Diagnosis: Freak of Nature

I have been living with chronic and acute back pain, stemming from accidents and injuries that are various, unrelated, and span nearly fifteen years. Wow. I just summarized fifteen years of medical history in one sentence. Yay, Samantha! I would pat myself on the back, but as you'll read on, you'll understand why I need to leave my back alone.


My back is like an accordion straw. It's remarkably flexible, but weak, the product of more than fifteen years of ballet, tumbling, and cheerleading. This, in combination with my accident-prone nature, creates a perfect storm for frequent and sometimes severe injuries. What I'm saying is, I fall down a lot.

I've fallen off a bed, a deck, a horse, a merry-go-round, a flight of stairs, a bike, a mechanical bull, a six-foot ladder, monkey bars...

Aw, forget it. That list is tedious. It would be easier to list the things I haven't fallen off of: a tree, a roof, a moving car, a tight rope. Yeah, I think that's it.

So, my back hurts, but I'm flexible and self-reliant. What is a girl to do? To alleviate my pain, I stretch, twist and manipulate to feel the sweet relief that only comes from popping my back. This goes beyond simply twisting from side to side. Over time, I developed fourteen distinct techniques for popping seemingly every vertebrae from my skull to my sacrum. I would describe them, but I would need a diagram to illustrate, and I'm just not set up for that.

By 1999, I no longer said I was "cracking my back". I called it "adjusting my spine" to "realign my vertebrae". And I wasn't indiscriminately cracking bones. I would sit up straight, Indian style in the floor, and using my hand, I would reach behind my back and feel each individual vertebrae, including the space in between the vertebrae, to pinpoint the primary source of my pain, and I would perform whichever maneuver would adjust that vertebrae. I'm pretty sure that actual chiropractors don't adjust their own spines, and that I am insane. If you're wondering whether I've been treated by a chiropractor, the answer is Yes. Many. I got some of my best ideas from them. They don't know that.

Many people informed me that the sights and sounds of me cracking my vertebrae like walnuts was disturbing, so I began doing my adjustments in private, rarely discussing it. Kinda like how you privately over tweeze your eyebrows and obsessively examine your pores in search of blackheads. Sidenote: If you say you're "performing extractions" due to your "congested pores" instead of saying that you're "picking your face", you will feel instant credibility. Go ahead, next time you're mashing on your nose, tell yourself out loud that you're just in need of some facial extractions. It will free you from the shackles of your zit-popping shame.

If I had to gauge my pain on a scale of 1-10, with a 10 being excruciating pain that severly limits my mobility and is accompanied by nausea, crying, difficulty sleeping and concentrating, I would say that my pain number varies from day to day, and hour to hour, but since the birth of my son, I live between a 4 and an 8. Since 1998, my baseline is a 2. I can't remember a day without pain. Pain feels normal. I just assume that everyone is in pain, all the time, and that each of you reading this has a shoulder or an ankle or a knee that flares up. Otherwise, I'm not normal. I never considered that possibility. Regardless of how "normal" my problems may be, I've decided to finally, after years of pain, to see a doctor and learn once and for all if there is something serioulsy, medically wrong with me and if there is anything that can be done about it. Wish me luck!

That Went Better Than I Expected

Here's a rundown of Robinson's two month pediatrician's appointment:

1. I actually saw a car in the parking lot with one of those "Baby on Board" decals.
2. There was a pregnant woman and her husband in the waiting room, because they're interviewing potential pediatricians for their unborn munchkin. I bet they have their carseat installed already too. I chose my pediatrician based on the recommendation of a friend of a friend who I have never met, and I never laid eyes on my pediatrician or set foot in his office until Robinson was two weeks old. What does that say about me?
3. As I watched Yo Gabba Gabba in the waiting room, I realized that my house will soon be filled with the sounds of Nick Jr. I then realize that annoying kid toys, shows, and music is the part of parenthood I most dread.

Robinson's pediatrics excursion:

Before...

During...

After...

