Death of a Summer

Yes, there it is. Death of a summer. One usually asks, “Where did it go?” but there’s no need for me to ask… because I know. This knowledge does not stop me from mourning its passing, however, and well into my first week of the next semester, I am still wistfully looking back. So I must peruse what has happened to my summer--that precious time whose value is equivalent to that of fine gold.

In May, Jolene graduated. This was a Big Deal. As a graduation gift, her siblings sponsored a trip for her to see New York City. Sara, Sharon, and I accompanied her to the Big Apple for about four days. In addition to my 30th birthday and a visit from Alvin and Doretta, this pretty well took care of May.

The months of June and July were spent in summer classes. I took Anatomy and Physiology in June. What a difficult subject that is. But I am so glad it’s done and off the list. In July, I took Medical Terminology as an online class. This class ended the first week in August, which is when my 3 ½ week break officially began.

In between the two summer semesters (aka the weekend of July 4th), Sara, Sharon, and I went to a college retreat in Pennsylvania put on by Faithbuilders.

In June, Martin, Jolene, Sharon, and I went to the lake, and on July 9, Sharon, Jolene, and I accompanied Dee to Holiday World for the day.

The same week that my July class ended, Martin, Jolene, Sharon, and I went to D.C. to spend the weekend with Alvin and Doretta. The next week, my wisdom teeth were taken out, after which I spent about a week recovering from that nasty ordeal. And during the several weeks between then and now, Sharon and I have spent sewing, cleaning, assembling furniture, and putting up food for the winter. We even cleaned out the refrigerator and defrosted our freezer.

We’ve had this problem with our freezer wanting to put frost and freezer burn on our frozen foods. This makes us very leery of eating anything out of the freezer, and our food usually just frosts over and dies a frozen death. So we faced the dilemma of how to freeze food for the winter when the home it’s stored in is not a friendly one. I’m sure defrosting the freezer will help, but we went one step further. We decided to vacuum seal our items with Mom’s little vacuum sealer. One of the items we vacuum-sealed was chicken and vegetable kits.

I’m not overly fond of many of the stir-fry vegetable packages you buy in the stores already frozen, mainly because many of them have unfriendly things in them such as water chestnuts or huge onions or huge broccoli stems, etc. So this is what we did: We took a very large dishpan, and into it, we dumped five bags of frozen broccoli, two bags of frozen peas, two canisters of already cut celery, a canister of chopped green pepper, and several bags of green beans. We chopped up and fried about five huge bags of chicken breasts. Then we took one cup of chicken and two cups of the frozen vegetables and vacuum-sealed them into their bags, thus making healthy little supper kits for these two time-challenged college kids. We tried a kit out tonight for supper for the first time. It was a very pleasant experience. I pulled it out of the freezer, microwaved it for two minutes, stir-fried it for about five minutes in a little bit of very hot olive oil, added my own special blend of seasonings, and voila! Supper was served about seven minutes later. How is that for speedy?

The second thing we did was can green beans. Mom actually canned them for us, but we did help work them up. Then I made a big pot of chili the other night, although it kind’ve got out of hand. I was planning to make about five quarts and then freezing it. I’ve never made chili before, so I asked Mom how to do it. I didn’t listen very well evidently, because I forgot about the water. The first thing I knew, I had five quarts of pure tomato juice. So dear Mother brought her ten quart pot over, and we transferred the chili over and added enough water to make things right again. Then followed a series of dumping in a lot of things. I didn’t have any particular recipe, so I just started dumping in things that I thought would be good: onions, peppers, pinto beans, rice, hamburger, and multiple seasonings. I thickened it finally, and found that it was good. We filled up these little cup-sized freezer containers with the chili and froze twenty of them for lunches this winter. Those were all the containers we had, so we’ve been enjoying the chili leftovers ever since.

And as we look at our chicken-n-veggie kits and our cans of green beans and our cups of chili, we can’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction. We like fast and easy and homemade. Do any of you have any clever ideas of other things we can do to prepare for the drudgery of these long months ahead?

And that, my friends, is how my summer was spent. I am not entirely certain I shall take summer classes next year because there is just this lingering sense of having been cheated out of a break. At any rate, I have now officially earned 43 credit hours, and that, I believe, puts me down on the books as having Junior status.

Now let’s hear about your summer.

A Crank Call

The first I became conscious of movement was when I bent down to pick up the phone. The time: 1:30 a.m.

