Today I had another therapist appointment. She began the session by trying to tell me about Jay Leno on the "Tonight Show" last night and how she really liked this "black female comedian who must be new." I mentioned the name Wanda Sykes and she said, "Yeah! That's her!" I began to list a number of television shows, movies, and voiceovers she'd done before and my therapist still had no idea who she is but thinks she's the funniest person she's heard in a long time. I agree, Ms. Sykes is funny. But then my therapist attempted to recount the entire conversation and all of the jokes between Jay and Wanda, but she couldn't remember all of the bits.
She sat there trying to tell me jokes and repeat what had made her laugh so hard but couldn't remember all of the punchlines or even some of the stories. What she did tell me didn't make any sense at all.
Then she began to tell me the story of how her dachshund had escaped from her house when a friend was dog-sitting and the very intricate details of how turkey hunters and neighbors (she lives in the country, so "neighbor" means "lives within a mile of you") had seen the dog but weren't able to catch it. On and on the story went and she was stunned that the dog had been gone for 15 days and had survived. The vet says it has tapeworms now because it was probably eating rabbits while it was away. She couldn't believe that her dog, a pampered pet, could kill something.
I reminded her that dachshunds were bred for hunting and ratting. They're low to the ground and have short legs so they can follow their prey into the burrows. And, most importantly, that it's a dog and when hunger sets in it's not going to debate over whether or not the food comes from a can or hole in the ground. It will go back to its nature and hunt, especially if it's a breed originally designed for that.
She kept on-and-on about how shocking it was and could I possibly believe that her dog (which I've never met) could do something like that and then, oh by the way, did I know that her pig was getting bigger? I had to stop for a second and ask her to repeat herself. She was telling me that the small piglet she'd been bringing into the office because its mother had stepped on it and it had a large wound that needed to be cared for was doing much better and is getting bigger. She also asked me what she should do with such a large animal. She's raised pigs before, so she knows that sows can become VERY large. I suggested that she make it a banquet centerpiece but she said there was no way she could eat it. She might consider breeding it but she doesn't know what to do with such a large animal.
Hey....here's a fun fact -- if you breed a very large animal, its young will also become very large animals!! If you think you don't have room for one now, having a bunch of others isn't going to help your space issues!!
I was about to ask, "Am I paying for this time?" when she finally asked me a question about how I was doing. I asked if she was telling me these disjointed tales as an example of what it's like to talk to me and she said that she didn't realize she'd talked so much. She then asked me why I'm not writing a novel and wanted to know more details from some of the posts that the voices have been writing and suggested I take them and write a book with them.
Yeah....people really want to read the Great American Novel about a plain kid with a dysfunctional family who's bat-shit crazy. Sure, it will be the top of the bestseller list in the category of "Most purchased for use in lighting fires" or "Most purchased as cheaper alternative to toilet paper."
So, my one-hour session didn't quite last that long today but at least it gave me subject matter about which to post tonight. I was too depressed to type much today anyway and still am. However, the goal of having a post every day is intact. My OCD is still sated for another 24 hours.
Showing posts with label therapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label therapy. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Seeing crooked....
Hate it when it's incredibly hot outside. Hate it even more when I don't realize that it's going to be very hot outside and accidentally wear dark-colored clothes which just help absorb the heat that my black car doesn't take from the sun. Fortunately, with Husband driving, I can either crank-up the air conditioning or hang my head out of the window. Celeste doesn't hang her head out the window like other dogs and prefers the air conditioning (and not having to see her "mommy" looking like an idiot).
Today I had to travel across the state again for my eyes. This time I was there for low-vision occupational therapy.
Yeah, I was like you. "How do you do visual occupational therapy?" was the first thing through my head when I heard about it. Actually, they have you try to read a lot of different items in many different sizes, try-out different types of light sources, determine how much functional vision you have, and make more suggestions on how to improve or adapt your current vision to what you need.
Unfortunately, there's not much they can do for me regarding my night blindness and decreased vision when driving. That's just something that I'm going to have to learn to live without even though I prefer being an independent person. Relying on someone to take me places just drives me crazy and I hate having to bum a ride from friends. I'm very thankful that Husband understands what's going on and isn't bothered by taking me places at night (well, not yet at least).
Fortunately with my desktop computer I have a large monitor and it makes it easier to see. When I'm on my laptop, I can increase the print size and make things easier to read. They showed me a special flourescent lamp that has a nice blue-tinted light that is very even and doesn't have a "hot spot" like an old incandescent bulb has. When we tried a regular desk lamp and one of the flourescent lamps, I was able to read much more and even smaller print with the flourescent one. It's not up to 20/20, but it's better. Now I've got to find some to put in the house so that I can enjoy reading my books like I used to. I can still apply for audiobooks through the state's library for the blind, but I hate having to listen to them and not being able to start and stop when I want like I can in a printed book. Some have suggested an E-Reader, but I prefer the feel and smell of a good old-fashioned book.
What surprised me the most today though was how the therapist helped me find a "sweet spot" in my vision. She noticed when I was having difficulty viewing certain items that I would shift it until I could read it more clearly or I would shift my eyes rapidly as if searching for something. I've always had issues with that. I would use my right eye for reading and seeing up close and my left eye for distance viewing. Anything in the middle is a toss-up. The therapist had me look at her face (focusing on the center of her nose) and describe what I could see. I knew she had hair, eyes, a nose, cheekbones, and a mouth. She asked me to describe what I saw and it was all there but blurry. She then pointed at different places along the sides of her face and asked me to focus there and tell her what I saw. There was one place where her eyes disappeared; another where everything was so blurry if I hadn't already seen her I wouldn't be able to tell where some features were.