Height: 24" (90th percentile)

Weight: 12 lbs, 15 oz (75th-90th percentile)

Dr. N says we have ourselves a Thanksgiving turkey!

Don't worry, he's sleeping peacefully now.

Pediatrics Theatrics

When I was a kid, the doctors, nurses and staff used to laugh at my family because the only time we ever visited the pediatrician's office was to get stitches. My brother and I had exceptional immune systems, but were (are) very accident prone. Jarred and I were always so nonchalant about our childhood injures. As bad as our newest gaping wound appeared to whatever adult was in charge of us (because they never occured on my mom's watch), Jarred and I had always seen worse. We mostly focused on getting our stories straight so that we wouldn't get in trouble for the horseplay that led up to the injury:

Jarred (age 7): You can't tell Mom I was swinging from a tree branch...we'll say I slipped on a mossy rock.
Me (age 10): Got it.

I blackmailed Jarred for years with this information.

Now that I'm a mom, I am learning what a big deal it is to visit the pediatrician.

1. The first time I used the phrase "My son..." was when calling to schedule his first appointment.
2. The first time I was called "Mom" was by a receptionist asking me to fill out paperwork.
3. The first person to call Robinson by his full first and last name was a nurse.
4. Newborn check-ups are one of the only opportunities/excuses a new mom has to get herself fixed up, dress up the baby, and get out of the house.
5. Finding out baby's current weight, length, and percentiles is exponentially more interesting than I would have predicted.

Robinson and I have each had a few doctor's appointments in the past two months, and I've learned something very important: Rob will give me one hour of "perfect angel" behavior. After that, we're all on borrowed time and he can come unglued and be inconsolable at any time, without warning. My anxiety levels increase as I sit in the waiting room watching the clock tick, knowing that we're wasting our window of "good" time. When that little nugget becomes hysterical in the exam room, the doctors have nobody to blame but themselves. I'm pretty sure I received the world's least thorough skin check at my oncologist's office last month thanks to Robinson's hysterics.

Rob's first newborn check-up didn't go well at all. Steve came along for this visit, and as soon as Dr. N. walked in to begin the exam, Robinson began to scream as if on cue. Unwilling to discuss anything with us in such a hostile environment, Dr. N. suggested leaving the room for a few minutes while I nurse Robinson.

Steve: Did that just happen?
Me: He's a pediatrician and father of four and he becomes rattled by the sound of a crying baby? We've only been doing this two weeks and we're way calmer!
Steve: I know, right?

Fast forward to last night, when I am holding a screaming Robinson:

Steve: So, Bean's been reading your blog--
Me: What?! Why are you even trying to talk to me right now?! I can't hear an effing word you say!

Maybe Dr. N. knows what he's doing after all.

Back to the 1st visit:

Steve: We just took his diaper off for the nurse, and he's bleeding a little bit. I think it's from the circumcision.
Dr. N: Ok, so there's red stuff in the diaper?
Steve: Yeah, there's blood in his diaper.
Dr. N: Well, there's a fluid, and it's red but until we examine him we can't assume it's blood.
Steve: Uh huh. There's blood in his diaper.

Later, when Steve and I are alone:

Steve: Red stuff? I thought you said this guy came recommended.
Me: He did.
Steve: Are you sure he went to medical school?
Me: Yes!
Steve: What kind of doctor calls "blood" "red stuff"?
Me: Seriously, I'm a 28-year-old woman and I've given birth. I didn't go to a fancy medical school, but I think I can correctly identify blood in the britches.

Sure enough, the "red stuff" proved to be blood. Score 1 for Mom and Dad! On second thought, there are no winners here.

I flew solo for the second check-up. During the exam, Dr. N takes a hard look at me from head to toe:

Dr. N: Well, you look very put together. You seem rested.
Me (laughing): Oh, thank you. I wouldn't say that I'm "rested", but I did manage to take a shower.

At first I thought it was an oddly-worded compliment. Then I realized he was sizing me up to determine if I was buckling under the strain of newborn care demands or suffering from Post Partum Depression. It's kind of a weird feeling to be examined when you dont' know you're being examined, but at the same time I'm grateful that pediatricians look out for mom too.