“Hullloo?” I said, my words slurring just a bit.

“Is Kris there?”

“This is Kris.”

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Well, I was sleeping!”

And the little twerp laughed! I could tell the voice was that of a freshly post-pubescent little teenage boy. I was not with it enough to think coherently, but I did ask him what his name was so that I could possibly figure out what he wanted.

“Tom Grady,” he said.

“I don’t know a Tom Grady.”

“Yes, you do.”

And then we spent more precious time arguing about whether or not I knew a Tom Grady. Why I didn’t just hang up, I don’t know. Too stupid at 1:30 in the morning, I guess. Sharon had been roused by the ringing of the phone, and she stood in the doorway listening on her extension. I was finally exasperated enough that I asked, “Sharon, do we know a Tom Grady?” She confirmed that indeed, we did not.

“Yes, you do,” he insisted. “We’re supposed to go fishing tomorrow.”

Hah. Now there was no doubt in my mind that I didn’t know him. I wouldn’t make plans to go fishing even if I was in the sanest state of mind. I convinced him that even though he knew my last name and my address and even though he “was 32,” he had the wrong number. I hung up. Sharon decided our door should be locked.

Ok. Now that was bad enough. But about three minutes later, the phone rang again. This time, Tom Grady’s manner of conversation deteriorated in a very short amount of time. I cannot even repeat the gist of what he was trying to say, such poor choice of topic he had. Sharon had again picked up, and she was getting huffy. She tried to dial *67 after we hung up the second time, but of course, it didn’t work. Against my pleas, she viciously turned on the light and looked in the phone book for the number you dial to block anonymous calls, *77.

We went back to bed. We were both ticked off enough that we couldn’t go to sleep again right away. Would you believe the little twerp called four more times for a total of six times?? Instead of talking, however, I would just pick it up and disconnect it. Once, I just did the “heavy breathing” thing, and I heard him say, “She’s just cutting me off.” We knew there was someone else there with him, because we had heard the second party whisper our last name to him earlier.

After the fourth time, I was just as huffy as Sharon was. So for the next ten minutes while Sharon lay in her bed thinking of all the insults she wanted to say to him, I lay there in my bed with my cordless phone in hand. I would turn the phone on to get dial tone and wait long enough until it went to the recording just prior to giving the “off the hook” alarm. I would turn it off and then right back on. This would give the Twerp a busy signal. If he had called back one more time, we would’ve simply unplugged our phones and let him talk to the answering machine.

Needless to say, this was not a very restful night for us. And the next morning, I just couldn’t understand why my alarm wouldn’t shut off when I kept hitting the “talk” button on my phone.

Some people have too much time on their hands.

Toad Hall

Despite my “No Vacancy” sign, this little guy is the newest visitor to Toad Hall (aka my window well). I first heard him as I was trying to go to sleep last night. He is the type that will just open the window himself, come in, and make himself at home. He’s huge! To put it into perspective for you, most of the toads that visit me are about the size of his back leg. From the sound of his thumping on the window, I actually was imagining him to be a rabbit or a skunk or a ‘possum. I refused to go look last night for fear he would plague my dreams. I woke up several times during the night when he would launch himself at my window. I was relieved when I found him to be a basically sedentary toad—large, but at least not rabid or fast-moving. Now how should I get him out? I suppose I shall have to enlist the help of Colton who seems to be fearless where toads are concerned. I do SO not like things that go thump in the night.

OSHA Grouchies

I don’t like OSHA. I don’t particularly mind what it stands for, but I don’t like the headache it represents. Ever since my former employee in charge of OSHA compliance left in January, poor OSHA just sat on the shelf, just waiting for a disaster to happen. Since I cannot possibly take on any more responsibilities, I decided to designate Kim to be the new OSHA Czar. But like it or not, I knew I would not only have to get training for Kim, but I would also have to train myself at some point. I will not tolerate being the victim of misinterpretation, so today found Kim and me heading down to Nashville to an OSHA seminar. I figure we’ll all be better off if both Kim and I are armed with the same information from the same source.

It was actually pretty interesting (but downright frightening) to hear all the things that could potentially make our practice go belly up. One accidental needle stick to a healthcare employee could potentially cost an employer up to $14,000 in liability. Did you know that we have to offer that employee drug treatment to treat potential bloodborne diseases within two hours of being stuck? And those drugs can cost up to $500 per day for a four-week treatment regimen? Ouch. That kind of Math hurts.

