Ooh, this weekend was a special one. Where, oh, where to begin? It started out quite nicely, I must say, with a pleasant 3 hours or so composing my Blog Posting (I like capitalizing "Blog Posting" because it makes it look more important) on having a Good Attitude.
There are two or three ways of looking at what happened next. One way would be to say that it was decided by the powers that be that I needed to be tested on having a good attitude. Another way would be to say that I was kinda bored after finishing my blog, so I needed something exciting to do. A third way would be....oh, never mind, I'll just cut to the chase.
As I finished my bloggy thingy (another way of writing it - kinda cutesy), I noticed that my right upper arm looked odd. I mean, my bicep was sticking out in this weird way. It was all hard and strange-looking and sore to the touch. And I hadn't even been lifting weights.
Being the brilliant medical genius that I am, I suddenly remembered the "17 Signs of Lymphodema" paper included in the dozens of pamphlets the Jewish General Hospital has bestowed upon me since I was diagnosed. This blog is not long enough to list all the fascinating titles found in this folder of information (such as the pamphlet describing a program where I can be paired with another woman who has already had breast cancer, called "Breast Friends"...isn't that catchy?) But I digress.
So I go rushing to find the paper and realize that it does indeed sound like I have lymphodema. "This can be very serious," it says, "contact your doctor immediately", and so I call my hospital.
Of course, calling a hospital on a Saturday to find a doctor is a little like wandering through Vatican City looking for a Protestant....unfortunately, it's just not going to be your lucky day.
The Emergency Department won't let me speak to anyone remotely medical, although the twenty-something receptionist is very friendly. She tells me to call 811 instead which, here in Canada, is kind of an OnStar service for sick people, except that it's with a phone in your hand instead of an intercom in your car.
You dial the number, follow the electronic voice prompts, wait on hold for 23 minutes, and then spend 10 minutes describing your symptoms to someone who, in our case here in a predominantly French-speaking province, has a heavy French accent and does not necessarily understand English all that well. It's not always terribly effective but it does make you feel validated, as if someone truly is interested in you and wants to listen to your health problems.
Besides, having waited on hold for so long means you usually end up lying down on your bed with the phone glued to your ear while listening to tinny, static-filled music playing through the earpiece, courtesy of your local Quebec radio station. In a strange way, this can be quite calming and hypnotic (no offense to Quebecois musicians intended), which is good for you if you are upset about your current medical condition.
Besides, having waited on hold for so long means you usually end up lying down on your bed with the phone glued to your ear while listening to tinny, static-filled music playing through the earpiece, courtesy of your local Quebec radio station. In a strange way, this can be quite calming and hypnotic (no offense to Quebecois musicians intended), which is good for you if you are upset about your current medical condition.
In fact, very often, by the time a real live 811 operator comes on the line to speak to you, you might either (a) have fallen asleep or (b) have forgotten the very nature and purpose of your call. Both are quite relaxing, guaranteed to lower blood pressure.
Well, it's finally my turn and a nice French operator (supposedly a nurse) interrupts the tinny radio music by coming on the line. He struggles to understand the term "lymphodema". I try to think of a way to translate this into French. Like any other good English-speaking person living in Quebec, I began studying French in Grade 3 and finished when I graduated in Grade 11, (which means that I am nowhere near bilingual) and I am fairly certain that in all those years of French studies, I never once encountered the French word for "lymphodema".
We try to find common ground of understanding, but I don't have a French-English dictionary on hand and he probably can't look it up on his computer because he doesn't know how to spell it. After clearly describing my symptoms in vivid detail (he is very empathetic and such a good listener!), he finally figures out what my problem is and recommends I hang up and go straight to the hospital.
By this time, I figure my arm must be ready for amputation. But, since I've just finished blogging on the importance of maintaining a positive attitude, I decide there is a wonderful chance that all is not lost. We run downstairs and jump into my car (I get into the passenger side - I can't drive a standard shift if I have lymphodema in my right arm) and George gets in on the driver's side and we're off to Emergency, full of optimism that the staff will be able to save my odd-looking arm.
We try to find common ground of understanding, but I don't have a French-English dictionary on hand and he probably can't look it up on his computer because he doesn't know how to spell it. After clearly describing my symptoms in vivid detail (he is very empathetic and such a good listener!), he finally figures out what my problem is and recommends I hang up and go straight to the hospital.