Showtime, Synergy!

I don't know. When Juno went into labor, she announced it to her father by shouting "Thundercats are go!" Remarkably, he knew exactly what she meant, and they zoomed off to the hospital (rather frantically, I might add).  Since I learned everything I know about life pregnancy from movies and television, I assumed I too needed an 80s cartoon catch phrase to sound the arrival of the blessed child. I'm a big fan of Jem. She's truly outrageous. When she would transform from Jerrica to her rock star alter ego, Jem, using her holographic computer (as you do), she'd say "Showtime, Synergy!" If only I could touch my Jem star earrings (featuring remote hologram micro projectors, duh) and be magically transported to the hospital, into a designer hospital gown a la Tori Spelling, with my epidural already administered. I don't think that's asking too much.

Anydiva, Steve and I have spent the entire pregnancy speculating as to whether our son will be born looking like me, with a red pompadour, or like Steve, who was nicknamed "possum" during infancy because, well, he looked exactly like a possum.

Now I'm off to the hospital for some child birthin'. I'm all verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic. Am I about to give birth to Possum Junior, or Mini Conan O'Brien? Discuss.

My Day at The Hospital

Parents love to tell anyone who will listen that "having a kid changes everything," and I believe they are right. More accurately, "conceiving a child changes everything," because the moment that pink plus sign appears on the home pregnancy test, your entire decision making process has to change. That's why a stomach virus sent me straight to Labor and Delivery on Monday. I will spare you the details and simply state my nurses' reaction to my yacking at the hospital, "That. Was. Violent." I was one of those lucky broads who didn't suffer from morning sickness, and it was like the morning sickness gods paid me a visit to make sure I reached my quota for the entire pregnancy in like, seven hours.

I have never experienced anything quite like this before, and I found it all more terrifying than The Ring. I would have preferred to suffer the horror with dignity in the privacy of my home. I was told dehydration can lead to preterm labor, so I went to the hospital for fetal monitoring and an IV.

Because I'm with child, I didn't go to the ER, I went to OB Triage. There, I had to go through the motions of being admitted for delivery (signing consents for c-sections and such.) The nurse who was taking my medical history said this was like a dress rehearsal for the big day. That same nurse also asked me how to spell melanoma, so I considered asking to verify her credentials. At this point I was hooked up to my IV, not puking, and enjoying a cup of ice chips, so I couldn't be bothered with particulars like whether or not this woman was really a Registered Nurse. I did text Amy (also an RN) to ask if it was typical for nurses not to know the spelling of common diseases, and she said that it wasn't.

She also asked me about my birth plan. "Birth plan?" I had read about these in my pregnancy books and websites, but I thought they were just for those women who took Lamaze classes and applied headphones playing classical music onto their bellies so that their fetuses could be cultured. Most chapters addressing the birth plan state that, while it is important to make one, it is also important to know that it will more than likely go right out the window when you're actually delivering the baby. Always a fan of consolidating and expediting, I figured I'd cut out the middle man and just not make a birth plan. Done and done.

Nurse Can-You-Spell-That?: Yes, your birth plan.
Me: Um, not a c-section. That's my birth plan.
Nurse: Do you want an epidural?
Me: Absolutely.
Nurse: IVs?
Me: Sure.
Nurse: Are you having a girl or boy?
Me: It's a boy!
Nurse: Will you be having him circumcised? Tubal ligation?
Me: Yup...er, what? Yes to circumsizing. Tubal what?
Nurse: Tubal ligation. Do you want to have your tubes tied afterwards? So you can't have more children.
Me: Oh, no. [shaking head]
Nurse: Is this child being placed for adoption?
Me: What? Ahh, naw, he's mine. I'm keepin' him. [as I scoop into my cup of ice chips like it's chocolate mousse]

Soon after this, Steve arrives and the nurse leaves us alone. "That chick asked me how to spell melanoma," I said, pointing towards the nurses station. "Seriously? Jeez..." Steve says, returning his attention to his phone. "You seem a little better," he says, not looking up from his phone. "Yeah, this IV is the ticket," I said. "Phenergan?" he asked. "Nah, something better that won't knock me for a loop. My plan is to get stabilized and get the hell out of here. I'm not trying to make a day of it." Steve laughs, "They're not letting you go anytime soon." "This gurney sucks!" I hissed. "I wanna get in my bed, with my fluffy pillow and I wanna spoon with my dog!"

