I'm supposed to qualify on the rifle range a few times a year in order to be allowed to do my job. It's a mark of how much of an afterthought we are that we haven't had any range time scheduled for the past 3 years: almost exactly the period of time during which the vision in my right eye has been seriously deteriorating. And I am right-handed, which means that when shooting I close my left (good) eye and aim with my right (nearly blind) eye. A friend who is a Marine vet told me to always keep both eyes open, but I tried that, and I missed the target altogether.
We have a new guy, and he had to qualify at range, so we all finally got scheduled to go in and prove we can hit the side of a barn for the first time since this all started for me. I was sweating bullets (ha ha) over this. I've been worrying about it ever since I noticed my vision starting to go. I thought, the next time I'm at range I will just flunk, it's that simple, and then I will lose my job, and then what will I do?
I pushed these worries to the back of my mind, but now I realize what a load it's been on me for the past 3 years.
I got to range. I tried to shoot right-handed, as I always have. I failed miserably. I don't own a gun: I don't ever practice: I'm a terrible shot the best of times. I've always shot barely well enough to qualify. Now I couldn't even do that.
The range master was really nice, and very patient. "Try again" he said. "My left eye has always been stronger than my right" I told him (perfectly true - I've been wearing glasses for nearsightedness since I was in 6th grade), "and recently it's just been getting worse" I said. (Also true!) He was very understanding, as we are both of a certain age. "I don't know what to do" I confessed. Then all of a sudden, a somewhat obvious idea hit me. "What if I try shooting left-handed?" I asked him. He shrugged. "Why not?" he said.
I shot left handed. I aimed with my good left eye. It felt very very strange, but it was totally doable. To qualify we only need to score 75%. I managed to get 86%.
I get to keep my job.
I didn't really realize what a burden of worry I'd been carrying for the past 3 years until I left the range. I think my knees actually buckled a teeny little bit. I wanted to lie down somewhere and do some deep breathing. Or take a nap.
But since I get to keep my job, I had to run right out and keep doing my job. Which I did.
YAY!!!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Health care reform
Two words: pre-existing conditions (hereafter referred to as "PEC's").
I am currently able-bodied, gainfully employed, a contributing member of society. But I am one easy job loss away from being uninsureable, just because I stopped ignoring my vision loss and went to a doctor to get it diagnosed.
Does the recently-passed health care bill change that? Does anybody know? I keep hearing about children with PEC's and how they can no longer be denied coverage, which is great, but what about non-children?
Weirdly, if I hadn't gone to a doctor but had instead just continued to live with my symptoms and worries in ignorance, I think it would have been a non-issue, insurance-wise. Even though a slow-growing, non-malignant tumor must have been there for years anyway. But as long as it wasn't official, it wouldn't count as "pre-existing". Even though it did exist previously.
Crazy.
I am currently able-bodied, gainfully employed, a contributing member of society. But I am one easy job loss away from being uninsureable, just because I stopped ignoring my vision loss and went to a doctor to get it diagnosed.
Does the recently-passed health care bill change that? Does anybody know? I keep hearing about children with PEC's and how they can no longer be denied coverage, which is great, but what about non-children?
Weirdly, if I hadn't gone to a doctor but had instead just continued to live with my symptoms and worries in ignorance, I think it would have been a non-issue, insurance-wise. Even though a slow-growing, non-malignant tumor must have been there for years anyway. But as long as it wasn't official, it wouldn't count as "pre-existing". Even though it did exist previously.
Crazy.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
YAY !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
No growth, no change, "remains stable". "Not significantly changed in size", "within normal limits", "no new abnormalities", "stable size, appearance and extent".
No surgery!
Whoopeeee!!!!!!!!!!
We now return you to your previously scheduled life.
No surgery!
Whoopeeee!!!!!!!!!!
We now return you to your previously scheduled life.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
3 month MRI
Oh, the irony. Friends and family kept offering to take me in for my MRI. I had to keep telling everybody over and over again, "No, thank you, MRI's don't bother me, no really they don't, no really, really, REALLY! I'm fine by myself, no really, really, REALLY! No, I don't need a ride to the MRI center, thanks so much, I'm fine, REALLY."
Then my car broke down.