And then, it happened. She pointed at a spot to the left of her eyes, causing my eyes to shift to the right. Suddenly, not only could I see her face but I could also see the color of her eyes and the darker ring around the outside of her irises which I'd never noticed before. We couldn't pinpoint whether it was my right eye, my left eye, or both working together that made the difference, but just shifting my vision about four inches to the right made things so much better.
She gave me a bunch of worksheets with practice lessons to help train me to look at things "crooked" so that I'm using the "sweet spot" of my vision. She also showed me with a light meter how much I need to be able to see more clearly and we tried different light sources again. The blueish flourescent lamp was the brightest and now I've got to find somewhere that sells them. I want floor models in the living room & bedroom and a desk version I can move about the house and take with me if I'm gone with work or on a trip.
I'll be going back for another session sometime in the near future. I have to look at Youngest Son's schedule for the summer since he wants to get a class out-of-the-way this summer so he won't have to take the class during the school year and free-up a period for something else he wants. But I can tell already that learning to look to the right to see something is a trick that's going to be really hard to teach this old dog to do. Wish me luck!
Today I had to travel across the state again for my eyes. This time I was there for low-vision occupational therapy.
Yeah, I was like you. "How do you do visual occupational therapy?" was the first thing through my head when I heard about it. Actually, they have you try to read a lot of different items in many different sizes, try-out different types of light sources, determine how much functional vision you have, and make more suggestions on how to improve or adapt your current vision to what you need.
Unfortunately, there's not much they can do for me regarding my night blindness and decreased vision when driving. That's just something that I'm going to have to learn to live without even though I prefer being an independent person. Relying on someone to take me places just drives me crazy and I hate having to bum a ride from friends. I'm very thankful that Husband understands what's going on and isn't bothered by taking me places at night (well, not yet at least).
Fortunately with my desktop computer I have a large monitor and it makes it easier to see. When I'm on my laptop, I can increase the print size and make things easier to read. They showed me a special flourescent lamp that has a nice blue-tinted light that is very even and doesn't have a "hot spot" like an old incandescent bulb has. When we tried a regular desk lamp and one of the flourescent lamps, I was able to read much more and even smaller print with the flourescent one. It's not up to 20/20, but it's better. Now I've got to find some to put in the house so that I can enjoy reading my books like I used to. I can still apply for audiobooks through the state's library for the blind, but I hate having to listen to them and not being able to start and stop when I want like I can in a printed book. Some have suggested an E-Reader, but I prefer the feel and smell of a good old-fashioned book.
What surprised me the most today though was how the therapist helped me find a "sweet spot" in my vision. She noticed when I was having difficulty viewing certain items that I would shift it until I could read it more clearly or I would shift my eyes rapidly as if searching for something. I've always had issues with that. I would use my right eye for reading and seeing up close and my left eye for distance viewing. Anything in the middle is a toss-up. The therapist had me look at her face (focusing on the center of her nose) and describe what I could see. I knew she had hair, eyes, a nose, cheekbones, and a mouth. She asked me to describe what I saw and it was all there but blurry. She then pointed at different places along the sides of her face and asked me to focus there and tell her what I saw. There was one place where her eyes disappeared; another where everything was so blurry if I hadn't already seen her I wouldn't be able to tell where some features were.
And then, it happened. She pointed at a spot to the left of her eyes, causing my eyes to shift to the right. Suddenly, not only could I see her face but I could also see the color of her eyes and the darker ring around the outside of her irises which I'd never noticed before. We couldn't pinpoint whether it was my right eye, my left eye, or both working together that made the difference, but just shifting my vision about four inches to the right made things so much better.
She gave me a bunch of worksheets with practice lessons to help train me to look at things "crooked" so that I'm using the "sweet spot" of my vision. She also showed me with a light meter how much I need to be able to see more clearly and we tried different light sources again. The blueish flourescent lamp was the brightest and now I've got to find somewhere that sells them. I want floor models in the living room & bedroom and a desk version I can move about the house and take with me if I'm gone with work or on a trip.
I'll be going back for another session sometime in the near future. I have to look at Youngest Son's schedule for the summer since he wants to get a class out-of-the-way this summer so he won't have to take the class during the school year and free-up a period for something else he wants. But I can tell already that learning to look to the right to see something is a trick that's going to be really hard to teach this old dog to do. Wish me luck!
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
A nice teaching event today
*Whew!!* No theatre today. No rehearsal. No frantically trying to find props. Only have to get Husband to practice his lines tonight so we'll be ready for opening night tomorrow. Have been trying to spend today not thinking about the production for a change. I've not been successful at it, but I've been trying.
I did get to see my therapist today. She could tell that things haven't been going so well. She asked how last Wednesday's appointment was. I told her and said she should read my blog for more details. She asked how the show was progressing. Again, I told her and said she should read my blog. She asked if blogging has been helping and I wasn't sure what to say. I think it has but then there are days I wonder. Plus, she thought it was a great idea and a good way to keep-up with what I'm doing/feeling/etc. but hasn't been reading it. Glad I post for myself and not for her.
In the waiting room today there were small children. Two were about 6 or 7 years old, another was younger, and another was not quite 2 years old. Of course, when Celeste and I walked-in, she became the center of attention. Parents started trying to grab their kids and the "Don't touch the doggie!" chants started. The toddler ran to her and hugged her before his mother could grab him. When they're at that age where they don't understand what a working dog is and can't communicate themselves, I look to the parents to keep their kids in line. The mother apologized profusely but the little boy was just fascinated. She kept telling him "No" and pulling him away from Celeste while trying to get him interested in some of the toys they'd brought.
