Saturday: I’m not what you’d call a confessional blogger. I don’t write much about my private life & I’ve been thinking all day whether to write this post & for the moment I’ve decided to write it as a draft. I may or may not publish it at some point. I saw my doctor Friday because I had experienced several brief episodes of vertigo, especially after standing for a long time, as in front of a class lecturing. Very unsettling. Dr. T. scheduled me for an MRI on Tuesday morning. There are several things that can cause vedtigo & I’m not going to speculate until I have more information. The doctor wouldn’t speculate either, though apparently his examination of my eyes gave him cause for concern. I don’t feel bad or debilitated, but I’m worried of course. Carole is helping me maintain my optimism.
Perhaps it’s an over-reaction, I spent the day using an online service to write a will, living will, power of attorney, etc. There are a lot of possible outcomes to my current situation, but I need to be prepared for a worst-case scenario. In any case, this is something I should have done long ago. I’ve cancelled some meetings for early next week & arranged to meet with a couple of colleagues to witness my paperwork on Monday morning. After that, I baked two batches of bread & made chicken cutlets for dinner. Staying busy, keeping a good attitude for the most part. Not giving in to anxiety. But it’s evening now & I admit I’m very tired & a little deppressed. I’m going to take 5 mg. of Ambien & go to bed as soon as the bread comes out of the oven.
I don’t have any metaphysical fears. No religious horror at the prospect of death, which is remarkable given the way I was brought up. But I do fear losing control. No, that’s not it, exactly. Regret at lost chances. I’ll have to think more about this & I’m going to stop now because I’m getting a bit maudlin.
Sunday: A weird day bouncing between fear & equanimity. Considerable irony in the fact that I spent the morning working to meet a statutory deadline as executor of my late step-father’s estate. Best part of the day was mid-afternoon curled up on the couch with the two terriers watching golf & napping. Tomorrow morning I meet with my friends & colleagues J. & C. in my office to witness my will, power or attorney, living will & etc. I actually haven’t decided what to do in my back-to-back Intro to Lit sections. I haven’t had any dizziness in a couple of days, but the worst episodes have come after standing & talking in class a long time. I may just show a film. Tuesday, I will arrange to show a film in my Lit of American Popular Music course — I’m not going to get out of the MRI machine zoned out on Ativan & try to teach a class.
I’m a materialist but not a reductionist. That is, I believe there are more things in heaven & earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio. With Thomas Hardy, I believe “the world has no memory” & that the only part of us that lives on after we die is what we leave in other people’s minds. Hardly an original notion, I realize. And I’m sorry to go on in this morbid way. Nothing like a little extra pressure in the head to concentrate the mind, isn’t that what Dr. Johnson said? (Poor Dr. Johnson! So filled with religious horrors!)
Monday: Went to the office this morning to sign all the documents I prepared over the weekend & have them witnessed. Am I being hysterical? I was too distracted to meet my Intro to Lit class, so I had J show a film so I could come home. I have to admit to bouts of morbidness & melancholia, though interspersed with relative equanimity. I have the MRI tomorrow morning, though there is some possibility it will be delayed until afternoon because they are replacing the motor on the cooling unit. Who knew? I guess those big magnents generate a lot of heat.
Physically, I feel pretty decent. A bit low, not very hungry. I haven’t had any noticeable symptoms since the ones that sent me to the doctor, even though I’m hyper-aware & watching for them. No neurological or cognitive disabilities
Tuesday (7:30 a.m.): I’m sitting in bed with the laptop & watching the sun come up over the river. A clear cold morning, hovering below zero. I slept well & feel rested & hopeful. Just posted a little poem by Kay Ryan to the blog that pretty well captures my mood & outlook this morning. I can hear a flock of jays squabbling in the woods who neither know nor care I’m here. That sort of caring is for humans. Interestingly, the first thing I did after getting my official documents ready & witnessed was to print out a batch of poems I’ve written over the last few weeks — some drafts go back further — & send them off to the American Poetry Review. I took a long time off from writing after I got back from Vietnam in 2001 & then when I began again, tentatively, I almost never sent things out.