Unfortunately, I’m not the type of person who can just dump the responsibility on another employee, so here I am again—up to my ears in Stuff To Do…especially with school starting on Monday. So yes, I’ll help beef up our OSHA compliance. But I won’t like it. It makes me feel grouchy. Really grouchy.

Sigh.

Restroom Etiquette

I recently came across an entry on Brian's blog that intrigued me and subsequently inspired this post. It was a "letter" detailing all the things he as a school administrator REALLY wanted to tell the parents but didn't dare to. That was the inspiration for the following letter that will, unfortunately, never get sent to the audience who really needs it.
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Dear Public Restroom User,

There is a time and there is a place when one must use restroom facilities outside the comfort of one’s own home. As someone who is a fellow user of public restrooms and as someone who cleans a public restroom frequently, I feel inclined to address this issue for the good of the general public. It seems that Miss Manners has shirked her duty in this particular area, and there are thousands of you—maybe even millions—who do not seem to know public restroom etiquette.

If you are in your own home, you should feel free to disregard the gist of this letter and develop your own bathroom habits; that is, as long as they have the blessing of the mistress of the house. If, on the other hand, you are in need of a restroom outside of what you can call your own, be grateful for the convenience of whatever establishment you are taking advantage of at the time, and use some courtesy and some common sense.

Ladies, it is perfectly obvious to me that many of you are quite willing to take advantage of a restroom at any time and in any place. It is also clear that you think yourself "above" coming into contact with the actual seat. Many of you have developed muscles in places that just as many of us others haven’t. You hover over the seat while you seek out your blessed relief. This is unaffectionately known as the Hoover Maneuver. While this in itself is not the crime, would it be too much to ask for you to clean up the cesspools of urine you leave behind? Must you smile sweetly at me as you exit the stall, knowing full well what I will encounter when I step inside in your wake? Do you really want me to judge your character based on these particular fruits of your labor? Can you not show a little courtesy and clean up the mess you were so willing to make?

And when it goes beyond the trails of urine and turns into "moose tracks," what in the world are you thinking? And just how, exactly, does one go about accomplishing smearing the seat? I’d really like to know. Just how can you manage to get it on the seat, on the walls, on the floor, and on the commode tank all in one sitting? It must take some moves that only a circus acrobat is typically capable of. Are you sure you’re not in the wrong profession? What would help you to avoid situations such as these? Bigger stalls? More toilet paper? Some wet wipes? A mop and bucket? A car wash?

Gentlemen, I think ladies will always have issues with you leaving the seat up. This in itself, however, is not your greatest crime. See Paragraphs 3 and 4. It seems that it should be very simple for you really, as the very nature of your anatomy should make your trips to the restroom very clean and hassle-free. Can’t aim? Then by cracky {no pun intended}, SIT DOWN!! And just how hard can it be to flush? If you plan it right, you can flush and put the seat down all in one efficient, fluid motion. And while you ridicule us women folk for taking so long to take care of our business, don’t think for a minute that we don’t know how it is that you can zip in and out so fast. Couldn’t you take just a couple seconds longer to WASH YOUR FILTHY HANDS?

Now let’s review, gentlemen:
1. Aim.
2. Flush.
3. Put the seat down.
4. Wash!

And if you’re in a restroom with paper towels, can you not put the towels IN the trash can instead of on the counter, on the floor, in the back corner, in Stall 1, or in Stall 2? And how can you get so comfortable sitting in someone else’s bathroom that you have the time and the nerve to display your love interest in writing on someone else’s walls? Or worse, use vulgar language on those sacred walls! Would you write the same thing in your own house?

Must we resort to having bathroom monitors or to charging fees for restroom use as Europe does? Ladies, would you feel more at home in Romania where the HM is the norm?

If you use the last of the toilet paper, can you not mention something to someone in management? Must you set the next person up for what will inevitably result in paragraphs 3 and 4?

Because one of these days, I [or someone like me] will have reached my limit. I will come running after you across the parking lot screaming, "Ma’am! Ma’am! You forgot something!" I will then take you by your guilty hand and lead you back to the scene of the crime. I will kindly hand you a big wad of toilet paper, point at your little cesspool, smile broadly, and say, "See?"

