Wednesday.
"Nice to meet you" says Doctor Rafael Rodriguez offering me his hand across the desk.
I'm partial to alliterative names, my first real girlfriend was named Laurel Larson and my father went through life as Walt Walton. I like Dr. Rodriguez right off-the-bat for his warm smile and firm hand shake as well as his mellifluous moniker.
"What can I do for you?" he asks as we settle into chairs at his desk.
How do I put this?, I think. "Well" I say, "I have a sort of mystery illness that latched on to me last October and won't let go."
"Tell me about it," he says, so I describe my symptoms in detail and emphasize the one that bothers me most, my freakin' fatigue. "I have no energy, doctor, and I tire faster than a fat guy in an uphill marathon" Truth is, I'm taking more naps than Rip Van Winkle." We then chat about my previous lifestyle for ten or twelve minutes before we get back to business.
"What medications have you taken to treat your problem?" he asks and I list the antibiotics, inhalants and steroids I've popped over the last three plus months in the so far fruitless attempt to exorcise my be-sicked bod of its demon.
"Hmmm," he says, "are those your X-rays?" They are. I've brought them along even though I had been told by two other physicians that they don't show anything of interest other than that I had smoked for three or four hundred years. I hand them over. There are two, both chest X-rays, one taken in October the other a month or so later. As he takes them from their enormous envelopes and hangs them on his light screen, I tell him they've been dubbed normal.
He looks at the oldest first, then the other. He goes back and forth between them a few times and then says succinctly, "These are NOT normal." He waves me over to his side and points at a circle of light on my left lung appearing in the October X-ray. "This" he says, is pneumonia." He then replaces that X-ray with the November one and notes that the pneumonia is gone. Nice, I think. No problem there. He then points at another circle of light emanating from higher up on my lung and says, "This is what concerns me." He shows me that the spot exists on both x-rays. Although I like to be creative from time to time, my next question was the same one that everyone on the planet would ask, to wit, "What is that?"
"I don't know" he answers. "It's a mass of some kind...Let's sit down."
A MASS! A MASS! I DOAN NEED NO STEENKING MASS!, I'm thinking in large neon letters as we get back to our seats.
The doc says, "My first thought when you described your symptoms was that you might have Myasthenia Gravis. Do you know what that is?"
I do. Well a little bit anyway. It's a muscle disease of some sort. I nod my head. I'm still mostly thinking, A MASS!
He says, "And that may, in fact, be the problem, but I need more information. What I am going to recommend is that you get a Cat Scan so we can have a closer look at your chest and then we can decide how to proceed. We have to know what that mass is."
I note that he is avoiding all the scary words like tumor or cancer, but he does say something about "and whether the mass is benign or not."
Being the well-heeled fat cat that you all know I am, living as I do on the ginormous amount of money Social Security pays me each month, you can guess my next question.
"Not much" he answers.. "About three hundred dollars." (It turns out to be three-forty.)
I tell him I can handle that and we schedule the scan for Friday morning, nine A.M. as I need to be in David that day anyway for a skin check and stitch removal by my friend and yours the Abominable Doctor Panagas. I had had a skin cancer on my back incised by him on Monday.
My new pal in the medical profession, a profession I really don't want to have anything to do with but, hey, what else CAN you do, Doctor Rafael Rodriguez, then writes me a couple of scripts to clear up my lingering pneumonia/bronchitis symptoms, a cough and phlegm, and off I go. RTGFKAR is waiting for me in the cleverly named Waiting Room admiring the receptionist's butt, a thing I can't blame him for as it is truly an eye magnet. I follow it all the way to her desk where she sits and I pay her thirty-five dollars for the visit.
Thursday is uneventful and passes slower than usual as I ponder the word "mass" and what it might mean.
Friday morning I wake up with the answer. It must be the skin cancer I had removed from my back Monday. It was more or less in line with the spot on my X-rays. It would have been there growing gradually back in October and November when the rays were taken. I make a note to ask the doc if this might possibly be the answer to what the mass is.
And I would have asked him had he shown up that day. While waiting for my turn at the Scanner, Lovely Butt calls and says the doctor needs to reschedule for Monday, nine A.M. Alrighty then, I say, I'll wait until Monday.