(8:30 p.m.) Well the MRI was supposed to be at 11:00 but the hospital called my cell phone as we were driving into town (it’s a half-hour from where we live) to reschedule for tomorrow, but then called just as we were arriving home to see if I could come in later today. I could & we did. It’s a very big & open MRI machine, not the long skinny tube I imagined. My doctor had given me some anti-anxiety medication for the test & while I wouldn’t have needed it for that purpose, I’m glad I took it because it has chilled me out for the rest of the evening after a pretty nervous three or four days. Nervous more than afraid. And a feeling of being in suspension — the dice flying through the air but not yet clattering to the table. Should have some results tomorrow or Thursday at the latest. Still don’t know whether I’ll post this. [Obviously, I decided to publish. --jd]
I only rarely write about such intimate things on the blog. I have a private notebook — old school, paper & pen — that I write in when I need to bare my soul or do self-analysis. The other thing I’m not doing here is trying to speculate about what might be wrong with me. I have an unfortunate tendency toward hypochondria anyway, and anxiety & compulsive thinking ever since I was a kid. This little record, then, is just for memory-clearing. And distraction. One reason I became a writer is that it provides at least a temporary sense of control, a way of shaping one’s anxieties into something that does more than just buzz & flutter.
Wednesday (11:00 a.m.): The pictures they took of my head are being analyzed & I’m waiting for the results. “Doctor will call,” said the nurse yesterday, in that weird locution that drops the definite article. I slept well, though not unaided, & feel as well today as I have felt in weeks, probably because I’ve laid off the alcohol the last few days as much as anything. Something to think about there regardless of what I discover later today. I hate waiting. Always have. I’m better at it than I used to be, but I still hate it. So I have spent the morning doing laundry, watering & trimming my bonsai, straightening up around the house. Nothing that takes much concentration, you understand.
(3:30): Apparently, there is nothing wrong with my brain that shows up in an MRI. My doctor & I will meet next week to talk about possible causes for my vertigo, but he is not concerned for the moment. Obviously, I feel very relieved. I wish I could have been more stoic through all this. I admire stoicism. But I almost completely lack the quality when it comes to my health. I’m very grateful to the few friends & colleagues who knew what was happening for their support. And I’m deeply fortunate to be married to Carole, who, though a stoic herself, was sweetly supportive.
So, now I have to quit thinking about ultimate things & get back to work. Though I washed out a couple of classes by having colleagues show films the last couple of days, I have kept up the class weblogs & students are continuing to post comments, so I don’t think I have lost much ground. Fortunately, this is a long weekend coming up — our February Break — so I can get rolling in good order. I would not wish such an experience as this on anyone, though of course people go through far worse every day & with denouements far less happy than this, but it certainly does concentrate the mind. That is, when it doesn’t scatter it wildly in every direction.
I’m really grateful that you chose to post this. I have been in a similar place and went through the same sorts of reactions. My “lymphoma” turned out to be merely sore neck muscles as I grew accustomed to using my new glasses. Once that was made obvious, I was more than a little astonished at how far I was able to take myself down dark roads based on so little information. So I am grateful to see that I was not alone in my feelings. I certainly hope your prognosis turns out benign. I hope you will choose to keep us posted.
Paul, I’m grateful for your response. I suspect that my dizziness has something to do with my arthritic neck & trying to hold my head still while lecturing because certain kinds of movement are painful. I probably ought to get my glasses checked, too, now that you mention it. The stability of the human visual field, when you think about it, depends up very fragile & dynamic processes. I’ll be going over all this with my doctor next week.
LITTLE SONNET TO JD IN A PROSPECT OF ILLNESS
Ever since I was a kid
touched now by that
phrase at sixty something
worried of course
the way the jays
cancel their meetings
aren’t interested still
in all possible outcomes
no article omitted from
the river staying busy
doctoring the sky or
standing talking naked
all this hungry maudlin
stoic morning.
I’m going through my own medical wilderness; glad to hear that yours seems to not be ‘grave.’
I have to have pictures taken of my innards. I keep putting off making the appointment, despite the fact that I have some pain.
My mother died of pancreatic cancer, so you know where my mind goes straightaway…
Pascale, make the appointment. Sooner the better. Knowledge is better than unrooted fantasies. Be well.
Indeed, your suspicion about the source of vertigo might be on the spot. When I had my own journey into the wilderness (and into the tube of an MRI twice!) to find my vertigo problems and temporary blindness issues, I found out that though I had lupus, a mild case of it, it was probably the arthritic neck and the computer-hardened shoulder and neck muscles that were causing the main problems for me.