Having seen the toddler do this, the other three came over and started to pet Celeste. Their parents tried to grab them away from her and apologized. I told them not to move the kids but I also told the kids to not touch her. I then explained, in simple terms, that she is a working dog and cannot be petted by others. Of course, the kids looked at me like I was some insane lady and by now the toddler had snuck back over and gave Celeste a big wet kiss. She wasn't happy about it, but she wasn't going to do anything, either, since that would be against her training.
I had Celeste and the children sit on the floor. Every now and then they'd try to sneak a pet or try to get her to kiss them. I showed them her vest and backpack and for the ones that could read I showed them the "DO NOT PET" patches. I explained that she has to be paying attention to me and that if someone bothers her, she can't do her job which makes her upset because she's a working dog. The older boy asked if she was like the police dog they'd met at an event in town. I said that the police dog is a working dog too but that he and Celeste don't do the same jobs. His mother said, "Remember when the police officer said you couldn't pet him until he said it was okay?" and the boy replied that he did. I said that the same rules would apply to Celeste and any other dog with a vest or backpack that they might see. The youngest girl was quickly bored and wandered off but the older kids were fascinated. I explained that they should never touch a working dog unless they've asked the owner/handler first for permission. And I told them that they have to get the permission first because some working dogs can't be petted or played with and to never try to pet a dog they don't know. The two kept reminding each other about the "DO NOT PET" patches and asking first as they caught the other trying to sneak another pat on the head.
When the parents and children left, one of the other patients came into the waiting room and said how beautiful Celeste is and asked if she was trained or if I was training her. I explained that she is a service dog and assists me all day, every day. She told me how blessed I am to have a dog like her and that I must feel very lucky, which I do and I agreed with her. She asked me if I minded talking about Celeste and what she does for me. I told her that I didn't mind and the lady volunteered that she has PTSD and always wondered if a service dog could help. I could see my therapist looking out of the doorway at us and I said that Celeste has helped me immensely before she began to tell the lady what a major change in me she's seen and how much she enjoys Celeste being in our sessions.
The lady began to ask more questions -- What is it like to have the dog with you? Do you have problems going places? What does she do for you? All the typical questions that are usually asked (and not always to my face when people think I'm blind or deaf and can't hear them). I answered her and we talked for a moment about how my life has changed in both good ways and bad. I told her that once you have a service dog you can't hide your disability because there's a four-legged "billboard" basically announcing it and that there are times that the public just doesn't (or won't) understand why you have one when you "look just fine." She said she'd never thought about that but for her she'd rather have the "billboard" and could deal with stupid comments on her own. We laughed and my therapist said she'd talk to the lady's therapist about whether he/she believed that a service dog would be a good addition to her treatment. Then the lady thanked me and I went in for my session.
I'd been feeling really frazzled and angry over the past few days, but getting to sit and educate others on service dogs and how they can help people with "invisible disabilities" was awesome. When I left for my appointment I could barely stand to be anywhere and was just sure I was going to scream or cry or do something because everything had been so negative recently. Watching the kids understand to not disturb a working dog and helping another PTSD survivor realize that there is another way without tons of medication to mitigate your disability was very therapeutic. Even more therapeutic than the therapy session -- and I didn't have to pay for what I did in the waiting room.
Maybe I'll actually get a chance to sleep tonight. I probably won't since I'm sure the voices (which have already started again) will be reminding me of every little thing that has been going wrong with the show and worrying about my doctor appointment on Friday when I try to go to bed. But at least today I feel like I've accomplished something positive. And for now, that will do.
I did get to see my therapist today. She could tell that things haven't been going so well. She asked how last Wednesday's appointment was. I told her and said she should read my blog for more details. She asked how the show was progressing. Again, I told her and said she should read my blog. She asked if blogging has been helping and I wasn't sure what to say. I think it has but then there are days I wonder. Plus, she thought it was a great idea and a good way to keep-up with what I'm doing/feeling/etc. but hasn't been reading it. Glad I post for myself and not for her.
In the waiting room today there were small children. Two were about 6 or 7 years old, another was younger, and another was not quite 2 years old. Of course, when Celeste and I walked-in, she became the center of attention. Parents started trying to grab their kids and the "Don't touch the doggie!" chants started. The toddler ran to her and hugged her before his mother could grab him. When they're at that age where they don't understand what a working dog is and can't communicate themselves, I look to the parents to keep their kids in line. The mother apologized profusely but the little boy was just fascinated. She kept telling him "No" and pulling him away from Celeste while trying to get him interested in some of the toys they'd brought.
Having seen the toddler do this, the other three came over and started to pet Celeste. Their parents tried to grab them away from her and apologized. I told them not to move the kids but I also told the kids to not touch her. I then explained, in simple terms, that she is a working dog and cannot be petted by others. Of course, the kids looked at me like I was some insane lady and by now the toddler had snuck back over and gave Celeste a big wet kiss. She wasn't happy about it, but she wasn't going to do anything, either, since that would be against her training.
I had Celeste and the children sit on the floor. Every now and then they'd try to sneak a pet or try to get her to kiss them. I showed them her vest and backpack and for the ones that could read I showed them the "DO NOT PET" patches. I explained that she has to be paying attention to me and that if someone bothers her, she can't do her job which makes her upset because she's a working dog. The older boy asked if she was like the police dog they'd met at an event in town. I said that the police dog is a working dog too but that he and Celeste don't do the same jobs. His mother said, "Remember when the police officer said you couldn't pet him until he said it was okay?" and the boy replied that he did. I said that the same rules would apply to Celeste and any other dog with a vest or backpack that they might see. The youngest girl was quickly bored and wandered off but the older kids were fascinated. I explained that they should never touch a working dog unless they've asked the owner/handler first for permission. And I told them that they have to get the permission first because some working dogs can't be petted or played with and to never try to pet a dog they don't know. The two kept reminding each other about the "DO NOT PET" patches and asking first as they caught the other trying to sneak another pat on the head.