Well, I had to scramble at the last minute to get there in time, but I got lucky twice and made it there only a little bit late, and back home safe and sound. But how funny is that? All those offered rides, and all those "no thank you, I don't need it", and then lo and behold, I did need it. Hear that faint giggling in the background? That's the Universe, laughing at me.
The MRI still didn't bother me. I got the same technician I had my first time, the one with the feather-light touch. I listened to the spacey sounding noises and napped a little. But there was more irony in store. The MRI center has changed its clothes policy since I filled out my comment card that first time , and this time the nice technician just asked me "Does anything you're wearing contain any metal?" I was already prepared with my metal-free comfy clothes. Except that it was too cold to wear my thin cotton elastic-waisted pants outside, so I wore regular pants (with a zipper) en route, and carried my comfy pants folded up under my arm. But one of the folded corners of my comfy pants somehow got wet, so that when I went inside the dressing room to put them on, they had a big wet splotch nicely repeated eight times all across where they'd been folded. So I had to wear those horrible oversized men's open-fly hospital pants anyway. Horrible, horrible, horrible pants. But I heard more of that faint giggling, and this time I laughed along, instead of getting all bent out of shape about it.
Of course none of this matters. What matters is whether or not my little upstairs visitor has grown. I'm on my own finding that out, as my esteemed neurosurgeon can't see me for nearly a month. Here's hoping for good news.
And oh yeah, there's all that way cool stuff going on down in Washington DC today. I've been listening to the radio all morning. Let me just say this:
Yay!
Then my car broke down.
Well, I had to scramble at the last minute to get there in time, but I got lucky twice and made it there only a little bit late, and back home safe and sound. But how funny is that? All those offered rides, and all those "no thank you, I don't need it", and then lo and behold, I did need it. Hear that faint giggling in the background? That's the Universe, laughing at me.
The MRI still didn't bother me. I got the same technician I had my first time, the one with the feather-light touch. I listened to the spacey sounding noises and napped a little. But there was more irony in store. The MRI center has changed its clothes policy since I filled out my comment card that first time , and this time the nice technician just asked me "Does anything you're wearing contain any metal?" I was already prepared with my metal-free comfy clothes. Except that it was too cold to wear my thin cotton elastic-waisted pants outside, so I wore regular pants (with a zipper) en route, and carried my comfy pants folded up under my arm. But one of the folded corners of my comfy pants somehow got wet, so that when I went inside the dressing room to put them on, they had a big wet splotch nicely repeated eight times all across where they'd been folded. So I had to wear those horrible oversized men's open-fly hospital pants anyway. Horrible, horrible, horrible pants. But I heard more of that faint giggling, and this time I laughed along, instead of getting all bent out of shape about it.
Of course none of this matters. What matters is whether or not my little upstairs visitor has grown. I'm on my own finding that out, as my esteemed neurosurgeon can't see me for nearly a month. Here's hoping for good news.
And oh yeah, there's all that way cool stuff going on down in Washington DC today. I've been listening to the radio all morning. Let me just say this:
Yay!
Monday, January 12, 2009
What to say
I am thinking things I cannot post regarding old friends.
The gist of it is this:
I have a brain tumor. Yes, it is benign. THANK GOD!!!!!!!!! (Thank You, God!!!!!!!) Nevertheless it threatens my vision, my functioning, my life. I try to put on a brave face, but in my darkest moments I am scared shitless. When I share this information, which I do SPARINGLY and only after much thought, I am hoping for some acknowledgement of the gravity of this (to most people, myself included) horrifying diagnosis.
Failure to acknowledge this gravity is painful to me.
But I also understand that most people will be so flummoxed on being told that they honestly won't know how to respond, and as a result, may come up with words that are well-meaning but end up being the opposite of helpful, just because they lack practice at this sort of thing.
And honestly, I don't really know what to tell them either.
But I will offer some canned responses that would actually be soothing to me to hear:
"Oh my God, how horrible!" You'll probably be thinking this, but would be mortified to actually hear yourself saying it. Go ahead and say it. I'd be gratified by your outburst. I thought the exact same thing when I was first diagnosed. To hear you saying it would let me know that you felt the same as me, and that's actually rather comforting.
"Oh, no, I'm so sorry to hear that." Expresses simple human sympathy. You don't need to be eloquent. This is plenty.