"Where's your cat?" the Scan tech asks me as I peel off my shirt.
"What cat?" I ask in reply.
"This is a cat scan" he tells me. "I can't scan your cat if you didn't bring it."
Okay, that only happened in my mind.
In reality I climb up on the table and the tech and I have a quick conversation in Spanish about me not moving and when I should hold a deep breath and when I should breathe normally during the scan. The table moves me electronically under a huge plastic arch where I hear nothing but do see some spots of light blinking across the front of the scanner. In less than three minutes we are done.
Woowoo Charly is with me on this day and we next truck along to the La-bor-a-tory where it is colder than an Igloo and where I have a quart or two of blood removed from my arm for some other tests old Doc R.R. has ordered. After that, Woowoo and I head for breakfast. I had been warned not to eat before the scan.
After breakfast, still having hours to kill before my appointment with Panagas, we wander over to the Casino across the street from the Gran National Hotel. Armed with five rolls of nickles each, we assault the slots. Playing Deuces Wild Poker on one of them, I hit a Royal Flush (with three deuces) and win 125 nickles. I'm thinking my luck is still holding in the good to excellent range since I won a raffle drawing at La Reina Department Store before Christmas. The machine asks me if I want to go double or nothing, high card wins. I say you betcha. It goes first and draws a king. So much for good luck. My nine of hearts comes up woefully short.
Later, at Panagas' lair, he answers my question about whether my skin cancer could be the spot on my X-ray with a decisive, "No way, it's not possible." He also tells me that the biopsy on the chunk of my back he shoveled out Monday had not yet come in, so he was unable to clue me if it was one of the "bad" cancers or just another basal cell, my usual.
It's going to be a limbo weekend all around, I think. I'll have plenty of time to watch college hoops, NFL football and further contemplate that peculiar word "mass." Curiously, I'm not worried. I don't feel bad, I have no pain and I'm just a little tired. Despite my double down result, I still feel lucky.
The above was written Saturday morning.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Monday 1:30 P.M.
Fat! Fat! Who woulda thunk it? Placing the scanned cat on his light board Dr. R.R. points at the suspicious mass and says, "This is just fatty tissue, a thing not uncommon in people your age." Behind me I hear a quiet but still audible "pheww." Woowoo Charly is standing there. As for me, well, I knew it was nothing all along. I do admit, though, to not spelling relief R-O-L-A-I-D-S but rather with a lower case a-l-r-i-g-h-t-y t-h-e-n!
That worry now gone I can return to fretting over the Broncos not having a franchise quarterback, Carmelo Anthony's latest ankle sprain and what-the-hell is wrong with me anyway. "Let's talk some more" is Doc R.R.'s suggestion.
He has no answers for the Broncos or Melo so we get back to me.
We rule out depression and any connection to my pulmonary problems. My symptoms with the latter are almost gone. We mostly rule out my on going, seemingly life-long stomach woes, but I do get a script for Nexium. I'm also handed a script for an immune system booster aimed at people with bronchial problems and a new inhaler. Pharmacies throughout Panama are considering parades. My fatigue, the one remaining symptom, seems to emanate from somewhere along my upper spinal column. This, I'm told, could mean a neurological problem, IE; nerves or muscles. I don't have Myastenia Gravis or even not so Gravis, but I might have something that mimics the symptoms of same. For this reason I am referred to yet another doctor for, whoopee, more tests. If I wasn't depressed before, the mounting cost of this fiasco, has me heading down that road. So there I am happy about not being terminal or, at least no more than the rest of us, but upset over the cost and lack of a medical conclusion. Let's just say I'm conflicted.
When we leave the office, WooWoo Charly cries a little. I don't know how I feel about this. I mean, I'm glad she cares that much, but I didn't want her to worry so. I feel bad that she did. I am, wouldn't you know it, conflicted de nuevo, (again). Chuck, though, is relieved and I'm happy about that.
We now return to a deja vu scenario. After locating my new doctor's office elsewhere in the building, we learn he is not there. Nor is his receptionist. We are told to return in an hour which we do to no avail. Neither person has made the scene. How familiar is that? We do, however, manage to score a telephone number. I will try to make a cita (appointment) later today. No need to wish me luck. I'm already up for another double down.
