just take their word for stuff, and wait for them to give you what you think you need. You need to be proactive and assertive. Essentially, you need to manage your own health care--and, IMHO, a good doctor will listen to you, and encourage this kind of participation in your own health care management. Sermon over.)

But four days after starting the antibiotics, I was still feeling the hurt, still making myself puke with coughing fits that made people in the grocery store herd their children away from me because I was probably contaminated with an airborne bio-agent that would soon be sweeping the country.

I called her AGAIN, thinking maybe this time, she'd take pity on me and pull the plug. But no. "More waiting" was her prescription, although she did offer to write me an order for a chest X-ray if I wanted one.

"If I want one?" I said. "What does that mean, if I want one? I'm not the doctor here. What I want is to know what's going on. What I want is to get better. Are you recommending that I get a chest X-ray? Do you think I need one?"

No, she said, your lungs sound clear and I don't think you have pneumonia. But if you want a chest X-ray to rule it out, I'll give it to you. Well, I didn't want to pay the co-pay for an unnecessary chest X-ray, so I said I'd wait it out.

But a few days later my friend Roseanne gets on my case, along with a bunch of my other friends, telling me stories about people dying from not taking care of their coughs, and she made me promise that I'd get an X-ray Monday if my chest still hurt and I was still coughing.

So, still coughing, still clutching my achy-breaky chest like Jack Bauer after dying from too much torture and being brought back to life with an adrenaline shot and electric heart-starting paddles (24: Season 1), I called my doc, but ended up seeing her on-call colleague, Dr. Kim. She listened to my lungs from about 25 different spots on my chest, sides, back, thighs and butt, and said they sounded clear.

Then she pulled out the magical measurer of lung function, the spirometer. "Take a deep breath, put your lips around the tube, and breathe out as much as you can," she said. I did so, and the little red marker on the spirograph barely moved.

I looked guiltily at Dr. Kim. Dr. Kim looked at the red marker, looked at me, and looked back at the red marker. "Are you even alive?" she said, hilariously. "Try again." The marker had gone up to about 200, and according to Dr. Kim, a woman of my age and height should easily push that marker up to 450 or 500.

The next time it hit 280, and then 230. "Let me try again," I said, feeling my competitive spirit kick in, "This feels like a test I'm flunking." This time it was 220. There is no fooling the spirometer.

What does it all mean? I've been doing research on spirometry, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), asthma, and bronchitis, but I'm not ready to propose a firm diagnosis. No one really knows what's going on, but before I go for the promised chest X-ray, I'm starting a week of tapering steroids to chase the suspected inflammation away.

Oh, goodie: steroids. Those immuno-suppressing, face-puffing-up, rage-inducing clever little pills. Everybody better stay the hell out of my way.

Oh, and happy Holy Week!

I'm Done With the Shallow Life

Have you been enjoying 24 this season? Well, I haven't.

In fact, I've been completely disillusioned with the ridiculousness of it all. I mean, come on: one guy who's not even a superhero; who dies and gets resurrected more than once--but isn't actually Jesus; who makes the world safe for democracy over and over again; and who makes blondes, red-heads and brunettes fall in love with him with seasonal regularity--this guy who's so short you can store him up on your mantle, is not even super-great looking. I mean, I want a little more dish in my action heroes, don'tcha know?

Think Jason O'Mara.

And speaking of Jason O'Mara, I've heard that his show, Life on Mars, has been cancelled. They finally get a clever show with a supernatural twist and interesting, believable dialogue (unlike, say Lost, where they talk past each other like characters in two completely different plays), and a hot, HOT lead actor--and they cancel it. It figures.

It's enough to make me stop watching TV altogether. In fact, that's what I'm going to do. Starting today, I'm going cold turkey. No more Vincent, no more stupid Dancing with the Stars, no more Judge Alex. Cold turkey, man.

Oh, and no more American Idol, because Simon is too mean and Paula has too many unicorns dancing around in her cleavage; and also? No more Reno 911, because it's just too crude.

Seriously. What good is TV anyway? Does it help me love Jesus more? No. Does it improve my brain at all? Not really, except I really do feel that I learn some good stuff about rental laws and laws about whether you have to return the engagement ring if your wedding falls through from the judge shows, which could be very useful.

I'll use my new-found hours to better myself. I'll start exercising, I'll stop eating Pringles and Diet Coke for breakfast, and I'll read more. I've been reading Thomas Merton's The Seven Storey Mountain for about five weeks, and I'm only half-way through. Without TV, I will become a better person, I will finish The Seven Storey Mountain, and I will blog about the Important Spiritual Lessons I learned, and I will make the world a better place.

I'm done with the shallow life. Stay tuned.

Frozen This, Frozen That

Normally I have a lot of energy to plan and prepare excellent, nutritious, delicious meals for my little family. I like to try new recipes, like clam and potato chowder; invent new recipes like baked macaroni with spinach and artichokes (which was not actually horrible, per se, but will not see a reprise); and experiment with ethnic selections like Persian saffron rice, or arroz con gandules.

But sometimes, like when I've had bronchitis for two weeks and breathing still hurts and I'm still waiting for the antibiotics to kick in, I get a little desperate. What ends up on the table for dinner is whatever takes the least amount of energy, like oatmeal, or pancakes, or soup from a can.

So last night I had five hungry people, and not enough time to heat up the frozen lasagna. What to do? Here's the smorgasbord of random frozen foods we ended up with:

• clam strips
• breaded fish fillets
• french fries
• spanakopita; plus a little nod to nutrition:
  
• applesauce
• orange slices
  

Have you ever served a lamer dinner?