"How are you doing?" Same as above, but more so. I don't care if you mean it or not. I don't care if you are sincere or not. These simple four words say "Hey, I see you're going through something big, and I acknowledge that." I can of course only speak for myself, but personally, to hear these four words is really all I want. I am going through something BIG. No, it's not malignant (THANK GOD!) No, I haven't had surgery (... yet? ... ). But it is still BIG and SCARY. All you have to do is acknowledge that, and I'll feel that I've been heard and understood. I think deep down, that's the bedrock minimum of what we really need from each other. Hey, I'm tough and independant. The minimum is plenty for me.
Now that I've told *you* what to do, I hope that *I* will always remember this advice myself, as well.
Because we are all mortal, fragile, subject to innumerable disorders, aging, and death. At some point or other, you, and everyone you know, will experience this first-hand. In the beautiful words of the Flaming Lips:
Do You Realize
that everyone you know
Someday will die
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes
let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
In parting, I'd like to point the 3 people on the planet with Internet access who haven't seen it yet to a series of videos that I, even after more viewings than I can count, still find endlessly hopeful and inspiring:
http://www.wherethehellismatt.com/videos.shtml?fbid=REHKjXy9IbP
Enjoy!
The gist of it is this:
I have a brain tumor. Yes, it is benign. THANK GOD!!!!!!!!! (Thank You, God!!!!!!!) Nevertheless it threatens my vision, my functioning, my life. I try to put on a brave face, but in my darkest moments I am scared shitless. When I share this information, which I do SPARINGLY and only after much thought, I am hoping for some acknowledgement of the gravity of this (to most people, myself included) horrifying diagnosis.
Failure to acknowledge this gravity is painful to me.
But I also understand that most people will be so flummoxed on being told that they honestly won't know how to respond, and as a result, may come up with words that are well-meaning but end up being the opposite of helpful, just because they lack practice at this sort of thing.
And honestly, I don't really know what to tell them either.
But I will offer some canned responses that would actually be soothing to me to hear:
"Oh my God, how horrible!" You'll probably be thinking this, but would be mortified to actually hear yourself saying it. Go ahead and say it. I'd be gratified by your outburst. I thought the exact same thing when I was first diagnosed. To hear you saying it would let me know that you felt the same as me, and that's actually rather comforting.
"Oh, no, I'm so sorry to hear that." Expresses simple human sympathy. You don't need to be eloquent. This is plenty.
"How are you doing?" Same as above, but more so. I don't care if you mean it or not. I don't care if you are sincere or not. These simple four words say "Hey, I see you're going through something big, and I acknowledge that." I can of course only speak for myself, but personally, to hear these four words is really all I want. I am going through something BIG. No, it's not malignant (THANK GOD!) No, I haven't had surgery (... yet? ... ). But it is still BIG and SCARY. All you have to do is acknowledge that, and I'll feel that I've been heard and understood. I think deep down, that's the bedrock minimum of what we really need from each other. Hey, I'm tough and independant. The minimum is plenty for me.
Now that I've told *you* what to do, I hope that *I* will always remember this advice myself, as well.
Because we are all mortal, fragile, subject to innumerable disorders, aging, and death. At some point or other, you, and everyone you know, will experience this first-hand. In the beautiful words of the Flaming Lips:
Do You Realize
that everyone you know
Someday will die
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes
let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
In parting, I'd like to point the 3 people on the planet with Internet access who haven't seen it yet to a series of videos that I, even after more viewings than I can count, still find endlessly hopeful and inspiring:
http://www.wherethehellismatt.com/videos.shtml?fbid=REHKjXy9IbP
Enjoy!
Doctors without calendars
What is so hard about keeping an appointment scheduled 3 months ago? My neurosurgeon's office just called and told me that Dr. Whosits can't see me as scheduled because he'll be out of town. What, did he win a cruise or something? Heard the blizzard warning they issued this morning on the heels of the 10 inches of snow we all just dug ourselves out of this past weekend and decided he can't take one more minute of Chicago winter weather?
Soonest he can see me is Feb. 12. Great. I get an extra two weeks to work on cleaning out my closets and trying not to worry.
Doctors! Sheesh!
Soonest he can see me is Feb. 12. Great. I get an extra two weeks to work on cleaning out my closets and trying not to worry.
Doctors! Sheesh!
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