So there you have the latest chapter of this mind numbing saga. Sorry to bother you with it but, you know, I can't help myself. The Monkeymind carries on.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Lost in Nowhere
A.A. Milne says there is no harder work than fetching an idea from nowhere. Tell me about it. Probably headed for A.A. Walton says it's even harder to find a funny one. How 'bout this? I remember when 'roids were hemm and not sterr. That's funny, right?
I haven't touched my guitar since last September. It sits in the corner dying from lack of affection. (The verb for to touch in Spanish is the same as the verb for to play an instrument, tocar.) Since I contracted my less than magical mystery ailment dubbed Moses for its longevity, I have lacked both the focus and the energy to play it. Shame on me I say, and shame on Moses. No golf, no guitar. Maybe I'm just giving up on things that start with the letter g.
In the information for no reason department there is this: I read on Yahoo this weekend that most running shoes are as bad for your legs as high heels. That's good to know. Now we can all chuck our sneaks and be taller.
The NFL playoffs are down to four teams only one of which has never been to the Super Bowl, New Orleans. Go Saints. I like their Fleur de Lis logo.
Okay, I've now spent half an hour and two cups of coffee wandering around nowhere trying to fetch an idea. I don't think there are any good ones in my neighborhood. Wait! What if I wrote about a boy and his stuffed toys. I could name his bear Poo and his tiger Tygger and the boy himself could have a catchy name like Christopher Robin. What, you say? Milne has already done that? It is as I suspected. All the good ideas are gone.
I guess I'll just have to write about 'roids. Which kind do you want to hear about?
I haven't touched my guitar since last September. It sits in the corner dying from lack of affection. (The verb for to touch in Spanish is the same as the verb for to play an instrument, tocar.) Since I contracted my less than magical mystery ailment dubbed Moses for its longevity, I have lacked both the focus and the energy to play it. Shame on me I say, and shame on Moses. No golf, no guitar. Maybe I'm just giving up on things that start with the letter g.
In the information for no reason department there is this: I read on Yahoo this weekend that most running shoes are as bad for your legs as high heels. That's good to know. Now we can all chuck our sneaks and be taller.
The NFL playoffs are down to four teams only one of which has never been to the Super Bowl, New Orleans. Go Saints. I like their Fleur de Lis logo.
Okay, I've now spent half an hour and two cups of coffee wandering around nowhere trying to fetch an idea. I don't think there are any good ones in my neighborhood. Wait! What if I wrote about a boy and his stuffed toys. I could name his bear Poo and his tiger Tygger and the boy himself could have a catchy name like Christopher Robin. What, you say? Milne has already done that? It is as I suspected. All the good ideas are gone.
I guess I'll just have to write about 'roids. Which kind do you want to hear about?
Friday, January 15, 2010
Blithering
Sometimes I write a blog just because I peer in at Monkeymind and see my last one sitting there looking stale and outdated. Today is one of those days. I don't have anything in particular to say, but then I rarely do, so there is no news there.
It is Friday of a week that slid by almost undetected. For most of the week we Boquete denizens were holed up in our houses avoiding the wind and rain. RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I did slip out for a Daveed run ostensibly to see the Abominable Doctor Panagas, but also just to catch a few rays and warm up. Temps around our place have been in the Sixties and that just won't do. Especially for Woowoo Chuck and I who have, as I've noted before, lizard in our DNA. Panagas never showed. I sat in his very crowded waiting room reading an Elizabeth George mystery and chatting here and there with his beautifully smiled receptionist while RTGFKAR and Chuck made a Pricsmart run. They were back and I was gone before Panagas made an appearance in the building. He was, according to Diosylyn, the receptionist, a la mitin de Ministerio de Salud. A meeting at the Ministry of Health. I am rescheduled for Monday.
We did play a couple of games of Scrabble this week (a thing I wouldn't have mentioned had I not won both games) and we watched several movies, the worst of which was the latest version of "The Day the Earth Stood Still." The movie, a real stinker, did, however, provide Keanu Reeves an opportunity to display his full range of facial expressions, both of them. Other than that highlight the movie had nothing to offer and this reviewer says, don't bother. One odd, but curiously interesting movie that we stumbled on accidentally - the title certainly was not the lure - was "Lars and His Living Doll." You might want to check this one out if you like good acting and an offbeat script.
