This is me. Inside. This is what's trying to get out.
Sometimes, you have to wonder about the sanity of the people in charge, which, in this case, comes down to the specialist who ordered Dave’s MRI, the genius who designed the scan, and the juvenile operator of the machinery. Here you have a patient ― Dave ― whose condition is delicate, to say the least, and also specific. Given what the specialist already (thinks he’s) diagnosed, that specialist ought to know, fact!, that this patient cannot lie flat on his back at all, much less for a half hour. He should know that his patient is drowning in saliva, and that if said patient were to “aspirate” a drop of saliva into his lungs ― bingo: pneumonia, right off the bat.
So, what does the specialist do? Orders an MRI where Dave must lie flat for half an hour … and the genius in charge of the machine tells the man drowning in saliva and in real danger of aspiration pneumonia (which can be lethal), “Don’t swallow.”
What??!! You want to run around screaming, caroming off walls, bellowing about the stupidity and cruelty of medicine in general and (some; not all) doctors in particular. I’ve had a bone to pick with the diagnosing specialist in Kent Town since last Friday (this is Day 8, counting D-Day as Day One … and since that day was a century long, it counts). I have an axe to grind with him for calmly and emotionlessly handing out a death sentence, without grace, compassion or kindness. That is not clever doctoring; it’s not even good “humaning,” and I know there’s no such word, but there ought to be.
Top off that performance at the Kent Town office with the sheer genius of ordering an MRI that ― yes, fact! ― he should have known would torture the patient and possibly put him in the hospital, fighting for his life ―
I have discovered that a barbarian lives inside me. There’s a Valkyrie just beneath this delicate little five-foot-nothing exterior. She’s a savage with an axe who must be held on a tight leash lest she run amok. Suffice to say, I’m so angry, the Valkyrie is struggling to escape. I once told our GP “There’s a huge green rage monster inside me.” Well, she’s not green, but she’s quite the monster … and she has the scent of battle in her nostrils.
As I write this, those medical bas――s have reduced Dave to exhaustion, which is the worst possible thing for him. He’s sleeping it off, feeling like hell, and he said the words, “Never again.” (Oddly enough, the same words I said myself, after my last CT scan, when the same radiology clinic inflicted on me a dramatic reaction to the contrast dye needed for the test. They gave me a case of hypothermia that three-quarters killed me, and abandoned me in a corridor, in the middle of winter, dead opposite the doors, which whooshed open every 45 seconds, causing a wind-tunnel effect of icy air, blasting a victim who’d already turned blue.)
So, this was the MRI experience …
What do I feel today? Furious. Angry. Ready to let out the Valkyrie, if it would do any good. But it won’t, and I know it won’t, so … home. Get him a warm drink. He gets into bed, trying to sleep off the effects of the torture while I rage, rage against the stupidity and witless cruelty of medicine in general and (some) doctors in particular.
There’s a saying that “A specialist is someone who knows more and more about less and less.” But that is not carte blanch to behave as if they’re utterly insane. It appears the inmates have taken over the asylum. And these are the people we trust with our health, to the point where they calmly, without grace, hand out what they believe to be a death sentence and then order the patient to be tortured and endangered.
Enough. No more. One round of tests remains, and I honestly don’t care what the final diagnosis is, because Dave and I have already faced the worst it can be, and the fight to not let this thing win has begun. No, I’m NOT saying motor neuron disease is currently not lethal ― and Dave almost certainly has the most severe kind of MND. But I’m reading case studies of people who were given five years and lived 20 or 25 because they managed it right … so, if Dave’s variety of MND is handled just right, the paltry amount of time these geniuses are going to quote as the rest of his life can, and will, be made into 10…
And 10 will get us through to therapies that will win more time … and more … until the cure is in his hands. It’s all about winning time. One thing doctors won’t do is help us in this quest. They’ll offer palliation, keep the patient comfortable until ― until ―
Nope. So, it’s a strict paeleo diet (I’m relearning how to cook; and more about that in my next posts), Kriya, Qigong, structured exercise, nutrition, and very soon, acupuncture. I’ve just read a clinical study on this that made my radar turn on. But no more witless cruelty, or else…
I swear it, the Valkyrie will get out. And when she does ―
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