When the parents and children left, one of the other patients came into the waiting room and said how beautiful Celeste is and asked if she was trained or if I was training her. I explained that she is a service dog and assists me all day, every day. She told me how blessed I am to have a dog like her and that I must feel very lucky, which I do and I agreed with her. She asked me if I minded talking about Celeste and what she does for me. I told her that I didn't mind and the lady volunteered that she has PTSD and always wondered if a service dog could help. I could see my therapist looking out of the doorway at us and I said that Celeste has helped me immensely before she began to tell the lady what a major change in me she's seen and how much she enjoys Celeste being in our sessions.
The lady began to ask more questions -- What is it like to have the dog with you? Do you have problems going places? What does she do for you? All the typical questions that are usually asked (and not always to my face when people think I'm blind or deaf and can't hear them). I answered her and we talked for a moment about how my life has changed in both good ways and bad. I told her that once you have a service dog you can't hide your disability because there's a four-legged "billboard" basically announcing it and that there are times that the public just doesn't (or won't) understand why you have one when you "look just fine." She said she'd never thought about that but for her she'd rather have the "billboard" and could deal with stupid comments on her own. We laughed and my therapist said she'd talk to the lady's therapist about whether he/she believed that a service dog would be a good addition to her treatment. Then the lady thanked me and I went in for my session.
I'd been feeling really frazzled and angry over the past few days, but getting to sit and educate others on service dogs and how they can help people with "invisible disabilities" was awesome. When I left for my appointment I could barely stand to be anywhere and was just sure I was going to scream or cry or do something because everything had been so negative recently. Watching the kids understand to not disturb a working dog and helping another PTSD survivor realize that there is another way without tons of medication to mitigate your disability was very therapeutic. Even more therapeutic than the therapy session -- and I didn't have to pay for what I did in the waiting room.
Maybe I'll actually get a chance to sleep tonight. I probably won't since I'm sure the voices (which have already started again) will be reminding me of every little thing that has been going wrong with the show and worrying about my doctor appointment on Friday when I try to go to bed. But at least today I feel like I've accomplished something positive. And for now, that will do.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
What am I doing....
This blog thing sounded so simple when it started. "Sure, you've got free-time -- fill it by writing!" the "voices" said.
"You've got such interesting stories, they need to be written down," the therapist said.
"Your stories and the way you tell them are hysterical! You could be famous if you wrote a book!" the family members said.
Today I sat down and looked at the calendar. "If you'd just gotten off your duff and started the blog on your 40th birthday like you wanted, you'd be almost done by now!" my mind said. It's now got the "voices" taunting me over my ability to procrastinate like there's always a tomorrow to do something.
I'm into my third month of this and I don't feel like I've made any really insightful posts. No words of wisdom that others would inspire others. Oh, sure, when I ranted about the crappy military collector's show and the one where they freeze-dried people's pets, those got a lot of responses. And, yes, my political rantings have had higher read-counts -- but those are fads. This political season is going to end in November whether we like the outcome or not. Based on what I'm hearing on the news and in other blogs and from my friends on Facebook, I don't think we're going to like it.
So today I thought about why I started the blog. One of the biggest reasons was so that I could dump all of the crap the "voices" in my head keep badgering me about into a place where I can (1) either deal with it in a fun instead of tragic way, (2) deal with issues that are so old yet still hurtful in order to try to make sense of them so I won't have to deal with them anymore, (3) dump ideas and work with them until I've created something useful or seen that it was a waste of time in the first place, or (4) at least keep my writing skills up-to-snuff and entertain and/or educate others. Husband and my therapist keep saying how stunned they are at the amount of things I know about and can pull obscure facts from thin air in mid-conversation. I thought maybe this would be the place to figure out how and why I know what I know because when they ask me where I learned it, I don't know.
But I look at today and the past few days and wonder if I'm actually accomplishing anything at all. Most of my days since last Friday have been spent either at the gun show (which was fun and we made a decent profit after expenses) or asleep because of the pain medication combined with my daily meds that can knock me on my butt without the extra help. I've been fretting over a community theatre production because if my name is going to be on the programme as a technical director, then dammit it's going to be the best I can produce because I have a basically non-existent professional theatrical reputation to uphold. (Yes, I did get to work with "Miss Saigon" and "Sunset Boulevard" when I went to London on a theatrical tour/internship, but that was in the 1990s and no one remembers it but me.) I'm a perfectionist and I don't like to skimp or slide-over particulars but I'm being forced to with no money, no assistance, and no time to make it better.
I've been trying to hide some medical issues that have come-up from certain extended family members because the last thing I need is a lot of drama over something no one can do anything about at the moment. My Step-Father recently severely broke his right leg and has another minor fracture in his left. He's having to stay at a rehabilitation hospital because he cannot walk at the moment (because of the rods and pins) and also needs his dialysis. This has me feeling bad that he's alone there because it's three hours away from where Biological Mother is at their home preparing it for when he can return home again. I'd go to visit him but my medical issue prevents me from traveling long distances by myself. And when Biological Mother asked me on the phone the other day how a doctor's appointment went, I had to remember that she was thinking of one months ago because I hadn't told her what's been happening. I hadn't told her that I went to that appointment which led me to two others with the same doctor and a referral to another specialist who has now referred me to another specialist I have to see next week and if that person can't figure out what's going on, then there's no real hope of ever fixing the problem.