Three indios were killed in a machete fight a couple of nights ago on the street in front of the Flower and Coffee Fair that is going on all this week. I would tell you more but that's all I know. Of course I could make something up.
Cyrano De Guimi stood back to back with Dartagnon de Kuna. Their machetes were unsheathed and at the ready. Around them the president's personal guard crept carefully forward urged on by the evil and cunning Captain Richalulu. "There will be no escape this time," he cries out. "Your coffee beans will be ours." The guard closes in, blades begin to flash.
Something like that would probably be better than another movie review.
It is Friday of a week that slid by almost undetected. For most of the week we Boquete denizens were holed up in our houses avoiding the wind and rain. RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I did slip out for a Daveed run ostensibly to see the Abominable Doctor Panagas, but also just to catch a few rays and warm up. Temps around our place have been in the Sixties and that just won't do. Especially for Woowoo Chuck and I who have, as I've noted before, lizard in our DNA. Panagas never showed. I sat in his very crowded waiting room reading an Elizabeth George mystery and chatting here and there with his beautifully smiled receptionist while RTGFKAR and Chuck made a Pricsmart run. They were back and I was gone before Panagas made an appearance in the building. He was, according to Diosylyn, the receptionist, a la mitin de Ministerio de Salud. A meeting at the Ministry of Health. I am rescheduled for Monday.
We did play a couple of games of Scrabble this week (a thing I wouldn't have mentioned had I not won both games) and we watched several movies, the worst of which was the latest version of "The Day the Earth Stood Still." The movie, a real stinker, did, however, provide Keanu Reeves an opportunity to display his full range of facial expressions, both of them. Other than that highlight the movie had nothing to offer and this reviewer says, don't bother. One odd, but curiously interesting movie that we stumbled on accidentally - the title certainly was not the lure - was "Lars and His Living Doll." You might want to check this one out if you like good acting and an offbeat script.
Three indios were killed in a machete fight a couple of nights ago on the street in front of the Flower and Coffee Fair that is going on all this week. I would tell you more but that's all I know. Of course I could make something up.
Cyrano De Guimi stood back to back with Dartagnon de Kuna. Their machetes were unsheathed and at the ready. Around them the president's personal guard crept carefully forward urged on by the evil and cunning Captain Richalulu. "There will be no escape this time," he cries out. "Your coffee beans will be ours." The guard closes in, blades begin to flash.
Something like that would probably be better than another movie review.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Sense Dancing
"Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humor is just common sense dancing." William James
I gotcher sense of humor right here, Willy. It's Monday morning and crosswise rain is being pushed along by a wind so noisy it's hard to hear my own thoughts. Is this any way to start a week Willy? I don't think so. Throw in throw-up, yeah two of my dogs have done that this morning, and a puddle of puppy pee in a corner and I just don't see any sense in it at all, common or otherwise.
That's right, I'm depressed Willy. Even though I will probably be sitting here writing, which is a euphemism for staring off into space, which is in itself a euphemism for the contents of my mind, for the next few hours or so, making the weather irrelevant, I feel it might be more cheering if I could glance up from my reverie now and then and see sunshine lighting up the out-of-doors. Is that too much to ask Willy?
Oh sure, I know it could be worse. I could be a Green Bay Packer fan this morning or even worse than that, actually live in Green Bay, so I probably shouldn't complain, but come on Willy! To quote another deep thinker, Dean Martin, "the weather outside is frightful!" While you're over there making common sense dance, I have important chores like edging the lawn, washing the car and walking the dogs stacking up. What if it is still raining tomorrow? I'll be at wit's end or, at least, somewhere past wit's middle.
So what I'm trying to tell you here, Willy, is to save your happy quotes for another day. On the other hand, if you've got something grim, something Poe-ish, something along the lines of "while I pondered weak and weary" then we here in the land of "I might as well go back to bed" might be interested.
