My WHAT is sputtering?

 

Happy Friday all!

Today's blog deals with women's issues, especially menopause, iron and anemia, and doctor's appointments. I write blogs like this to comfort, educate, and amuse my fellow women.  If we talk about this stuff, it won't be as foreign.  If we laugh at it, it won't be as scary.

For those of you who are NOT adult women, be warned:  there is some icky female medical stuff ahead.  I don't want any of you stopping me at church or the library or someplace you might see me and say, "Well now I can't get that image out of my head!

This week has been all about the doctor's office.  Three trips to the same building in three days.  I definitely live a special kind of life.  #donthatemebecauseimawesome.

The first appointment was for my bi-annual "pop your feet in the stirrups and scooch" good time with my GYN.  Now that I'm done having babies and I'm past the half century mark in age, they really do not care about what's going on down there all that much. It's all about the upstairs girls now.  But, every so often they need to take a peak and make sure, especially now that I'm in that super fun perimenopause portion of my life, that nothing weird or alien is happening.  

As it turns out, I was well past the whole "bi-annual" peppy pap schedule.  Sure, they've been mining for all sorts of other nonsense in my womb without a view over the last five years, much of which was because my iron levels are so ridiculously low, they thought I might have a bloodsucking creature of some kind hiding in my baby space.  So my GYN, who is precisely half my age and one third my weight, sat down and, while conversing about other things as if my lady bits weren't hanging right there in front of her face, she poked and scraped and got her testing material. Then she said something that made me laugh too hard for a woman in that delicate position.

She said, "Now, when you see the test results before I do, and you will, if there's anything that seems abnormal, don't freak out."

Don't freak out.  She said that. To me. About medical test results.

Did I mention I'm currently rewatching "House?" 

Not my GYN. MY Gyn is scary by accident.

Well I mentioned it to her.  And she said, "Yeah, they see a lot of zebras on that show, don't they?"

Referring, of course, to the thing my husband says to me all the time, "When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras."

Except, we live in a very zebra filled world over here at the Bradley place. So...

Anyway apparently some new law has decided that we the people need to see our test results BEFORE the doctors who tested us.  Like seeing our grade on a math quiz before the math teacher gives us the grade. It  makes no sense. Why would anyone want that?  I want a nice, neat letter, like I used to get:  Dear Sarah...everything's normal.  Thanks. See you in two years."

But no, now I sit here and check my online health profile and wait. And wait.  I haven't seen those test results.  And since I now know I'm getting them first, I have to wonder what's going on.  So, guess what?  I'm FREAKING OUT!

The second appointment was no biggie. Labs over at the cancer center. And before my readers freak out, let me explain. My anemia/iron problems are a blood issue. Apparently ALL blood doctors are cancer doctors.  Hence and ergo, when I go get my blood drawn to check my iron, it's all at the cancer center side of the clinic.  (Which, BTW, is WAY better run than the normal people's clinic downstairs in the same building. That's the circus show there all they do all day is decorate for holidays and yell people's private medical info across the room.)  I don't mind going for blood draws at the cancer center. The folks are nice, efficient, I rarely have to wait and the needle stick doesn't hurt at all.

Finally, the third appointment.  Seeing my blood doctor to go over my test results of the blood draw.  

Not my blood doctor, but I wish he could be!

My blood doctor sort of seems like what would happen if Howard from "Big Bang Theory" and Skippy's BFF's brother melded DNA.  He's like this super chirpy nerdy guy with really, really thick hair. I adore him because he takes the time to talk to me like a person. I suppose cancer doctors have to do that.  Sure, his scales weigh me heavier than any other on the planet and his blood pressure machine measures mine roughly ten points higher than any other place, but other than that, I really don't mind going to his office. Dr. "Blood" and I have spent the last two years searching for the source of my low iron/ low energy issues.  Those discussions have led us down some serious rabbit holes, but none so fun as the one yesterday.

I told him I'd been to my GYN and we again discussed my monthly punctuation.  I was actually managing the iron I got from an infusion back in June pretty well, and Dr. Blood was confused because he expected that me being me, my iron levels would be in the basement.  Then we talked about my recent punctuations (and the previous lack thereof). We discussed flow and cramps and frequency and everything and we laughed because we both have a pretty irreverent sense of humor and my guess is he doesn't get a lot of laughs in his line of work.

