Tag: the best medicine

The Best Medicine

I’ve been getting the Velcade shot every two weeks. The side effects with it are increasing. I didn’t think I had neuropathy in my hands because they didn’t feel the same as my feet.

But when I complained to the doc (this time actually the top nurse / doctor’s assistant) that they feel generally stiff, achy, and longer, as they keep bumping into things, and so numb some mornings that I have trouble turning off the alarm, she said that’s neuropathy.

Also, the first moment after I get up from sitting, the first few steps are hard to get going. That’s neuropathy, along with the sand in the feet, socks bunched up in the shoes feeling. These side effects are increasing; not debilitating – but quite annoying.

The nurse was going down a list of questions and got to, “any change in appetite?” I told her I’ve been eating everything in site and was approaching maximum capacity. I told her I might finally have a T-shirt printed that reads, “SEX MAKES ME HUNGRY!” I suggested I might make good money if I print and sell them to old, fat guys.

She started laughing so hard, it appeared it was all she could do to hang on to my medical chart. She was rolling so well I didn’t think it would take much to push her over the edge, so I told her about the T-shirt I would print for guys like me who’ve had prostate surgery, “BETTER ERECTIONS THROUGH CHEMISTRY.” She laughed and laughed, bent over laughing. It’s so much fun to make people laugh.

My Nephew, John, recently took me to the LeMay Car Museum, it was Awesome

I’m Not Laughing At You

Today was my 6-month blood test for my urologist and 3-month blood test for my oncologist.  Instead of two blood draws in two days, at two clinics,  I arranged to get blood for both doctors in one “draw.”

The nurse lowered the flip armrest in front of me as I settled into her “blood drawing” chair.  Imagine an adult size high chair with padded armrests including a big one that closes across the front like a drawbridge.

I told her that because of my uncooperative veins, I usually end up with the butterfly needle right here (I pointed to the back of my right hand).

“I do this all day – every day,” she said. “You see those vials?” she asked as she nodded toward a pile of 5 or 6 tube containers, “I need to fill all of those.”

That’s a lot I said.  Do whatever you need to do.

“You’re going to feel a sting” she warned as she poked the needle into my arm.  I jumped as if I’d received an electric jolt.  “That wasn’t too bad.”  I determined out loud.

She began giggling quietly.  I told her I hadn’t noticed the seat belt when I first sat in the chair, but maybe I should have buckled up.  She started laughing out loud as she nimbly swapped each full vial for another empty.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m not laughing at you.  I’m really sorry.”  I told her I believed her because I could hear the sincerity in her laughter.  She began laughing so hard she sat down the vials and was leaning against the counter, bracing herself with both hands.

Laughter is good medicine.  That was the most fun I’ve had giving blood.