With best wishes for your restroom success,

Kris

My Big Three-O Crisis

I knew when I turned 30 this year that I was in crisis—I just didn’t realize how big of a crisis it was. That is, until this past weekend when I spent a couple days delving into the pictures of my past. You see, for the first 25 years of my life, “acid free” was a foreign concept to me. So most of the photos I had up to that point were stored in these large magnetic page photo albums. And then it was time to clean out the closet, and out they all came. I opened one and was horrified to see how yellowed and decrepit the quality of those pages were. Could this, in fact, be a sign of my age? I made an executive decision that all pictures must be freed from their acidic environment, and in so doing, I spent the next several days pulling out photos and bagging them up in little Ziploc baggies. The albums themselves are even now out by the road waiting for the garbage truck in the morning.

But you see, I had to look at every single picture that records where I’ve been the past thirty years and what I’ve done. A little amusing at times—a whole lot frightening. For into each little baggie went a chapter from my past. A chapter that’s closed and done. And so I think it would be appropriate to stop a minute, take stock, and make a few observations.

I saw in those pictures friends that at one time meant the world to me—friends I thought I would love for Forever. Those same friends today? Somewhere, in the passing of time, they’ve disappeared. We’ve grown up. They’ve moved away. They’ve gotten married.

I see the pictures recording me in my grade school and teenage years (yucko). The HAIR! The hair has got to go! High school—the era of my life that I thought I was the top dog and that I had for sure reached the ultimate in wisdom and knowledge. And now—how insignificant those years seem in the whole scheme of things.

And then the six years I spent teaching. What fun that was. And oh, so exhausting. The job that you can’t leave at the door. I look at the notes I jotted down of all the cute things my kids said, and it makes me just a bit wistful to go back. And then my hand starts curling into the Grading Position, and I’m glad—glad to not be grading.

I’ve been on six chorus tours, spent a month in Europe, taken a train out West, and vacationed in Florida multiple times. I’ve been to D.C. I’ve been to New York City five times—each time a little more exhilarating and just a bit more addicting than the time before. I’ve lived in Kansas, and I’ve lived in Kentucky. I’ve been to Broadway, the circus, the fair, and the St. Louis Arch. I’ve been on hayrides, and I’ve ridden a roller coaster.

I’ve been to two oceans and have been in fourteen countries. I’ve lived through a tornado. Although totaled and about to reach the 200,000 mile mark, my only car is still running, and I’m still driving it. I’ve been a babysitter, a cashier, a teacher, a postal worker, a receptionist, and an office manager. I’ve graduated from grade school, high school, technical school, and (Lord willing) will graduate from college…some day.

And did I mention I’ve lost all my wisdom teeth now? As I said… I’m in crisis. And I'm left wondering... when does the gray hair start?

This Side of Wisdom

Well, as of yesterday morning, I’ve officially lost the battle. Fortunately, I am a survivor in recovery as opposed to being a casualty of war, for I have lost my wisdom teeth and am here to expostulate about it.

You see, I developed a theory at a very young age that there must be some logical purpose for wisdom teeth. I believe that in ancient times, with people not being able to preserve and care for their teeth, God gave them a backup plan in the form of wisdom teeth. And for as many times as I’ve had to have fillings over the years, I went against the advice of my dentist and have fought for the past decade to save them. After all, you never know when you’ll need another tooth. But when my upper wisdom tooth started giving me problems again this past spring in the middle of a school semester, I began to re-evaluate my theory. The extraction of wisdom teeth requires one to be out of commission for extended periods of time, which does not work well with attending class regularly. So I resolved that I would give in and have them all taken out. Yesterday was the day for the bottom two.

Now I remember the horror stories of my sisters, Sara and Jolene, and their wisdom teeth. Unlike mine, which are through already, they both had to have theirs cut out. The memory of Sara fainting has traumatized me all these years, however, and Jolene’s more recent tale of waking up crying her eyes out did nothing for my disposition. Both of them have described in graphic detail how terrible the experience was.

So I took two days off work in honor of the Deed. I dressed in black and made my way to the dentist’s office. Now I love my dentist. He is the silent type, which I appreciate very much. Sometime in between Sara’s wisdom teeth and mine, he has discontinued his wisdom teeth service and refers his patients to an oral surgeon. He did, however, make an exception for me…I think maybe because my teeth were through already, thanks to my decade-long fight. While I was grateful for him consenting to take out a poor beggar’s teeth, I had to deal with this irrational fear that he would get halfway through then say “sorry, I can’t do it after all,” then quit.