So, I finally told her when she called the other day. I told her that I'd gone to the optometrist to get new glasses but the new prescription doesn't help me see any better than the old prescription. I tested lenses with the new prescription and couldn't see anything any clearer at any distance. I was referred to a glaucoma specialist because my optic nerve is cupped in a manner that, at first glance, would make any ophthalmologist jump to the conclusion that I have glaucoma. I've been told for over 20 years that I have low-tension glaucoma (the type that damages the eye but can't be detected by just measuring the pressure of the eye alone), so I went to have a special test done. It's called an OCT and I can't remember at the moment what it stands for but they flash lasers at my retinas and measure the depth and thickness of them to determine the amount of damage.
I took the results to the glaucoma specialist who said, in a very assertive tone, that I don't have glaucoma. He had me re-take the OCT exam as well as a visual field test. The visual field test is like sticking your head in a fishbowl where they place a patch over one eye and then flash dots of light at different intensities all around the domed surface and you're supposed to click a button when you see the flashing dot. Oh, and you have to stare at a bigger, red dot while they're doing that so you won't look around the bowl and cheat by looking for the lights. After they do one eye, they do the same thing for the other. I failed it badly. The technician kept trying to remind me to click the button when I saw the lights and I told her if she'd make the lights show up I'd click it. I didn't know that the test had already begun.
The glaucoma specialist then looked at my eyes again, reviewed the tests again, and examined my eyes to see how well I could see with my current glasses or with a new prescription. He came to the same conclusion -- a new prescription wasn't helping me see any clearer. As a matter of fact, my eyes had gotten even worse since the last time I saw him a few weeks before. Now there was a serious problem. In our state, if you can't see better than 20/50 with correction (glasses or contacts), you can't legally drive at night. I've been having a lot of problems with my night vision for a long time and had recently noticed that it was much, much worse. I just didn't know it was that much worse. He immediately referred me to a retinal specialist across the state to see if he could help fix whatever is going on because it's not glaucoma and he's now stumped.
So, I travel across the state to have another appointment. My eyes are dilated and another OCT test is done (I hope the insurance pays for all of these repeat tests). An angiogram of my retinas was done so that detailed photos could be taken to determine where the damages are. I know that I have a type of macular degeneration called Lattice Degeneration, but I couldn't imagine that after all of this time it would just start acting-up. Oh, and if they ever do an angiogram on your eyes, fair warning -- they inject flourescent dye into your veins so they can see the veins in your eyes but forget to tell you that you'll urinate flourescent colors for two days. Just thought you'd like to know.
The retinal specialist comes in, looks in my eye, and says, "You must have glaucoma based on your optic nerve." I tell him that if he'd read the notes and test results, he'd find that I don't have glaucoma. He stood there and read my file, reviewed every test result that was sent to him, looked in my eyes again, and said, "I don't know what you have." They checked my vision again and now I'm up to 20/60 with glasses. One more jump and I'll end up unable to legally drive -- day or night. he continued to check tests and the photos and reports before sitting down in front of me and admitting, "I can't do anything for you. There's nothing wrong with your retinas that should be causing this that I could fix. You need to see someone else."
Now I'm waiting until next week to see a neuro-ophthalmologist at one of the more-prestigious medical colleges in the United States (which happens to be across the state from where I live) so that they can scan my eyes, my optic nerves, my brain, and whatever else they decide to stick into a machine to see if there's a tumor, a damaged area, a disease, an alien, or something else. I'm waiting for the usual answer I get -- "It's all in your head." My eyes are in my head, so of course it's "in my head." I had an ophthalmologist once tell me it was "in my head" as if I was making it all up. He was quite humbled when a partner of his had to do a cryogenic surgery to repair a hole in my retina that the first one had missed by thinking I was pretending (and I didn't have to pay for the surgery). But now I'm facing the prospect of not being able to drive, not knowing what's causing this, and/or finding out that it could be something that can or can't be fixed easily and -- guess what -- Biological Mother is worried now. I didn't want her to be worried now because there's nothing that can be done until I have the tests and someone comes up with an answer. And if this doctor can't come up with an answer, there's no one left to see (no pun intended).
What am I doing? I'm sitting here completing one of the objectives of my blog by getting things out in the open and trying to get my "voices" to shut-up about them. But, at the same time, I'm boring the rest of y'all to death, announcing a problem that other family members still don't know about (but they might as well hear it from me here), and I'm still not feeling any better about it. If this is supposed to be therapeutic, it's not helping. Even Celeste is noticing the tension in the room and trying to get me to quit typing.
Am I doing this right? Is this actually going to work? It is worth the daily "freak-out" when I don't have a topic already in mind? Does it fundamentally matter in the greater scheme of things? And would anyone notice?
And, before anyone says it, the answer is not "42." I've already tried it and it's not worked....yet.
"You've got such interesting stories, they need to be written down," the therapist said.
"Your stories and the way you tell them are hysterical! You could be famous if you wrote a book!" the family members said.
Today I sat down and looked at the calendar. "If you'd just gotten off your duff and started the blog on your 40th birthday like you wanted, you'd be almost done by now!" my mind said. It's now got the "voices" taunting me over my ability to procrastinate like there's always a tomorrow to do something.
I'm into my third month of this and I don't feel like I've made any really insightful posts. No words of wisdom that others would inspire others. Oh, sure, when I ranted about the crappy military collector's show and the one where they freeze-dried people's pets, those got a lot of responses. And, yes, my political rantings have had higher read-counts -- but those are fads. This political season is going to end in November whether we like the outcome or not. Based on what I'm hearing on the news and in other blogs and from my friends on Facebook, I don't think we're going to like it.