By this time, I figure my arm must be ready for amputation. But, since I've just finished blogging on the importance of maintaining a positive attitude, I decide there is a wonderful chance that all is not lost. We run downstairs and jump into my car (I get into the passenger side - I can't drive a standard shift if I have lymphodema in my right arm) and George gets in on the driver's side and we're off to Emergency, full of optimism that the staff will be able to save my odd-looking arm.
(In case my French-speaking friends never forgive me for making 811 sound completely incompetent, I must admit that this last bit about the operator not understanding or speaking English very well is actually fiction - I made it up to make this story sound more compelling and funny. He actually spoke English very well and knew immediately what lymphodema was. Hope you can forgive me for that. I never let truth get in the way of a good story. To justify myself here, I want to assure you that I'll always tell you which parts of my stories are not true. Otherwise, I would feel too guilty. But again, I digress.)
So, as I go though triage at the Jewish General Emergency, they look concerned at my symptoms and tell me they will "express" me. That means instead of waiting the customary 10 to 12 hours, I will wait a mere 2 to 3 hours. Not bad, eh? Remember, we have socialized medicine here in Canada, so who can complain when it's free. Right?
Well, I could go on and on, boring you with endless details, but I guess I should shorten this already-lengthy tale by saying that after an hour wait in the waiting room, and another hour wait in the cubicle in the Green Unit, a doctor came in and gave my arm a look. He left, brought back another doctor to give my arm a look, and they decided I needed an ultrasound of my arm. They didn't think it was lympodemia but were concerned that it could be an infection or a blood clot related to the surgery from last Tuesday.
The Guy-On-Call-Who-Does-Ultrasounds-On-Weekends apparently told them over the phone in no uncertain terms that unless I was dying, he wasn't going to make a special trip into Emergency. Where is this guy? At home watching TV on a Sunday morning? Upstairs in the staff lounge napping? Honestly.
So the two doctors came back in to see me looking pretty ticked off at his decision and said I'd have to come back Monday (which is today). In the meantime, they said, they would give me an injection of blood thinner, in the event that I did indeed have a blood clot. This would keep me in a safer range until the Monday, when I could have the by-then withering, gangrenous arm (okay, it probably wouldn't look like that but I have a good imagination) properly assessed.
So the two doctors came back in to see me looking pretty ticked off at his decision and said I'd have to come back Monday (which is today). In the meantime, they said, they would give me an injection of blood thinner, in the event that I did indeed have a blood clot. This would keep me in a safer range until the Monday, when I could have the by-then withering, gangrenous arm (okay, it probably wouldn't look like that but I have a good imagination) properly assessed.
Before leaving, they warned me that if, at any time, I should develop a headache, I was to come rushing back to Emergency, as this would indicate I was experiencing "cerebral hemorrhage"....that's "bleeding in the brain", in case you weren't sure. Oh. My.
So, we went home, I cried for half an hour - emotional release, I suppose - and then I went to bed. I had some weird dreams and woke up Sunday morning with....guess what? A headache! Oh, yes. A headache. Probably from crying? Not drinking enough water the day before? Bleeding in my brain? Who knows? So back to Emergency, where they sent me off for a CAT scan.
Oh, the drama of it all....the suspense, the tense music in the background (not from the Quebec radio station this time; I mean, in my imagination, I can hear this Hollywood-type music playing in the background of my life...kind of like a soap opera-type thing). The CAT scan technician obviously doesn't share the same work ethic as the Ultrasound technician, as he has actually shown up for work this lovely Sunday.
He also happens to be a guy I played badminton with a few years ago at Montreal Badminton Club, so we exchange a few pleasantries as he sets me up in his magical machine. Whirring furiously (the machine, not the technician), it searches my head for a few minutes, and then I'm back to Emerg to await the official verdict, although he tells me there's no sign of leaking blood anywhere in my little brain.
So there we have it. False alarm. No bleeding. No cerebral hemorrhage (that last word has got to be one of the weirdest-looking words to spell, honestly). We were free to leave. And that was basically it.
But I did tell the staff a joke or two before we left, which they really appreciated. People always think you're brave if you have a joke or two to tell when you have cancer. They see you as some kind of saint or something . . . a modern-day hero. "Isn't she great?" they exclaim as we leave Emergency, and we overhear by accident. "She has such a great attitude!" Aw, thanks, guys.
It was a momentary bright spot in my otherwise stress-filled weekend.
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Special Friends....
Although wild animals, especially of separate species, are never placed together due to regulations, in this emergency situation they had no choice. During the mayhem of the fire, they were forced to put animals anywhere they could, since they had run out of crates large enough for the fawn. The kitten ran to the fawn and it was instant bonding.
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