Dr. T’s assistant Sheryl is also just the best. She showed me my panoramic x-ray while we were settling down in preparation for the deed. “Hmm,” she said. “Look how that one curves out.” What? Sure enough. The root of the tooth on the left side was not just straight down—it curved rather noticeably. It was at this point that I began to feel wobbly. But I didn’t say anything. She asked me if I wanted laughing gas. I said no; I wanted to in full control of my faculties at all times. I wanted no cause for unwarranted bursting into tears like Jolene did.

It wasn’t long before I found myself on the receiving end of the dreaded shot. Normally, I can handle it alright and I just steel myself for it. But this time, however, it seemed especially bad. Maybe because he was numbing two different sides of my mouth. When he stuck the left side, I knew I was going to be in for a long time of it. Pain shot up to my ear and down to my jaw bone. I felt myself begin to hyperventilate. I turned all hot, and I could feel my heart beating extremely fast...which is atypical for me. About that time, I remembered one of our patients who recently went into anaphylactic shock when she had her teeth extracted; she ended up brain dead and then died shortly thereafter. So I quickly reminded God that He wasn’t quite finished with me here on this earth yet and went back to concentrating on breathing.

The Extraction of Tooth One began. I could feel minor things grating and tugging, and it was more of a thing of just being weary of it all than it was a thing of pain. Finally, Sheryl announced that Tooth One was out. Thank God! Now on to Tooth Two… the one with the curved root. Oh, but I was dreading this one. The routine began again. I knew I was in trouble when Dr. T said, “I’m going to have to break the corner of the tooth off.” Yikes! So he gets this little saw or drill out. It felt like a miniature saw that one would use to cut a tree down. I cannot even describe how terrible that was. I could feel it, and it was painful! I jerked and jerked in my chair, all the while reminding myself that at least I lived in this glorious day and age of anesthesia.

Finally, mercifully, he was done. He asked me if I had felt that, and I said, “UH HUH!” So he pumped in some more anesthesia and let me sit up to rinse out all the tooth grit that had come from the sawing. I sat up. The first thing I saw was bloody Tooth One lying there on the tray. It was at this point that I actually gave thought to the glorious possibility of passing out. It didn’t happen though, and I was soon back into my former position. Then the tugging and grating and cutting and chipping and clipping began in earnest. I thought I could not possibly bear anymore of it. My nerves were absolutely shot (pardon the pun), and I began to regret not taking the option of the gas.

When Dr. T announced that it was out, I breathed a sigh of relief. At least he hadn’t given up halfway through and left me a little nub in there. Sheryl told me to make sure I didn’t spit, that I didn’t suck on straws, and to not take up smoking. I was extremely grateful for the advice (I wanted to spit immediately, I love straws, and after that ordeal, I just may have decided smoking was something I wanted to try to calm my nerves). Boy, was I wobbly! I tried to tell Dr. T thank you, but the best I could manage was “Fankeww.” I was quite shaky when I made my way up to the counter to pay the bill for my surgical extractions, my mouth all stuffed full of gauze.

I got to the car before I started gagging. The gauze was too thick, and there was just no way I could keep from retching with it rubbing my tongue and stuff. So out it came. I drove myself home and stopped in at Mom’s because I wanted her to get the prescription for my antibiotics filled (to prevent dry socket, Dr. T said). There was no way I was going to stand in line at the pharmacy with cheeks resembling those of chipmunks, so Mom said she would go fill it for me.

I went home then and for some weird reason, I would get these urges to sing little phrases of songs. I think maybe just to see if I still could. I didn’t realize I was doing it right away, but once I realized it, I stopped. Mom brought my meds back, but there was no way I could take any. My mouth was completely numb, and I could hardly swallow water, much less a pill. I was afraid the pill would either get hung up in one of my gaping tooth holes or that I would just choke on it. I had come too far to lose it on a pill now. So I messed around on the computer for a while, trying to find some of my textbooks on eBay.

I found some I was interested in, then I set a timer for just before the auctions ended, then went to bed. I would wake up in time to win my auction, then back to bed I’d go. Jolene woke me up a little later to make sure I was still living (thank you, Jolene). The anesthesia had worn off, and it was time for a pain pill. I gagged my pills down, then back to bed I went. It was amazing. That pain pill knocked me out until 6:00 that night.