Just then, another nurse (one of the five who will take care of me during my six hour stay) comes in to check my IV fluids pouch. They used another term, but I like pouch, because it reminds me of Capri Sun...Strawberry Cooler...I am soooo thirsty. "How are you doing?" the nurse asked me. "Remarkably well," I replied, crunching on ice chips, "In fact, that nausea medicine has kicked in, so if I could just take some of that [shaking my finger at the IV pouch] in a to-go cup, along with a prescription for more nausea medicine, I think I can be on my way and I can continue recuperating in the comfort of my own home. And my own bed. I'm operating on about three hours sleep here, and I'm growing weary."

"Well, Dr. Farrow wants to monitor you for a little longer," the nurse said. We need to wait for the lab to come back with your bloodwork, we need to check your ketones, and we need to see you eat a little something and hold it down. Then you can go home. That gurney isn't the most comfortable, is it?"

"No it is not. And I can't stop thinking about big jugs of ice water, and Powerade, and Sprite, no, 7-Up, but not present-day, 7-Up, 7-Up from the 1990's, before they reformulated it to be "all natural." It just isn't the same. That's what my mom used to give me when I was sick."

"Ahh, yes. My mom used to give me Ginger Ale," the nurse said. "Ginger Ale is good," I reply. This is the second time in as many hours that I have told a stranger that I want my mom. What is it about illness that makes us regress to our childhood selves? If Mom were here, I'd have a bed of fluffy blankets and freshly ironed pillowcases on my favorite pillows on the couch, where the coffee table would be stocked with Kleenex, the remote controls (with Disney movies already playing in the VCR), 7-Up, a mug of chicken noodle soup, and a lined trashcan within arms reach (for puking, of course.) Moms are so attentive and comforting when you're sick, and there's just no substitute. My mom stands in contrast to the preoccupied husband sitting in the corner still playing with his phone. I can't really get mad at him, though. Unlike me, Steve has no memories of fluffy pillows and Disney movies and mugs of chicken soup. I realize at that moment that it's going to be very important for me to do a kick-ass job taking care of Robinson when he's sick, otherwise he will grow up without caretaking abilities because he has no experiences to draw upon. "It really is too bad you didn't pursue a career in medicine," I declared pointedly. "With your lovely bedside manner, I think you missed your calling." "Mmm..." he said, not looking up from his phone. "Hey, check out my new wallpaper on my phone! he exclaims enthusiastically as he shows me this picture:

.

"That is funny," I respond. "I'm glad you're enjoying your day at the hospital."

The next few hours were spent eating jello and drinking apple juice (because I'm four) and watching daytime television. I learned that I do like orange jello (I previously turned away any flavor that wasn't cherry.) I also reaffirmed my belief that I am way better at Family Feud than the actual contestants...and that contestants on Family Feud are super nerds. One family wanted the prize money to fund a family ski trip to Switzerland, and the other family wanted to buy lots of diapers for one pregnant family member. I was so irritated by how dorky they were that I shouted at the TV, "I hope you both lose!" I also got to witness a touching moment on Maury Povich, when his lie detector revealed that Kendall was being truthful about not sleeping with Cheetara's sister.

The baby's movements and fetal heart monitoring throughout this ordeal all indicated that he was completely unphased by my illness. After four days recovering in bed, I still look like hell, but am well enough to return to work. Let's hope this is the last of my medical melodramas.

Million Dollar Mama

I have a confession to make. I'm high maintenance. Always have been.

Don't roll your eyes at me.