(Okay, I'm just kidding, my common sense is dancing. Someone is shooting bullets at its feet.)
I gotcher sense of humor right here, Willy. It's Monday morning and crosswise rain is being pushed along by a wind so noisy it's hard to hear my own thoughts. Is this any way to start a week Willy? I don't think so. Throw in throw-up, yeah two of my dogs have done that this morning, and a puddle of puppy pee in a corner and I just don't see any sense in it at all, common or otherwise.
That's right, I'm depressed Willy. Even though I will probably be sitting here writing, which is a euphemism for staring off into space, which is in itself a euphemism for the contents of my mind, for the next few hours or so, making the weather irrelevant, I feel it might be more cheering if I could glance up from my reverie now and then and see sunshine lighting up the out-of-doors. Is that too much to ask Willy?
Oh sure, I know it could be worse. I could be a Green Bay Packer fan this morning or even worse than that, actually live in Green Bay, so I probably shouldn't complain, but come on Willy! To quote another deep thinker, Dean Martin, "the weather outside is frightful!" While you're over there making common sense dance, I have important chores like edging the lawn, washing the car and walking the dogs stacking up. What if it is still raining tomorrow? I'll be at wit's end or, at least, somewhere past wit's middle.
So what I'm trying to tell you here, Willy, is to save your happy quotes for another day. On the other hand, if you've got something grim, something Poe-ish, something along the lines of "while I pondered weak and weary" then we here in the land of "I might as well go back to bed" might be interested.
(Okay, I'm just kidding, my common sense is dancing. Someone is shooting bullets at its feet.)
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Movies, Sports and Books
Spawn of Wrayjay (RTGFKAR) has returned to the States and we miss her already. Such a sweet kid. True dat. (Statement of complete accord. Synonyms, word up, ditto, mos def, word is bond.)
I'm looking forward to all the new movies that HBO and Cinemax are going to show this year. Some of them I'm told are only five or six years old. For want of anything better to do last night I watched another Steven Segal flick called Pistol Whipped or Riddled With Bullets or something else along those lines. (Okay I admit there were lots of better things to do but I was hunkered down in a recliner with a glass of wine in hand and, curiously, none of them came to mind.) In this movie Steven, who is roughly the size of a house give or take an extra bathroom or two, was often dressed in leather jackets. I'm no expert but the jackets looked like real leather so I figure the material was the largest part of the production cost. If the producers had used synthetics they might have been able to squeeze in another car chase or afforded a better director.
Mike Shanahan, the former Denver Bronco coach, gets a five year contract from the Washington Redskins at seven million per season. I'm thinking if a coach is worth thirty-five mil he ought to be able to take a junior high team and school the Patriots. (school = to trounce or beat.) I mean really. With thirty-five million you could make ten or twelve Steven Segal movies.
Lest you think my entire day was wasted watching and contemplating sports and movies let me also point out that I finished a Jim Harrison novel called "True North." It's called that, I suppose, because that is its title. The book's protagonist is trying to write a history of his family's role in screwing up their part of the world, northern Michigan, with mining and clear cutting. A woman poet and lover of his tells him that as a writer he will never be more than a pretty good amateur. I thought about the description "pretty good amateur" for a long time and decided that it fits me as well.
I can live with that.
I'm looking forward to all the new movies that HBO and Cinemax are going to show this year. Some of them I'm told are only five or six years old. For want of anything better to do last night I watched another Steven Segal flick called Pistol Whipped or Riddled With Bullets or something else along those lines. (Okay I admit there were lots of better things to do but I was hunkered down in a recliner with a glass of wine in hand and, curiously, none of them came to mind.) In this movie Steven, who is roughly the size of a house give or take an extra bathroom or two, was often dressed in leather jackets. I'm no expert but the jackets looked like real leather so I figure the material was the largest part of the production cost. If the producers had used synthetics they might have been able to squeeze in another car chase or afforded a better director.
Mike Shanahan, the former Denver Bronco coach, gets a five year contract from the Washington Redskins at seven million per season. I'm thinking if a coach is worth thirty-five mil he ought to be able to take a junior high team and school the Patriots. (school = to trounce or beat.) I mean really. With thirty-five million you could make ten or twelve Steven Segal movies.