The left side of my mouth bled for a total of nine hours. Sheryl called me at 4:00 to see how I was doing, and she told me to go back to the thick gauze and actually bite down on it to get it to stop bleeding. Oh. So there was a purpose in the thick gauze. I did, and it finally stopped bleeding about three hours later.

I just hope that this side of wisdom improves… and soon. I’m seeing signs of infection on the left side, so I hope that my antibiotics kick in quickly. Somehow when Dr. T was using the saw on Tooth Two, my tongue got messed up. I now have a canker sore on the left side of my tongue that is roughly 3 cm long by 1 cm high. It has been very successful in keeping me from eating. So that’s one of the few good things that has come out of the whole thing.

My Coaster Theory

So maybe my theory was a little wrong. Alright. Completely wrong. So wrong that I shall dedicate this post to the education of other ignorant folks like me (are there any?).

We had been wanting to go visit Alvin and Doretta before school starts again, so Martin, Sharon, Jolene, and I made our way out to Catlett, VA, last weekend via various methods of transportation.

It was during one of our meaningless conversations that it was discovered that there were certain ones of Us who use our drink coasters with the cork side up. And then there were Others. And there ensued a Great Debate about which was the proper way to use coasters. Picture side up vs. cork side up. It became a rather intense debate, truth be told.

It is now apparent to me that the area of drink coaster education is a deficiency in my child-rearing—and for good reasons. First of all, my mother never had drink coasters sitting around for us to use when we were children. In fact, some of the few that we had for any length of time were products of a Reader’s Digest promotion. They were silver-coated and so nice that we were not to use them.

Second, the drinks of my childhood were always poured into Tupperware glasses, and there was very little (if any) condensation to be dealt with. And if per chance there was condensation on the glass, the furniture of my [poor] childhood was such that any water rings left on its surface would have enhanced the furniture instead of marring it. So you see, there really was no need to have drink coasters at my house.

And third, I never read a Miss Manners column or any etiquette books on a regular basis (and even if I had, I doubt this particular subject was ever addressed). At any rate, I simply have had no foundation for this knowledge to have been acquired. In my adult life, I’ve always just evaluated them coaster by coaster. You see, it seems perfectly logical to both Sharon and me that the purpose of the cork side is to absorb the condensation from the glass and that the pretty picture on the other side is merely an appeal to the feminine side of folks and is to be used for decorative purposes when the coaster is not in use.

But oh NO! Our theory was pummeled, trampled, and otherwise ridiculed by the Others. The cork side, it seems, is “to keep the furniture from being scratched!” And dear brother Martin simply would not let the subject alone. He even brought it up again on our way home from church even though the subject had already been thoroughly hashed, and we had agreed to disagree. He was absolutely determined that his sisters should not be so socially ignorant. We finally decided that since my friend Rita was going to be at Alvin’s for Sunday lunch, we would momentarily shut up about it and observe how the Queen of Etiquette herself (Ms. Rita) used her coaster.

As expected, Rita took a coaster to set her glass on. I made a point of not paying any attention and hoped that Martin would just forget about it. But it was not long before Martin began to make a scene, beaming, crowing, grinning, and pointing silently. He made such a silent scene, in fact, that it was evident without my looking that yes, Rita had indeed put the picture side up! So since I trust Rita implicitly, I shall acknowledge this little glitch in my education and go on.

Especially since I could not find anything [post-trip] in my eResearch to support my theory. Bah!

The Face of Multiple Sclerosis

My class this month was an online course, Medical Terminology. Just so we don't get off too easy with it, one of the requirements was to write a paper on a disease of our choice. I chose to write on multiple sclerosis because my dear little cousin Louisa has just been diagnosed with it at the age of 18, and I hardly knew anything about the disease. I happen to work with someone who also suffers from this disease so I interviewed her for my paper. Following is my MS paper as turned in to my professor:
___________________________

The Face of Multiple Sclerosis

Imagine an illness with which you experience periods of numbness in your legs, migraine headaches, blurred vision, extreme weakness and fatigue, clumsiness, chronic forgetfulness, and an inability to think without “blanking out.” For 31 year old Kim Bradley, mother of two from Bowling Green, Kentucky, this is more than something just to imagine–it’s her reality. Kim has multiple sclerosis (MS), a disease of the nervous system.