I know you know this, but it bears repeating. I'm high maintenance. Not because I want to be, it's just that I always seem to require more than what is reasonably expected by normal people. Braces? I had them twice. Drug store beauty products? They agitate my delicate skin. I've purchased jeans for less than $150, but they just didn't fit right.  I don't wish to be this complicated, but I've come to accept it. For this reason, I was not at all surprised as events unfolded over the past couple months and my pregnancy became more complicated. These complications had nothing to do with the baby, of course...it was all Mama.

To fully understand my latest High Maintenance Melodrama, you'll need a brief history lesson:

I spent much of 1997-2004 baking myself in one of these:

"But Samantha, you're a ginger kid," you say. "Wouldn't you spark like a fork in a microwave if you set one pasty, freckled toe in a tanning bed?" The answer is, "No, I wouldn't. And don't stereotype me." Not all redheads are incapable of tanning, and I am one of the lucky few who can. I can actually achieve a golden glow that Miss Hawaiian Tropic would envy. (This claim may be slightly exaggerated, but I think I made my point.)  Regardless of my tanning ability, I did pay a price. After many freckled, sun-damaged winters that followed those gloriously tan summers of my youth, I finally hung up my tanning bed goggles the summer after my college graduation. It was time to find a new dream. A dream that involved not looking like this...

...without having to resort to this...

That Aussie can deny she uses Botox all she wants, but lemme tell you something. See those peculiar-looking wrinkles above her brows in the terrifying photo above? Well, I'm no stranger to "The 'tox", (my own nickname for Botox, feel free to borrow it) and that forehead has all the earmarks of Botox Gone Bad. Girlfriend needs to own it. No shame in trying to stop the hands of time. But find someone new to inject you, because the person who currently does it obviously hates you and wants to make you look like a fool.  But I digress.

So, for the five years that have followed since my tanning retirement, I have slathered on the SPF, vacationed under umbrellas, and splurged on high-priced, anti-aging beauty products intended for a much older demographic. As the saying goes, "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." So, I armed myself with many, many ounces of prevention. I was going to outsmart the aging process. Bwaahahahaha!

Note: in addition to being high maintenance, I'm also a procrastinator. That tidbit ties in with what comes next:

As a fair complected woman of a certain age, I thought it would be prudent to see a dermatologist for one of those "skin checks" I've heard so much about. I "keep up" with those Kardashians, and on one episode, Khloe had a skin check. I decided right then and there, if that Armenian Amazon is doing it, then by golly, I should too! I had been carrying in my wallet the business card of a fantastic dermatologist since the fall of 2008, and I was very eager to schedule an appointment for a skin check right away.

Late January 2010: 14 months later, I visit my dermatologist. She biopsies three suspicious moles. I just love that term, suspicious mole. It makes me think of a villain in a 1940s film noir. (Note: Steve's fantasy basketball team name is "Curious Mole". Did I mention he is 17-2?)

Early February 2010: Biopsy results are back, and two out of the three moles have got to go. They are dysplastic nevi, so they aren't cancer...but they have cancerous aspirations. I'm told these excisions are no picnic, and it is recommended I remove them one at a time. I start with the one that is located on my lower back. Good thing I never got around to getting that tattoo I always wanted. (Note: In addition to being a high maintenance procrastinator, I am also indecisive.) Doc sends me to a Mohs Surgery specialist to remove the other mole. Apparantly it was even more suspicious than the one on the back; and shockingly, I never even knew it was there. The pathologist said it was just this close to being melanoma. Hidden danger is everywhere, it turns out. So, after having both moles excised, which hurt like hell, involved removing a surprising amount of skin ("margins" for those in the know) and living for a couple weeks with dozens of stitches, I felt confident the worst was behind me and grateful to have taken care of this so swiftly. I pat myself on the back for being so proactive.