Lest you think my entire day was wasted watching and contemplating sports and movies let me also point out that I finished a Jim Harrison novel called "True North." It's called that, I suppose, because that is its title. The book's protagonist is trying to write a history of his family's role in screwing up their part of the world, northern Michigan, with mining and clear cutting. A woman poet and lover of his tells him that as a writer he will never be more than a pretty good amateur. I thought about the description "pretty good amateur" for a long time and decided that it fits me as well.
I can live with that.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Off and Monkeyminding Again. (Mostly Off)
Fo' shizzle means for sure. It is important here to also know the synonyms starting with mos def. The others are, tizzite, tellivizzle, rizzle, shiznit, hizzouse, bizzatch, brizzle and weezy in the keezy. New Scrabble games will include multiple zees to accommodate these words.
Alrighty then, the new year is underway and drama lurks 'round every corner. Will Elin and Tiger pass health care reform, will Brandon Marshall and Josh McCoach oust the Taliban from the lockerroom, will Obama insist on a playoff system for Tiger's girlfriends, will Skanky Spice leave Beckam and sign with the Sox, will the U.S. soccer team be rank or ranked at the World Cup, and will all be quiet on the western slope? These are the questions on everyone's lips that need to be answered or removed with alcohol and q-tips. Stay tuned as 2010 unfolds and despite all odds and even some evens the earth and politicians keep on spinning.
I will now put the monkeymind on a leash and and walk it to a cage.
New Year's Day was uneventful. Okay, that's not true, there were events. Football games, parades, fireworks, suicide bombings and Book Fairs come to mind and that's not even to mention Brangelina and Madonna adopting more kids. What I mean, I guess, is that I sat on my...sofa all day as I practiced my resolution to sit on my...sofa
more often. Sofa is, of course, a euphemism for...recliner. (For some reason I just can't get myself to say ass.) A euphemism for recliner is...desk chair, the thing I really want to keep my...donkey on more often. I read this morning that Isaac Asimov wrote over 400 books. Now there is a guy who clearly liked sitting on his...duff fo' shizzle. Duff is a euphemism for...gluteous maximus or, in my case, gluteous minimus which is in itself a euphemism for my ass (there, I've said it) has fallen off. 400 books! I think it is Highly Selassie I will catch him in 2010, but watch out for next year when I get the hang of this sitting on my...tush.
While I'm waiting to acquire this keep-your-...butt-in-the-chair skill, I think I will go walk the dogs.
And that's mos def.
Alrighty then, the new year is underway and drama lurks 'round every corner. Will Elin and Tiger pass health care reform, will Brandon Marshall and Josh McCoach oust the Taliban from the lockerroom, will Obama insist on a playoff system for Tiger's girlfriends, will Skanky Spice leave Beckam and sign with the Sox, will the U.S. soccer team be rank or ranked at the World Cup, and will all be quiet on the western slope? These are the questions on everyone's lips that need to be answered or removed with alcohol and q-tips. Stay tuned as 2010 unfolds and despite all odds and even some evens the earth and politicians keep on spinning.
I will now put the monkeymind on a leash and and walk it to a cage.
New Year's Day was uneventful. Okay, that's not true, there were events. Football games, parades, fireworks, suicide bombings and Book Fairs come to mind and that's not even to mention Brangelina and Madonna adopting more kids. What I mean, I guess, is that I sat on my...sofa all day as I practiced my resolution to sit on my...sofa
more often. Sofa is, of course, a euphemism for...recliner. (For some reason I just can't get myself to say ass.) A euphemism for recliner is...desk chair, the thing I really want to keep my...donkey on more often. I read this morning that Isaac Asimov wrote over 400 books. Now there is a guy who clearly liked sitting on his...duff fo' shizzle. Duff is a euphemism for...gluteous maximus or, in my case, gluteous minimus which is in itself a euphemism for my ass (there, I've said it) has fallen off. 400 books! I think it is Highly Selassie I will catch him in 2010, but watch out for next year when I get the hang of this sitting on my...tush.
While I'm waiting to acquire this keep-your-...butt-in-the-chair skill, I think I will go walk the dogs.
And that's mos def.
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