We talked about my diet and how I'm trying to eat iron rich foods since we already know I don't absorb iron supplements at all.  As it turns out, I don't absorb iron from my food either.  So, hey, why am I even bothering with veggies?

Anyway, so Dr. Blood and I were chatting about my punctuation and then he says this:

"I think you're managing your iron better because your ovaries are sputtering."

Howard just told me my ovaries are sputtering.

 And, after three trips in three days to the same building and having my temperature taken 3 days in a row and being asked if I'd traveled out of the country 3x, this is my takeaway:

1)  Don't read my GYN test results no matter what because clearly they're trying to freak me out.

2) My iron levels aren't normal, but they're not on the floor either, which is remarkable for me.

3) I don't have to eat veggies because there's no point.

4)  I'm old enough to have sputtering ovaries.

So there you have it! Enjoy your weekend and try not to picture sputtering ovaries. Especially don't picture mine!  LOL

These are NOT the heroes I was looking for!

I have the utmost respect for those in the medical sector. Doctors, nurses, lab techs, orderlies, I have big respect for anyone who has to deal with the public on a medical level because people are terrible and injured/sick people are worse.  They are truly heroes. This blog is not a reflection of how I feel about the millions of men and women in the medical profession.

That said...this happened yesterday:

To understand why I broke down and laid a vulgarity laced rant on my poor husband after a simple blood draw, we have to go back a couple weeks to another blood draw (in the time of Covid.)  The clinic where I get about 95% of all medical stuff done has two labs: the upstairs lab which is used for cancer patients and, in my case, patients who have blood issues.  (I have a series iron problem, but that's another story.)  This is a very professional lab, I'm usually in and out before my appointment time and the lab techs are lovely.

Then there's the downstairs lab. This lab is used for general blood panels like cholesterol, A1-C tests, that sort of thing.  I've written about this lab before. The people who work in that lab are...disorganized, disinterested, and disconnected. They are, however, very good at hanging party decorations in their office.

So a couple weeks ago I went in to the upstairs lab for a routine check on my iron.  Weirdly...I had to wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.  What should have been a 5 minute in and out turned into more than half an hour in the waiting room, sitting alone, six feet from the check in desk.  

When the guy finally came out and called my name, he seemed annoyed to see me.  "Are YOU Sarah?"  He asked, as if someone else had been posing as me and he'd gotten in trouble for drawing an iron panel from the wrong person.  I answered and he said, "Where have you been?"

"Sitting in that chair, six feet from the receptionist."

"We've been looking everywhere for you!"  he said in a very accusatory tone.

"I don't know...I've been right here. I didn't move."

He frowned at me..."We had people looking all over for you!"

I'm not sure how a lab loses a 250 pound woman with questionable mobility...but apparently they lost me, and apparently it was my fault.

And this was the GOOD lab.  

Well, hey, it's the time of Covid.  Weird stuff happens.  So, okay.

When my results came back, I was informed that I now needed more iron infusions.  But first, they wanted to do another blood draw right before each of the two infusions.  Which brings us to yesterday...the first of the blood draws.  

When I set up the appointments, two blood draws, two infusions, I was told that my first draw would be at the downstairs lab and I had no specific time...I could just walk in. Two which I said..."ARE YOU SURE?"

"Yes," was the nurse's response.

"The downstairs lab?  For a draw for Dr. S?  Because I've never had blood drawn in the downstairs lab for that doctor."

Again, she confirmed what she told me.

Two weeks go by and it's Wednesday, the day before yesterday. I call the nurse back.  "ARE YOU SURE IT'S THE DOWNSTAIRS LAB ANY TIME TOMORROW?  Because it's not on my MyChart schedule.  And also, I've never done a blood draw at that lab for this doctor."

"I'm looking at the schedule right here and it's here. No worries. Just go in tomorrow."

"Okay."

Yesterday...I get a phone call.  This is a pre appointment screen to make sure I'm not coming in to spread COVID to everyone.  (Good God woman, this is a medical clinic...WE CAN'T HAVE SICK PEOPLE HERE!)  Do I have a fever?  Have I traveled?  Do I have shortness of breath?

I answer the questions. I do the online pre registration. This should be a fast in and out.  But just in case, I pack my Nintendo Switch Skippy got me for Mother's Day so I can play Animal Crossing, which is very calming for me.

Then I get to the clinic. And I'm met with the temperature taker who takes my temperature and puts a sticker on my chest that says:  "My NAME IS:  97.3"  Then she tells me to go register at the kiosk.  