R.I.P., Coral the Goldfish

I'm sad to report that Coral the Goldfish has gone to that happy goldfish bowl in the sky, after only 32 hours as a member of the Peevie household.

Last night, Mr. Peevie and I were out dancing the night away and mostly refraining from drunken bidding on frivolous baskets of goodies at the fundraiser for C. Peevie's school. When we arrived home, C. Peevie presented us with the sad news that Coral the Goldfish was either a) on his last fins or b) deceased.

"I prayed for Coral with M. Peevie," my tender-hearted boy said, "but I think it might have already been too late."

Even though it was almost midnight, M. Peevie was still awake when I went into her room to check on the presciently-named Coral (Nemo's mom, Coral, was devoured by a barracuda early in Finding Nemo). "Where's Coral?" I asked, trying to keep the concern out of my voice.

"He's sleeping over here by me, on the bottom," M. Peevie said confidently. "Mom, do goldfish sleep with their eyes open?"

"I don't know, M.," I said.

"Well, I hope so," she said, "because he's laying there with his eyes open. I think he's just sleeping, but C. Peevie said he might be sick."

I had a sinking feeling, but I didn't want to deal with a hysterical eight-year-old at midnight, so I let it go. "Let's just check on him in the morning, M. Peevie," I hedged.

Of course, in the morning, Coral's condition remained unchanged--but M. Peevie clung to denial and hope: "Maybe he's sleeping in!" she suggested.

"No, M.," I said, as gently as I could, "Coral is dead. I'm sorry."

M. Peevie's face fell, and she was quiet for about 35 seconds.

"That was the best name, too," she said sadly, but then she perked up. "Can I get another goldfish, Mom?"

Ah, the optimistic resilience of youth.

Coral the Goldfish

We have a new family member at the Peevie homestead: Coral, the goldfish.

For career day in the second grade, Mr. S. talked about owning and operating a fish store. Not the kind you eat, but the kind you look at behind glass. Living Sea Aquarium is a cool place, with a shark habitat, a stingray habitat, living reefs, a turtle pond, 6000 gallons of fresh water fish and 10,000 gallons of salt-water marine life.

The second-graders were thrilled when Mr. S. ended his career-day presentation by giving each of them a coupon for one free goldfish. The parents of the second graders had no illusions, knowing that the "free" goldfish was a clever marketing ploy to get us into the shop to spend money.

M. Peevie has been begging for her free goldfish since the day she came home with the coupon, so I saw an opportunity to motivate her to get her landfill of a bedroom cleaned up. I promised her we'd get the fish after she'd cleaned her room to my satisfaction and kept it clean for three whole days.

This was harder than it sounds. M. Peevie is, apparently, physically allergic to picking up after herself. Every day she removes at least three or four outfits from her drawers, mixing and matching tops, pants, skirts, leggings. She makes her selection and gets dressed, always with fashionably coordinated accessories--but the clothes not picked remain in the middle of the floor until I remind her to clean them up, at which point she tosses them into the back of the closet or into a pile under the loft bed.

During the day, she'll change outfits at least twice more: once after school and once again before bed. She's a fashionista, and if she gets a fashion idea in her head, she needs to implement it then and there. The discarded outfits end up...on the floor.

The next day it all happens all over again, until eventually her drawers are empty and there are piles of wrinkled, unsorted, clean and dirty clothes crammed into various corners and crevices.

"MAAAAHHHHHAAAAHHHHHMMM!" M. Peevie hollers. "I don't have any clean clothes to wear!" So I'll head into the Zone of Crap and Clutter and start pulling clothes out until there's a huge pile in the middle of the floor.

"Here, M.," I tell her, sometimes in a slightly testy voice, "Sort these into clean and dirty. Put the dirty into the laundry and put the clean into your drawers." Eventually, we end up with drawers filled with clean clothes--until the next time she forgets that she doesn't have a full-time valet to pick up after her.

The toy situation just adds to the chaos. Barbies, baby dolls, doll clothes, doll accessories, art supplies, miscellaneous game pieces, books, magazines, random scraps of paper ripped out of magazines--it all gets a little bit overwhelming, and sometimes I just want to rent a bulldozer and push everything out the door, down the stairs, out the back door and into the garbage. I think to myself, "If I could just start over, with one kid, and no crap, I wouldn't let it get this bad."

Anyway, long story long, she/we cleaned up her room. She kept it clean for three days. Every single day she'd tell me how many more days she had to wait before getting her free goldfish. She tried out several names, but didn't like any of the names I suggested: Roald (as in Dahl), Barbara, Chlorine, and Moby.

M. Peevie was filled with questions when we were picking out her new best friend at Living Sea Aquarium. "How big will a goldfish get?" Depends on the size of the bowl, we learned. She bought a one gallon bowl, and the fish wrangler (who looked a little like Carmine Giovinazzo from CSI: New York, only cuter) said her fish would get about two or three inches long.

How should we change the water? How often did we need to change the water? How often should we feed it? Is it a boy goldfish or a girl goldfish? she asked.

Carmine answered all our questions (you can't really tell the boys from the girls, BTW, except when you have a bunch of fish together, the boys chase the girls), but his best advice was, "Don't overthink it." He obviously does not know M. Peevie, because overthinking things is her forte. She is the queen of "What Ifs".

When I was in college I tried having goldfish pets, but I decided that I was endangering the goldfish population by continuing to purchase them and then inadvertently killing them, so I just quit. Their names were Onesimus, Luke, Philemon, Four, Five and Six, may they rest in peace.

Here's hoping that Coral the goldfish lives a long and prosperous life, perched on the top of the bookshelf next to M. Peevie's bed.

Our free goldfish ended up costing us $32.96.