So today I thought about why I started the blog. One of the biggest reasons was so that I could dump all of the crap the "voices" in my head keep badgering me about into a place where I can (1) either deal with it in a fun instead of tragic way, (2) deal with issues that are so old yet still hurtful in order to try to make sense of them so I won't have to deal with them anymore, (3) dump ideas and work with them until I've created something useful or seen that it was a waste of time in the first place, or (4) at least keep my writing skills up-to-snuff and entertain and/or educate others. Husband and my therapist keep saying how stunned they are at the amount of things I know about and can pull obscure facts from thin air in mid-conversation. I thought maybe this would be the place to figure out how and why I know what I know because when they ask me where I learned it, I don't know.
But I look at today and the past few days and wonder if I'm actually accomplishing anything at all. Most of my days since last Friday have been spent either at the gun show (which was fun and we made a decent profit after expenses) or asleep because of the pain medication combined with my daily meds that can knock me on my butt without the extra help. I've been fretting over a community theatre production because if my name is going to be on the programme as a technical director, then dammit it's going to be the best I can produce because I have a basically non-existent professional theatrical reputation to uphold. (Yes, I did get to work with "Miss Saigon" and "Sunset Boulevard" when I went to London on a theatrical tour/internship, but that was in the 1990s and no one remembers it but me.) I'm a perfectionist and I don't like to skimp or slide-over particulars but I'm being forced to with no money, no assistance, and no time to make it better.
I've been trying to hide some medical issues that have come-up from certain extended family members because the last thing I need is a lot of drama over something no one can do anything about at the moment. My Step-Father recently severely broke his right leg and has another minor fracture in his left. He's having to stay at a rehabilitation hospital because he cannot walk at the moment (because of the rods and pins) and also needs his dialysis. This has me feeling bad that he's alone there because it's three hours away from where Biological Mother is at their home preparing it for when he can return home again. I'd go to visit him but my medical issue prevents me from traveling long distances by myself. And when Biological Mother asked me on the phone the other day how a doctor's appointment went, I had to remember that she was thinking of one months ago because I hadn't told her what's been happening. I hadn't told her that I went to that appointment which led me to two others with the same doctor and a referral to another specialist who has now referred me to another specialist I have to see next week and if that person can't figure out what's going on, then there's no real hope of ever fixing the problem.
So, I finally told her when she called the other day. I told her that I'd gone to the optometrist to get new glasses but the new prescription doesn't help me see any better than the old prescription. I tested lenses with the new prescription and couldn't see anything any clearer at any distance. I was referred to a glaucoma specialist because my optic nerve is cupped in a manner that, at first glance, would make any ophthalmologist jump to the conclusion that I have glaucoma. I've been told for over 20 years that I have low-tension glaucoma (the type that damages the eye but can't be detected by just measuring the pressure of the eye alone), so I went to have a special test done. It's called an OCT and I can't remember at the moment what it stands for but they flash lasers at my retinas and measure the depth and thickness of them to determine the amount of damage.
I took the results to the glaucoma specialist who said, in a very assertive tone, that I don't have glaucoma. He had me re-take the OCT exam as well as a visual field test. The visual field test is like sticking your head in a fishbowl where they place a patch over one eye and then flash dots of light at different intensities all around the domed surface and you're supposed to click a button when you see the flashing dot. Oh, and you have to stare at a bigger, red dot while they're doing that so you won't look around the bowl and cheat by looking for the lights. After they do one eye, they do the same thing for the other. I failed it badly. The technician kept trying to remind me to click the button when I saw the lights and I told her if she'd make the lights show up I'd click it. I didn't know that the test had already begun.
The glaucoma specialist then looked at my eyes again, reviewed the tests again, and examined my eyes to see how well I could see with my current glasses or with a new prescription. He came to the same conclusion -- a new prescription wasn't helping me see any clearer. As a matter of fact, my eyes had gotten even worse since the last time I saw him a few weeks before. Now there was a serious problem. In our state, if you can't see better than 20/50 with correction (glasses or contacts), you can't legally drive at night. I've been having a lot of problems with my night vision for a long time and had recently noticed that it was much, much worse. I just didn't know it was that much worse. He immediately referred me to a retinal specialist across the state to see if he could help fix whatever is going on because it's not glaucoma and he's now stumped.
So, I travel across the state to have another appointment. My eyes are dilated and another OCT test is done (I hope the insurance pays for all of these repeat tests). An angiogram of my retinas was done so that detailed photos could be taken to determine where the damages are. I know that I have a type of macular degeneration called Lattice Degeneration, but I couldn't imagine that after all of this time it would just start acting-up. Oh, and if they ever do an angiogram on your eyes, fair warning -- they inject flourescent dye into your veins so they can see the veins in your eyes but forget to tell you that you'll urinate flourescent colors for two days. Just thought you'd like to know.
The retinal specialist comes in, looks in my eye, and says, "You must have glaucoma based on your optic nerve." I tell him that if he'd read the notes and test results, he'd find that I don't have glaucoma. He stood there and read my file, reviewed every test result that was sent to him, looked in my eyes again, and said, "I don't know what you have." They checked my vision again and now I'm up to 20/60 with glasses. One more jump and I'll end up unable to legally drive -- day or night. he continued to check tests and the photos and reports before sitting down in front of me and admitting, "I can't do anything for you. There's nothing wrong with your retinas that should be causing this that I could fix. You need to see someone else."