Feldenkrais therapy first and then, my commitment to practice therapeutic yoga not only helped this problem, but made even more pliable and “brave” than I had been when I was younger. In fact, I am now doing headstands regularly — this after I was afraid to turn my head a year ago, fearing that I would pass out at best, or, courtesy of my hypochondria, die on the spot.
Thanks, Maria. I have been thinking about yoga.
A friend who recently had an encounter with cancer was spurred to “order” his work and life in ways he, like all of us, had been putting off.
And on an unrelated note, I can’t stand that use of “Doctor,” promoting the title to the status of proper…proper what? That alone is enough to cause vertigo for some…
Joe,
It is not the loss of control that I fear most for you, but the “regret at lost chances”. Maybe you’re just not looking in the right places. Those chances may not be as lost as you think.
Just like Fassbinder’s white lilies, which reflect the feelings of time gone by….
Thanks for sharing your experience, Joe. I find such moment are choice points in life – they can either make us more human or more jaded, as we let allow. Sounds like a real shake-up, though. Fear for the brain is the worst I can imagine for one dedicated to the life of the mind.
I began bragging about my wife’s pregnancy after we passed the tell-tale 20-week mark and her obstetrician gave us a “98% chance of a take-home baby.” Then, having told so many people about our enthusiasm, I felt compelled to share our grief as well when he only lived for three days. I never set out to be confessional; in fact, one day months before I just chose to reinvent my static website of poetry and programming miscellanea into a blog because it seemed like a convenient way to manage content and occasionally post new material.
But what I found is that sharing what’s really going on seems to extend that choice point ever so slightly to others, and most take it as humanizing, and some even leave touching, sincere comments or send emails about similar situations. It’s a balm, to be sure, in our sensation-driven, mass-media-dominated culture, to connect with people I am equally a stranger to as those now suffering in places like Iraq, and connect with them on a human level – shared hope, shared grief, shared fears.
Thanks, Joe.
Robert, I wasn’t yet a reader of your blog when you lost your son. I have picked up on that wave of grief from some of your subsequent posts, though. Your comment means a lot to me & I agree with you. I hope that this choice point will make me more aware of my good fortune & more humane to others, especially those who suffer.
On a completely different track, I have been meaning to drop you a note expressing my pleasant surprise at discovering you are from the Imperial Valley. My mother was born there in 1919 & though I was born in San Diego, I returned to the ancestral homestead near Holtville throughout my childhood. I have a very deep feeling of connection to that weird landscape. My grandfather built an addition onto his house & put a screened-in sleeping room on the roof. The grandchildren would sleep there on iron cots in the summers, the lights of Mexicali faintly illuminating the sky to the south.
I read to the end and was relieved that your MRI results were good. I loved the fact that you trimmed your bonzai while you waited. Bonzais live forever, don’t they?
They live a long time, if not quite forever. From the human perspective, they have the attraction that you can fiddle with them endlessly.
Joe, I grew up under the distant haze of those Mexicalli lights and the eerie stillness of the desert. In some ways I’m sure it’s changed a lot since 1919, and in others the wilderness is probably still much the same. The nice thing about being from such rugged terrain is that it’s unlikely to ever be gentrified. And living on the border is its own weird liminal space. We used to call our trips over the mountain into San Diego “coming to America.”
I guess we have more in common than we know. Ain’t it always the way? Here’s to more humanity.
Joe, I’m sorry I didn’t comment sooner and I am very glad that the MRI came out OK.
Sometimes I think our body throws things at us, just to tell us to wake up and remember what’s important.
Hope you continue well.
Robert, it would have been the late fifties & into the sixties I was spending time in that liminal zone. That would have been just north of what is now Interstate 8 & west of the Alamo River.
Thanks, Shel. Everything seems well now. My problems seem to be chronic, having to do with the arthritis in my neck, rather than acute. I appreciate your good thoughts. Same back at ya.
Except for the fields and lawns, it’s mighty dry:
http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=el+centro,+ca&ie=UTF8&om=1&z=10&ll=32.774574,-115.09964&spn=0.411063,1.380157&t=k
Plenty of sharp sand on the dunes there.
Joe,
About the dizziness — one possibility: http://www.askdocweb.com/ambien.html — and take a look at other reviews, too, for example at: http://www.askdocweb.com/ambien.html
And all best wishes for the (lunar) new year!
Dr. M
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