Although remembering herself to be a clumsy teen–and called “Messy Marvin” by her peers–Kim never thought to question the condition of her health until 1996. At 23 years of age, she found herself pregnant and experiencing her first bout of numbness in her legs and severe migraine headaches. An MRI ensued, followed by a spinal tap. The MRI showed lesions on Kim’s brain, and the spinal tap tested positive for multiple sclerosis. “I was devastated,” she said. “You may as well have told me I had cancer and had only a short time to live.” Kim went to Vanderbilt for a second opinion where she was “undiagnosed” because she had not yet experienced an MS exacerbation.

According to the National Multiple Sclerosis Society (NMSS), multiple sclerosis is “a chronic, often disabling disease that attacks the central nervous system (brain and spinal cord)”(Natl. MS Society). The nervous system is organized into the central nervous system (CNS) and the peripheral nervous system (PNS). The central nervous system is comprised of the brain and spinal cord, while the peripheral nervous system are those things that lie laterally, physically attached to the spinal cord, including the nerves and associated structures. The nerve fibers in the central nervous system are surrounded by a protective substance called a myelin sheath. When the myelin sheaths are attacked by the body, they are damaged and form hardened scar tissue (scleroses) around the nerve fibers. Although the fibers themselves are undamaged, nerve conduction is often interrupted or slowed, which gives way to the symptoms of multiple sclerosis, i.e., clumsiness, vision difficulties, numbness, and numerous others that vary from person to person. A person with multiple sclerosis goes through cycles of relapses, often called exacerbations, and remissions. An exacerbation is a period of active symptoms, and remission is a symptom-free period (Marieb 407-408).

According to NMSS, 400,000 Americans have multiple sclerosis. Additionally, most are diagnosed between ages of 20 and 50, and most are women. Most of those diagnosed with MS have grown up in northern climates. Kim grew up in Delaware.

It was not until 1999, when Kim was pregnant with her second child, however–three years after being diagnosed and then subsequently undiagnosed–that she went through her first exacerbation. Kim made some lifestyle changes thereafter, including major weight loss and smoking cessation. She also began to exercise regularly. And from then until recently, her periods of exacerbation were infrequent, averaging about once a year. Kim has been able to lead a relatively normal lifestyle.

Kim’s MS symptoms seem to be triggered by stress, heat, corn, ketchup, aspartame (an ingredient in diet sodas), and pregnancy. She avoids these food products as well as chocolate. She avoids tanning beds because of heat intolerance; she can, however, be in the sun as long as she is in water which keeps her cool. Kim says the most aggravating symptom of her MS is when she wants to say something and is unable to articulate it.

When Kim goes into exacerbation, she must go into the hospital for steroid treatment. Kim describes her three-day hospital admissions as “horrible experiences.” On day one, she typically experiences heart palpitations and elevated blood sugar. Day two brings on headaches, itching, and skin edema. On day three, Kim says she gets little lumps on her skin–painful little tumors. Her skin pores expand and swell up, and she says she looks like a “puffalump.” She also experiences excessive energy and wants to eat non stop. Inevitably, she subsequently “crashes.” And then life is back to normal.

As this paper is being written, Kim is in exacerbation. What was once an annual exacerbation is now becoming a quarterly occurrence, and her doctor believes her body is becoming resistant to the steroids she has been given in the past as treatment for her exacerbations. Her doctor has switched her from Solumedrol to an alternate steroid, in a much stronger dose. This is day seven, and although she is now home from the hospital and recovering, her body has not responded well to the new steroid. In addition to a magnification of what she normally goes through, she has been unable to sleep and describes her post-treatment behavior as “psychotic.” She also experienced hallucinations and panic attacks with the new steroid treatment.

Kim believes that dealing with multiple sclerosis is also a mental thing. She does not attend support groups for MS because the one time she went, the topic of discussion was about getting great deals on wheel chairs. Kim does not want to end up in a wheel chair. She says you must not give in to the disease and must always fight it.

Kim is my coworker. She is an upbeat person with an infectious laugh. She loves her husband, Doug, and two small boys, Justin and Jordan. And until a cure for multiple sclerosis is found, Kim’s journey will continue—with both its highs and its lows. With Kim’s strength of character and resilience, however, complemented by supportive family and friends, she has the capacity to conquer this often debilitating disease. Friend, wife, mother—Kim is the face of multiple sclerosis.
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Works Cited

Bradley, Kim. Personal Interview. 20 July 2005.

Marieb, Elaine N. Human Anatomy and Physiology. California: Pearson Education, Inc, 2004.

National Multiple Sclerosis Society. What is MS? 2004. 21 July 2005 .