Now I'm waiting until next week to see a neuro-ophthalmologist at one of the more-prestigious medical colleges in the United States (which happens to be across the state from where I live) so that they can scan my eyes, my optic nerves, my brain, and whatever else they decide to stick into a machine to see if there's a tumor, a damaged area, a disease, an alien, or something else. I'm waiting for the usual answer I get -- "It's all in your head." My eyes are in my head, so of course it's "in my head." I had an ophthalmologist once tell me it was "in my head" as if I was making it all up. He was quite humbled when a partner of his had to do a cryogenic surgery to repair a hole in my retina that the first one had missed by thinking I was pretending (and I didn't have to pay for the surgery). But now I'm facing the prospect of not being able to drive, not knowing what's causing this, and/or finding out that it could be something that can or can't be fixed easily and -- guess what -- Biological Mother is worried now. I didn't want her to be worried now because there's nothing that can be done until I have the tests and someone comes up with an answer. And if this doctor can't come up with an answer, there's no one left to see (no pun intended).
What am I doing? I'm sitting here completing one of the objectives of my blog by getting things out in the open and trying to get my "voices" to shut-up about them. But, at the same time, I'm boring the rest of y'all to death, announcing a problem that other family members still don't know about (but they might as well hear it from me here), and I'm still not feeling any better about it. If this is supposed to be therapeutic, it's not helping. Even Celeste is noticing the tension in the room and trying to get me to quit typing.
Am I doing this right? Is this actually going to work? It is worth the daily "freak-out" when I don't have a topic already in mind? Does it fundamentally matter in the greater scheme of things? And would anyone notice?
And, before anyone says it, the answer is not "42." I've already tried it and it's not worked....yet.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Am I in or am I giving therapy?
I had to ask the question in today's title. I mean, I'm paying for a service but there are days I feel I should be getting a paycheck. Let me explain....
It's "therapy day" again! Today is when I go spend an hour with my psychologist, talk about a lot of different subjects (ADD runs the conversation), occasionally answer some questions and/or educate her on something she didn't know about, and then drive home wondering what I was supposed to get out of all of that. Don't get me wrong -- I enjoy my visits there because it's one way I gauge how I'm doing with my anxiety/agoraphobia/panic/depression. If I'm really talkative (i.e. I do ALL the talking), then I'm either having a manic day or perhaps I'm feeling more comfortable because Celeste, my service dog, is asleep in the floor and there's no threat over which I should be panicked. If I'm not so talkative, then I'm back in the depressive mode or I don't want to be out in public or there just aren't enough shiny things in the room to set-off the ADD while Celeste is asleep in the floor, again showing me there's no threat over which I should be panicked.
But if someone were to watch me in my sessions or ask me what was the major point I took away from a session, 9 times out of 10 I'd have to say, "I have no idea!"
Maybe I am getting more than I think I am. But when I look back at some sessions, I really wonder who's counseling whom. When does the "student" become the "teacher?" And, at what point do the voices in my head need another good poke with a Q-Tip to get them to shut-up so I can be helped instead of "helping" by rambling on and on for an hour?
Take today for an example (it's the best one I have because I can remember it more clearly than past events since it just happened). I was asked a very simple question, "Is there anything coming up where you might be called-out to work?" By "called-out to work" she means deployed away from home working a national disaster event with a governmental agency that has a simple acronym that has been twisted and turned into good and bad definitions since August 2005. They call; I pack my stuff; I say my "goodbyes" to friends and family; and then I drive or fly to my destination to begin working for a term of not less than 90 days and all the way up to 50 weeks if it's really bad.
At the moment, there aren't any events occurring or projected that would require me to be deployed, so I told her I'm still "out-of-work" for the moment. Then the "shut-up" filter turned off and I started rambling about how I have an appointment on the 18th with an ophthalmologist, how our auditions for the local community theatre's play had to be rescheduled (and why) for the 23rd, and that this Saturday I'm going to a World War II reenactment of the Battle of the Bulge and that I'd ordered a new collar and lead for Celeste so she'll look more "authentic" in the field. The conversation wound its way through how Celeste has been around loud noises and shouldn't be afraid during the "battle" and that her breed was used by the Allies so she'll be perfect, especially since I'm doing an MP impression. It then veered off onto why I'm seeing an ophthalmologist again for the umpteenth time even though I've had nearly every test available and no one in over 20 years has been able to tell me what the heck is wrong with my vision. Finally we skidded into theatre technology and how I would love to produce a play but don't have the money and currently am wondering how in the world we'll even get the one we're holding auditions for off the ground. Then I explained how sets are built and the willing suspension of disbelief that allows the audience to believe you've actually built a Victorian house onstage when all you have is some styrofoam, lumber, starched muslin, and a lot of paint. That point somehow inexplicably led into me talking about how the Globe Theatre was constructed and plays were staged there and how I'd seen the current reconstruction of the Globe in London during the mid-1990s and that it's hard for men in corsets to project their voices without microphones. She stated that there are probably a lot of "drag queens" who'd look good onstage but I corrected her that most of the actors aren't supposed to look as if they've been "tarted-up" to be female, they're just portraying a female character by wearing the wigs and dresses because men played all the parts way back then.
Next thing I know, it's been an hour and I've talked almost incessantly and noticed that she's jotted down a few notes but I have no idea what they are. And, so, I have another appointment scheduled but it will have to be rescheduled due to the ophthalmologist appointment and someone should be calling me to set that up, thank you very much, and wandering through the waiting room as everyone there tries to guess what breed Celeste is and telling their children to not pet her. By the way, most people guess German Shepherd Dog/Doberman-mix and I let them know that they're close because those breeds came from the Beauceron and then I have to try to keep myself from going into my memorized "lecture" about the lineage of the breed. "Just get out the door" my voices start telling me. "Just get out the door and go home. You have dinner to cook and videogames we'd like to play."
All the way home (which is only about a 10-minute drive), my brain is thinking, "What are we gonna blog about today?" Nothing has happened; at least, nothing worth writing about.