Mid-February 2010: Like a horror movie villain  thought to be long-dead, that suspicious mole wasn't done with me yet. The first mole, the one located where my tramp stamp should have been, the one nobody suspected of wrongdoing, turned out to be melanoma. I was told not to be alarmed, but that the oncological surgeon wants to see me. Now. So, to the oncological surgeon I went, I was scheduled to have surgery a mere 36-hours later.

The details of my ordeal were enough to make my head spin, and since I was assured I was being treated by experts in the field, I was comfortable getting my information on a "need to know" basis and leaving the rest to the professionals. Here's the scenario, to the best of my understanding: melanoma is the most serious of skin cancers, it's rare to find it in someone my age, and pregnancy is an immunosuppressed state...in other words, it's the perfect storm.  The Doc hatched an action plan, and it became clear to me (as I sit, wearing a paper gown, in his exam room filled with an impressive collection of Simpsons memorabilia) that this is no ordinary doctor, and his take-no-prisoners approach to my treatment would be agressive but thorough.

Surgery Day: I relax in my room at Medical City Hospital as I await my procedures, laughing at reruns of Roseanne, blissfully unaware of the house of horrors that awaited me. Now I know how George must have felt the day I said "Let's go for a ride" and that ride ended with him getting his manhood snipped. I'm so sorry, little buddy. The first procedure was a lymphoscintigraphy, which is where they inject a small amount of radioactive dye into the skin near the tumor (this was shockingly painful -- lethal injection painful because mama couldn't have any numbing), and after 30-40 minutes (lying alone in a cold, silent room on a narrow, uncomfortable, hard table similar to an MRI machine), this machine takes pictures my insides, and the nodes that receive lymph from the area of the tumor are illuminated in blue. That's how the Doc knows which lymph nodes to take. I asked the doctor who performed this procedure what sort of risk this lymphoscintigraphy posed to my unborn child. He stared at me expressionless for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders, half-heartedly throwing his big hands in the air and replying, "Well...it is what it is." I suppose it's this bedside manner that led him to nuclear medicine. After this procedure, it is determined that three lymph nodes from my groin will have to go, and I'm anxious to just get on with it.

The Recovery: Oh. My. God. I was not at all prepared for what this was going to feel like. Seriously, I asked for one day off of work to recover, and instead I lay flat on my back for the next five days. Apparantly Vicodin is safe during pregnancy, and while I had an ample supply, it did little for my pain other than make me drowsy enough to sleep round-the-clock. I'm fortunate to not have experienced a whole lot of pain in my life (I suppose), but this was by far the most painful experience of my life. So painful, I'm convinced that it isn't possible for child birth to be more painful. I may be wrong about this assertion, but I suspect that one day of painful labor cannot possibly stand up to five days of constant, uncontrollable agony followed by another 10 days of persistant pain and discomfort. And the scars, oh the scars. To remove the margins of a tumor that is .33 millimeters, along with three lymph nodes the size of almonds, and the suspicious mole on my leg from earlier, I am left looking like I entered a knife fight -- and lost. I don't mind it from a vanity standpoint. I have no plans for swimsuit modeling in my future, but I was just surprised by the extent of my incisions.

This entire experience has been eye-opening to say the least. I have been fortunate to live in good health for my 28-years. This latest event, although serious, was found and treated early. It's over, and I'm lucky. When I retire to The French Riviera Geneva, Alabama and write my memoirs, this will be just a footnote. Certainly others, even in my own family, have faced greater tribulations. Which makes this final tidbit all the more surprising. The bill came. Now, it isn't the bill. Blue Cross paid it and this was just the statement breaking down what was charged to and paid for by Blue Cross. We Steve paid a $200 deductible (I didn't bring my wallet to the hospital!) Ready for the grand total for this little surgery?

$41,000

Can you believe that? It cost $149 just for the one Vicodin that was given to me while in recovery. This was about 4 times more than I would have predicted. I really don't have a point here, other than to say...can you believe that? So once again, I am -- by no fault of my own -- the most high maintenance mama in the land. I mean come on, how many other people do you know who are diagnosed with a tumor that is one-third of one-tenth of one inch in size and run up a $41,000 bill?