"I already did online. Plus I confirmed everything by phone this morning."

"You still have to use the kiosk, she growls at me."  

The only kiosk (remember, this is the time of COVID...I'm in a mask...we're supposed to distance...all of it) that's open is in a corner...next to a station where another nurse is giving a patient some kind of IV treatment.  (I'm not making this up.)  So I wedge myself next to the patient  (I'm not even 6 inches away from her) and I attempt to use the kiosk, which has a mind of its own and clearly is out to make us all feel like morons.

The IV thing done, the nurse pushes the old lady out of our cubby corner and stands next to me to help me register.  She has trouble operating it.  After pushing "next' and "back" for about five minutes she tells me if I'd like to complain about this process, I can go to the front desk.

She's the one real hero in this little tableau.

So I'm finally checked in. I do not stop at the front desk to complain. I'm a blogger.  I don't need to take more time out of my life at a front desk.

And I get to the downstairs lab.

Now...let's talk about social distancing in a medical office.  I get that we need to stand 6 feet apart and all that.  But I've not seen, until yesterday, a medical office that put the X for where you stand on the X six feet away from the desk and shout your medical information through your mask and through the plexiglass.

Apparently, in the downstairs lab, HIPPAA rules mean nothing.

So I first I have to wait for a couple minutes for anyone to notice me. Since I'm so far from the desk, they can't see me, because everyone's back is turned...they are hanging some kind of decorations on the wall.  When someone finally notices me, she takes my name (and asks me to repeat my name and birthdate and doctor's name because she can't hear me through my mask and the plexiglass and the 6 feet of distancing.)

She tells me to take a seat.  Two minutes later she yells "ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE?"

"Why?"

"BECAUSE THERE ARE NO ORDERS FOR YOU!"

It's at this point that my blood pressure starts to go up. Did I not call the office to MAKE SURE I was suppose to come to this fourth ring of hell for a blood test?

"I CALLED THE NURSE YESTERDAY AND CONFIRMED IT!"

"WHAT'S YOUR NAME, BIRTHDAY, AND DOCTOR'S NAME?"

Should it bother me that she can't find orders for me and has already forgotten my name?

No worries...five minutes later there are orders for me and I'm assigned a person to draw my blood and I'm in a chair for the blood draw.

Let's call my phlebotomist "Dee."  I call her that because her name had nine syllables, none of which I'd ever heard as part of one name in this country.  Dee wore a mask and a plastic shield.  She asked me my name and birthday (because she hadn't heard me shout it before?) which, I had to repeat because she couldn't hear/understand me.  

I'm annoyed, at this point, but hey, we are in the home stretch.  Or. So. I thought.

Dee is a tiny, tiny, tiny thin woman with hair that weighs more than she does.  Keeping the hair from knocking her over backwards seemed to be a problem for her.  Also, she seemed....new? Like she was talking herself through the steps of the process.

She put the tourniquet on me and slapped my arm, looking for a vein. I have thin veins, always have, but it's never been an issue.

Until yesterday.

"How do they get blood out of you?"  She asked.

"Um...in the normal way?"

She repositions the tourniquet and seems to find a vein and is about to poke me when she says, "Oh, wait."

She looks at the two vials she's supposed to fill and goes back to the rack of vials and gets different ones out.  SHE HAD THE WRONG VIALS!  

At this point another nurse sticks her head in the room, she's not wearing a mask. She asks if I'm Dr. H's patient.  Dee looks at me and says, "Are you Dr. H's patient?"

"No."

"But what's your name?"  Dee asks....she's looking at my chart right at that moment. "Is it, Sheila?  Serena?"

"SARAH!  My name is SARAH. My doctor's name is S....."

"So you're NOT Dr. H's patient?"

"NO!"

The other nurse leaves the room.  Leaving Dee to her devices.  Dee walks to steps toward me and we both hear a weird crack/popping sound.  "Did you hear that?"  Dee shrieks, rubbing her thigh.  "That was my thigh or my hip or something around this area."

She's seriously worried about her thigh...or whatever...and it takes her a moment to recover and get back to poking me.  And, of course, by this time she's lost the vein.  So more slapping.  

She finally gets the needle in...which hurts by the way, far more than many sticks I've had.  She fills the vials (God along knows if they're the right ones at this point) and she takes the needle out.  

"Wow, that was a perfect poke," she says.

