I can drive!

On the day I was discharged, I half-remembered a resident telling me I could drive only as long as I was taking an anti-convulsant. Matt heard that I wouldn’t be able to drive at all unless I had an EEG and follow-up appointment with Dr. Lopez.

Either way, I didn’t feel well enough to drive so waiting for the follow-up appointment with Dr. Lopez was fine with me . . . until about 6am this morning. That’s when I realized I have a deviated septum. I’m sure of it. Maybe it was the surgery, more likely it was a Dr. Seuss board book that did the trick. In either case, for a month my nose has been tender to the touch, crackles when I crinkle my nose, and when I lie to one side I can’t breathe. Doesn’t that sound like a deviated septum to you?

I was supposed to visit my allergist two weeks ago, a fact I am painfully aware of as I watch the local oak trees begin to dust the car and my nose in yellow pollen. My deviant, deviated septum promises to add to my seasonal allergic agony.

So I figured I needed to go to the doctor. That alone isn’t a problem–the medical center is just a couple of miles away–but how to get there? I could have Matt take me, but he will had to take off work and he’s feeling behind. I could have a neighbor take me, but going to the doctor could be an all-day ordeal. Do I really want to expose someone I like to that kind of trauma? I could take the bus, but after riding Houston Metro buses in a previous life, I really only want to ride the bus if I really, really, really have to.

So I decided to ask Dr. Lopez, just in case. And he said I really, really, really don’t have to take the bus.

Dr. Lopez, I promise, I won’t get on the freeway. I won’t even go very far. I really just need to go to the doctor. And I have babies to tend at home, so I’ll come right back.

Woo-hoo!

You probably don’t want just anyone to noodle with your brain. If you have an AVM and are looking for a care team, or just want to know what kind of people make a career of taking care of peoples’ brains, here are links for my two primary doctors at St. Luke’s.

Dr. Chen, Neurosurgery

Brief CV from his previous gig at Harvard:
Boston (archive).

and from his current position at Baylor:
Department of Neurosurgery CV (archive).

Here is the digital scan of the card (cover, interior) announcing his and Dr. Comair’s arrival to Houston. When Dr. Chen operated on my AVM, he had only been in Houston for a couple of months.

Dr. Lopez, Neurology

Brief CV from Baylor:
Department of Neurology CV (archive)

and here is a public relations piece that describes the type of innovative critical-care work that is Dr. Lopez’s specialty.
Therapeutic Hypothermia (archive).

Two months, two months, two months post-op!

Today we moved the Ugly Chair out of the room. Right before naptime.

We needed to move the Ugly Chair out because for one thing, Carmen was beginning to look like a kid on the path to Ugly Chair dependency. She began to need to rock herself to sleep every day, for naps and bedtimes. This on principle didn’t seem like a good habit. Also, the Chair began to squeak. And if the springs in the Chair broke (is the word “sprung”?), what exactly would I do? You know, some kids have a favorite stuffed bear, and parents run out and buy three extra of those exact same bears from the lovey store just in case the beloved bear wanders off or gets de-stuffed by the neighbor’s dog. I’m pretty sure the Ugly Chair, however, is one of a kind.

Also, we added another bed to the little bedroom which really isn’t large enough for a king size bed, a twin bed, a dresser, and an Ugly Chair. We added the extra bed in the eventuality that we would all learn to sleep–at least at naptimes–together. Unlikely? Maybe. But it’s worth a try. When I am alone again and with no Vivian to save the day, having C&D in the same room (and ideally, sleeping) during naptime would give me a chance to rest, too. Matt’s eleven-hour days are a little on the tortuous side when my brain is feeling slow and my children are feeling troublesome. Not like those eleven-hour days were much easier before AVM, though.

Sigh. As much as we always act for her best interests, Carmen didn’t appreciate the gesture and at naptime missed her Chair something awful. At first she really waswilling to try to sleep, but when she realized she was chairless for the night she sat at the edge of the bed and howled.

She didn’t nap, and this evening happily went to bed until she realized the Chair was still not in the bedroom. She cried unconsolably, not even comforted by the dolly or the phone or the remote control. After a good cry she played with my calves and fell asleep, exhausted.

Let’s hope tomorrow we don’t mourn the beloved Ugly Chair so much.

In the bathroom this morning, I realized that after two months I [still] have dark scars from the tape burn marks from my first IV line at St. Luke’s. What do they use down in ER, duct tape? Really, though, I’m curious. My skin must be even more sensitive than I thought. Even with the scars, my arm looks much better than it did before, though. The tape marks had actually erupted in tiny little blisters. Yich.

I also still have the little red scar in the center of my forehead (very bindi-looking) left over from my first EEG (during, or right after, the surgery . . . I couldn’t tell you because I was under anesthesia, sorry). Now with every EEG, one free semi-permanent bindi! Tell your friends to get your EEG today!

Yesterday I noticed my second EEG (the 19th of last month) also left a little bindi mark, but higher on my forehead and closer to my hairline.

The unfortunate thing is that my free little bindi marks don’t look so much like bindi as maybe scars left behind by a couple of zits.

Darn.

Took a brain-boggling trip to Ikea. Quick trip, but found a set of child-sized stainless steel pots and pans just like mine, and I decided C&D each needed a set. David took cooking eggs (from plastic Easter eggs, wooden vegetables, and wool knitted fruit) right away.

Carmen got the idea, but decided the bear was hungry . . .

and so was the other.
When David realized I was taking pictures with the camera and he could see himself on the LCD screen, he started making requests: “Now, take picture Dabid with pan. Now Dabid with spoon. Now Dabid with lid. Now Dabid . . .” Sense a trend?

Sometimes I wake up thinking. Sometimes I wake up planning for two hours from now, two years from now, two lifetimes from now. Sometimes I wake up remembering.

Sometimes I remember how the first few week and a half after the surgery, I almost never slept. At the hospital the lights, hustle-bustle, interruptions, a sore, dizzy head and less-than-comfortable bed kept me awake more than asleep. Being at home wasn’t much better until I was too tired to care.

I remember how Matt thought I would get better right away, and was surprised to see me lying around with a blanket over my head. Lying around, Joyce? What for? The idea that someone sawed a large horseshoe cut through my skull, probed my swollen brain, then gave me three different anti-convulsants (not all at once, but still) didn’t seem impressive to a spouse who took it literally when the surgeon said I would be fine. Yes, I was fine, but not a superhero. Even Superman would need a few days off after something like that.

I remembered the aurora borealis in my head, the electrical humming and buzzing in my head, the tingles that blinked and zipped through my body. I became suddenly aware that I am an electrical being, a wonder, a phenomenon. We all are.

I remembered the sharp needles and tingling, like being attacked by a colony of ants, after I took the Tegretol. I was glad I didn’t have to take that every day.

I remember walking upstairs, sitting down at the kitchen table and looking around, blinking. With a smile, Matt handed me the EOB (explanation of benefits) that arrived in the mail that afternoon. So far paid: $146,000. I began to cry. I had health insurance.

I remembered the day I arrived from the hospital. C&D were tentative, happy to see me but confused. Where did I go, and what happened to my head? “Mommy buzz buzz [shaved] hair,” Carmen said. “Yes,” I told her. “Mommy had a booboo. But the doctor fixed it.” The doctor fixed it.