begin soon on the creek that ran through our park. I thought I might check that out, one day.
I sat in Dr. Burks’s uncomfortable wicker and wood chairs and did not read
Arthritis Today
. Fairly soon her nurse, Dianna, called me into a small room with two lounge chairs in it, hooked me up to the IV without hurting me, and covered me with a ratty red fleece blanket. I sat in the chair with the IV taped to my wrist, steroids dripping from a bag, drop by drop, down a clear tube, into my vein. I alternated between dozing and staring into space. I hadn’t brought a book or a magazine with me because I was afraid to read. I didn’t own an iPod.
On the second day, a woman slightly older than me joined me in the room for her infusion, in the next chair. We chatted about what our Thanksgivings had been like, and the weather. I had so far not met another inhabitant of this country, or at least a person who might live there, so I felt a kinship with her, although she looked—in her pressed shirt, bright trousers, and neat, coiffed hair—the complete opposite of me. She asked me what had gone wrong, and I told her about the nerve. She didn’t say what was wrong with her. Her infusion finished before mine, and as she left, she said, “Think positively.” It was, of course, well meaning: an attempt to help. I had said some version of it myself or been on the brink of saying it (“Things will get better”) to someone recovering from surgery or sick with the flu in an effort—I thought then, before arriving here in this country—to give them a bromide, to offer a way out of where they were (as if they hadn’t thought of ways out themselves). But when I heard her words, even before she was out the door, I felt more alone. Think positively? I could barely think at all.
On that second day, the routine was broken because the pharmacy didn’t deliver the Solu-Medrol to Dr. Burks’s office in time for my appointment. The pharmacy staff person (“What is your date of birth?”) said they didn’t get the fax ordering it until after eleven, and so they couldn’t order it from their supplier. I asked to speak to the pharmacist, who said that she would try to find it from the hospital next door and call me back. When she did, asking my date of birth, she said she had ordered two bags because then I would have only one co-pay. This combination of mix-upfollowed by kindness was, I would soon understand, common in the medical world. I rode a roller coaster of panic and confusion, followed by gratitude. The number of times things went wrong was plenty scary; the number of times people were willing to run to fix them was extraordinary.
Vincent came home after work and a visit to the gym. My mind was full of Solu-Medrol deliveries, the fleece blanket, Dianna’s skill. Vincent lived in the country of e-mail, editing, and writing and of the body’s trustworthy dependability. He’d picked up a chicken cooked in orange sauce, and I exclaimed over how delicious it was (see “steroids: euphoria”) until he glanced over at me, and I understood I was not acting normally. We looked at each other across the border, warily. I felt more dependent on him than I had ever felt or ever thought I would feel. He said something about Christmas, and I realized I didn’t know what day it was.
After the steroid infusions, Dr. Lowe planned to measure my sight and visual field again. My eye still had the blur. Deep in my brain, there was a voice saying,
You put off seeing the doctor … you put off seeing the doctor …
Meanwhile I now had three doctors: Dr. Mesipam, my internist, who had sprung me from the hospital; and Dr. Burks and Dr. Lowe, who were individually trying to figure out what had caused the inflammation in the nerve. Dr. Burks was worried about temporal arteritis, the inflammation of the arteries, which usually occurs in people older than me but could happen to a person my age. The way to discover temporal arteritis is to do a biopsy
I sat in Dr. Burks’s uncomfortable wicker and wood chairs and did not read
Arthritis Today
. Fairly soon her nurse, Dianna, called me into a small room with two lounge chairs in it, hooked me up to the IV without hurting me, and covered me with a ratty red fleece blanket. I sat in the chair with the IV taped to my wrist, steroids dripping from a bag, drop by drop, down a clear tube, into my vein. I alternated between dozing and staring into space. I hadn’t brought a book or a magazine with me because I was afraid to read. I didn’t own an iPod.
On the second day, a woman slightly older than me joined me in the room for her infusion, in the next chair. We chatted about what our Thanksgivings had been like, and the weather. I had so far not met another inhabitant of this country, or at least a person who might live there, so I felt a kinship with her, although she looked—in her pressed shirt, bright trousers, and neat, coiffed hair—the complete opposite of me. She asked me what had gone wrong, and I told her about the nerve. She didn’t say what was wrong with her. Her infusion finished before mine, and as she left, she said, “Think positively.” It was, of course, well meaning: an attempt to help. I had said some version of it myself or been on the brink of saying it (“Things will get better”) to someone recovering from surgery or sick with the flu in an effort—I thought then, before arriving here in this country—to give them a bromide, to offer a way out of where they were (as if they hadn’t thought of ways out themselves). But when I heard her words, even before she was out the door, I felt more alone. Think positively? I could barely think at all.
On that second day, the routine was broken because the pharmacy didn’t deliver the Solu-Medrol to Dr. Burks’s office in time for my appointment. The pharmacy staff person (“What is your date of birth?”) said they didn’t get the fax ordering it until after eleven, and so they couldn’t order it from their supplier. I asked to speak to the pharmacist, who said that she would try to find it from the hospital next door and call me back. When she did, asking my date of birth, she said she had ordered two bags because then I would have only one co-pay. This combination of mix-upfollowed by kindness was, I would soon understand, common in the medical world. I rode a roller coaster of panic and confusion, followed by gratitude. The number of times things went wrong was plenty scary; the number of times people were willing to run to fix them was extraordinary.
Vincent came home after work and a visit to the gym. My mind was full of Solu-Medrol deliveries, the fleece blanket, Dianna’s skill. Vincent lived in the country of e-mail, editing, and writing and of the body’s trustworthy dependability. He’d picked up a chicken cooked in orange sauce, and I exclaimed over how delicious it was (see “steroids: euphoria”) until he glanced over at me, and I understood I was not acting normally. We looked at each other across the border, warily. I felt more dependent on him than I had ever felt or ever thought I would feel. He said something about Christmas, and I realized I didn’t know what day it was.
After the steroid infusions, Dr. Lowe planned to measure my sight and visual field again. My eye still had the blur. Deep in my brain, there was a voice saying,
You put off seeing the doctor … you put off seeing the doctor …
Meanwhile I now had three doctors: Dr. Mesipam, my internist, who had sprung me from the hospital; and Dr. Burks and Dr. Lowe, who were individually trying to figure out what had caused the inflammation in the nerve. Dr. Burks was worried about temporal arteritis, the inflammation of the arteries, which usually occurs in people older than me but could happen to a person my age. The way to discover temporal arteritis is to do a biopsy
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