Was it?  Really?

I'm finally done. Finally. I'm seriously upset by it all and I'm exhausted.  As I make my way out of the clinic I walk past the temperature taker lady who in the process of SHOUTING at an elderly man with a walker that he NEEDS TO USE THE KIOSK because they are all about NON CONTACT check in and he's telling her he did check in at home and doesn't want to use the kiosk. And I want to add that the kiosk is NOT NON CONTACT.

Instead, I escape out the door to my car. And all I want is a lime refresher at Starbucks. I want that because it mixes nicely with vodka and at this point in the story I NEED AN ADULT BEVERAGE.  

So I get in line at the drive thru and I order a Lime Refresher and I'm told, in a very cheerful snotty voice, "Those were discontinued a year ago."

It was too much.  Too much.  And thus...the vulgarity laced rant when I got home. It was a rant that ended with a two hour nap.

I go in for an infusion today.  Given how screwed up simple blood draw has been in the time of Covid...I can't wait to see what happens when I have something complex being done.

Not Quite the Medical Test Result I was Expecting!

WARNING!  Some graphic girl-type topics are discussed in today's blog. 

TODD!  You've been warned!

Good afternoon!
So, as some of you may know, I've been having issues with my iron levels for the last several months. My doctor has put me on iron supplements since before Thanksgiving, but the only real change has been that I've dropped almost 20 pounds due to constant nausea.

That's the good news.

Yesterday I went in to find out the results of yet another blood draw. Now, my doctor is sort of like one of those holiday movie elves who are cute in a sort of elfish way, and they're short and talk with a "voice on 45 RPM" tone.  (Older folks are going to get that, the rest of you think "Alvin and the Chipmunks.")  Anyway, Doctor comes in with my results (on a laptop because that's what they all do

"...and if I can't be a dentist, I want to be Sarah's doctor!"

now), sits down, and starts talking really, really, really fast about medical terms I don't completely understand. (In spite of all my years of never missing a single medical based TV show.)  He sort of angles the screen in my general direction, as if I'm supposed to be able to read the screen (I can't) and he starts asking me about my menses.

Now, first of all, "menses" is such a throw-back word.  I mean, the word "Menses" make me think of my grandmother...and now also of my elfin doctor.

I explain that my punctuation has been sort of like a clearing house "everything must go" sale.  I figured the crimson tide was due to me being almost, but not quite, at the end of my monthly punctuation essays, and so Mount St. Helen's I was experiencing was not a big deal.  (BTW, anyone searching the internet for news on Alabama is going to be a tiny bit disappointed in this blog.  Roll Tide.  BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

Apparently it is.

See, Santa's helper explained, there are two reasons someone is anemic (which I guess I am).  The first is lack of absorption.  My test levels are ridiculously low in that arena, but they are within the spectrum of normal. (looking at the numbers, it's like saying "Scoring one field goal in an NFL game is as normal as scoring five touchdowns." I'm on the board...but really, there's a lot of room for improvement.)  So the next thing Dr. Elf looks at is output.  Where is the iron going.

I can answer that.

My daily constitutional has taken on a rather...um...let's call it a sexy jet black appearance.

Hey, I warned you!

Anyway, Dr. Elf figures my iron release is far too much given the fact that my menses  (who else is giggling...just me?)  is such a drawn out Vesuvius.  So...he has decided that while we are going to search for bleeds and pollops in the gut and butt (endoscopy and colonoscopy scheduled on the same day, lucky me...and oh yes, there will be blogs!) we are also going to send me to a GYN specialist to...and I'm not making this up...

PUT. ME. ON. BIRTH. CONTROL. PILLS.

People at my church who are reading this are either laughing or swearing off my blog at this point.

Yep, a woman who got her tubes cauterized twenty years ago, and who is maybe a year away from menopause (BRING IT ON)  is now going to be put on the birth control pill to regulate my punctuation so that I am no longer anemic.

Now I realize (my adult children felt the need to inform me of this because I used to be on the pill back in the Dark Ages...you know, before my adult children were born, and therefore before time began and therefore before anyone intelligent was around) that the pill is out there for so much more than preventing pregnancy.  And Dr. Elf quite simply did not understand why I was laughing so hard when he told me this. I know, it regulates hormones and all that.  I get it.

I just think the idea of being on the pill is so funny.

I was laughing right up to the time I had to talk to the colonoscopy lady about prepping for that....

Stay tuned.