This is with what I deal. Trying to be a "normal" person when you're bat-crap crazy and trying to self-therapy yourself through writing and making sure to use proper English spelling and grammar (see the previous sentence for an example) because you can't stand seeing everyone's "text-speak" and poor writing on Facebook and other places. Is it interesting? I don't know. Is it worth doing? For the moment, yes. It's an outlet where I can put on paper (virtual paper, that is) what's running through my head. It's kind of like letting a toddler or small terrier run around in the backyard. You let it go and go in the hopes it will tire itself out soon so that you can put it down for a nap and get on with the "adult" part of your life that you still haven't figured out yet.
Now, I have to make sure that dinner is still cooking in the slow-cooker and that I can squeeze-in a bit of videogame time. If I don't, I'll never hear the end of it until I finally pass-out from exhaustion tonight.
It's "therapy day" again! Today is when I go spend an hour with my psychologist, talk about a lot of different subjects (ADD runs the conversation), occasionally answer some questions and/or educate her on something she didn't know about, and then drive home wondering what I was supposed to get out of all of that. Don't get me wrong -- I enjoy my visits there because it's one way I gauge how I'm doing with my anxiety/agoraphobia/panic/depression. If I'm really talkative (i.e. I do ALL the talking), then I'm either having a manic day or perhaps I'm feeling more comfortable because Celeste, my service dog, is asleep in the floor and there's no threat over which I should be panicked. If I'm not so talkative, then I'm back in the depressive mode or I don't want to be out in public or there just aren't enough shiny things in the room to set-off the ADD while Celeste is asleep in the floor, again showing me there's no threat over which I should be panicked.
But if someone were to watch me in my sessions or ask me what was the major point I took away from a session, 9 times out of 10 I'd have to say, "I have no idea!"
Maybe I am getting more than I think I am. But when I look back at some sessions, I really wonder who's counseling whom. When does the "student" become the "teacher?" And, at what point do the voices in my head need another good poke with a Q-Tip to get them to shut-up so I can be helped instead of "helping" by rambling on and on for an hour?
Take today for an example (it's the best one I have because I can remember it more clearly than past events since it just happened). I was asked a very simple question, "Is there anything coming up where you might be called-out to work?" By "called-out to work" she means deployed away from home working a national disaster event with a governmental agency that has a simple acronym that has been twisted and turned into good and bad definitions since August 2005. They call; I pack my stuff; I say my "goodbyes" to friends and family; and then I drive or fly to my destination to begin working for a term of not less than 90 days and all the way up to 50 weeks if it's really bad.
At the moment, there aren't any events occurring or projected that would require me to be deployed, so I told her I'm still "out-of-work" for the moment. Then the "shut-up" filter turned off and I started rambling about how I have an appointment on the 18th with an ophthalmologist, how our auditions for the local community theatre's play had to be rescheduled (and why) for the 23rd, and that this Saturday I'm going to a World War II reenactment of the Battle of the Bulge and that I'd ordered a new collar and lead for Celeste so she'll look more "authentic" in the field. The conversation wound its way through how Celeste has been around loud noises and shouldn't be afraid during the "battle" and that her breed was used by the Allies so she'll be perfect, especially since I'm doing an MP impression. It then veered off onto why I'm seeing an ophthalmologist again for the umpteenth time even though I've had nearly every test available and no one in over 20 years has been able to tell me what the heck is wrong with my vision. Finally we skidded into theatre technology and how I would love to produce a play but don't have the money and currently am wondering how in the world we'll even get the one we're holding auditions for off the ground. Then I explained how sets are built and the willing suspension of disbelief that allows the audience to believe you've actually built a Victorian house onstage when all you have is some styrofoam, lumber, starched muslin, and a lot of paint. That point somehow inexplicably led into me talking about how the Globe Theatre was constructed and plays were staged there and how I'd seen the current reconstruction of the Globe in London during the mid-1990s and that it's hard for men in corsets to project their voices without microphones. She stated that there are probably a lot of "drag queens" who'd look good onstage but I corrected her that most of the actors aren't supposed to look as if they've been "tarted-up" to be female, they're just portraying a female character by wearing the wigs and dresses because men played all the parts way back then.
Next thing I know, it's been an hour and I've talked almost incessantly and noticed that she's jotted down a few notes but I have no idea what they are. And, so, I have another appointment scheduled but it will have to be rescheduled due to the ophthalmologist appointment and someone should be calling me to set that up, thank you very much, and wandering through the waiting room as everyone there tries to guess what breed Celeste is and telling their children to not pet her. By the way, most people guess German Shepherd Dog/Doberman-mix and I let them know that they're close because those breeds came from the Beauceron and then I have to try to keep myself from going into my memorized "lecture" about the lineage of the breed. "Just get out the door" my voices start telling me. "Just get out the door and go home. You have dinner to cook and videogames we'd like to play."
All the way home (which is only about a 10-minute drive), my brain is thinking, "What are we gonna blog about today?" Nothing has happened; at least, nothing worth writing about.
This is with what I deal. Trying to be a "normal" person when you're bat-crap crazy and trying to self-therapy yourself through writing and making sure to use proper English spelling and grammar (see the previous sentence for an example) because you can't stand seeing everyone's "text-speak" and poor writing on Facebook and other places. Is it interesting? I don't know. Is it worth doing? For the moment, yes. It's an outlet where I can put on paper (virtual paper, that is) what's running through my head. It's kind of like letting a toddler or small terrier run around in the backyard. You let it go and go in the hopes it will tire itself out soon so that you can put it down for a nap and get on with the "adult" part of your life that you still haven't figured out yet.
Now, I have to make sure that dinner is still cooking in the slow-cooker and that I can squeeze-in a bit of videogame time. If I don't, I'll never hear the end of it until I finally pass-out from exhaustion tonight.
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