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Devolution

My musings about illnesses some six weeks ago led the fates to give James' ol' Thread-o'-Life a violent tug. Kind of like God and the Great Flood - a little friendly reminder that "You humans don't run the show."

Noah got a flood; I got one hellish ER visit.

God put a rainbow in the sky as a promise to Noah that the Great Flood was a one-shot deal. No more.

I, unfortunately, failed to ask the Fates for such reassurances, as they sent me back to the ER yesterday.

It began as it always does. Thursday, after I caught myself for the fourth time saying both at work and home, "Am I the only one in here who's cold?!", I cautiously went to bed, keeping a thermometer handy on the bedside table. Sure enough, at about 3:00AM, I woke up both sweating and shivering, with the thermometer cheerfully announcing 100.9°F.

My reaction was predictably twofold:
1. "I don't have time for this sh*t." Pop two Tylenol, back in bed.
2. "Is it normal for a 'healthy' 25-year-old to be sick so often?" Zach: "Jim, go back to sleep..."

By morning, the Tylenol had decepitvely hidden my fever, and I headed to work. About two hours after arriving: "Am I the only one in here who's cold?!" By noon, I was on a bus heading home, shivering and cursing under my breath.

An hour later, I popped two Tylenol and rang Zach at work:
Me: "I don't have time for this sh*t."
Zach: "I know."
Me: "I have take-home midterms due next week."
Zach: "I know. Did you call your doctor?"
Me: "Do you think I should go?"
Zach: "Yeah. Why not?"
Me: "Because I'm the type of person who's often accused of running to his doc's every time he sneezes, and I'm trying to shed that image of being a burden on the health care system."
Zach: "Huh?"
Me: "I'm a health care abuser."
Zach: "Well, would you rather go now, or chance another ER visit, which is even more of a burden on the health care system."
Me: "Good point. I'll call them now."

So, an hour later, I was seeing a Physician's Assistant at my physician's office. Thanks to the Tylenol popped an hour before, my temperature was entirely normal, and I was sent home with these (apparently blind) reassurances:
1. "It's probably nothing."
2. "Take low-grade Ibuprofen to keep the fever down rather than Tylenol, since Ibuprofen works better."
3. "No, it's not normal for a 25-year-old to be sick this often, but you're probably fine."
4. "Our office is open from 9:00AM to noon tomorrow, should you need more help.

Unfortunately, low-grade Ibuprofen, while easier on the liver, did NOT keep the fever down.

The fever began to spike higher and higher, as I slept through most of Saturday morning. Apparently, Zach continued to check on me, record my temperature, and force-feed me water. But, at around 3:00PM, I apparently told him to "get these people out of the room!" I also announced that I was Dr. Phlox on Star Trek: Enterprise - or something like that. Zach took my temperature: 104°F. The magic cut-off for an ER visit.

Luckily, we chose a relatively clam time of day to make me a burden yet again on America's health care system. We spent most of our time in the waiting room bitching about the abysmal state of health care - that no doctor's office (at least, none that we know of) is open on the weekends, ostensibly thumbing their noses at the fates, blindly reassuring the public, "Oh, no one gets sick on weekends!" Thus, I have visited the ER twice in six weeks, because "no one gets sick on weekends." Granted, my doctor's office was open Saturday, but only until noon. Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell whatever bug was ravaging my immune system that it should adhere to a schedule of symptomatic outbursts: "Please keep fever spikes within a reasonable schedule on weekdays: 9:00AM to 5:00PM... anything on the off-hours should be mild and fixable with a few Tylenol... for weekends, obviously, you don't want to cause trouble, since no one gets sick on weekends..."

Seriously, who thumbs his or her nose at logic and gets away with it? Vulcans would have clinics open on weekends.

As no one gets sick on weekends, I soon found myself in my own ER room with Zach, having my vitals taken by a very attractive nurse. Unfortunately, with a high fever and chills, I was in no mood to look my flirtatious best. I wanted to tell Zach, "Go for it." But, Zach already has the hot physician. And, actually, part of me still thought I was Dr. Phlox.

Zach and I are usually huge fans of teaching hospitals, like the University of Washington Medical Center where I found myself, yet again, on a Saturday. While I was examined by a MD on her residency last time, this time: a fourth-year medical student. She did a thorough interview and exam, and then her conclusions were thoroughly checked over by the resident-doc-on-duty.

But, then the diagnosis came: "We're not sure, but we have ideas. We need to run some tests."

At about this time, the visits from the fourth-year medical student, the attractive nurse, and the resident-doc-on-duty became fewer-and-farther-between thanks to the sudden influx of
1. drunks
2. Halloween partiers.

I was apparently seen as one of their "easy patients." I soon began to prove them wrong. Some highlights:

1. I find that, for me, the grueling act of giving blood samples is made worse the longer it takes. So, imagine my horror when the fourth-year medical student failed to penetrate successfully - not one, not two, but THREE veins in two arms! Since I had only one vein in the pit of my elbow to offer them by that point, the attractive male nurse did the honors on that front. But, by that point, I was sqeezing the vital essence from Zach's hand, tearing up, whimpering, and flailing my legs in any and all attempt to distract myself, as I have mortal fears of both needles and blood.

2. When being taken to get my chest X-ray, the attractive twentysomething attendant who was pushing me in my wheelchair (I was too dizzy to walk) muttered, "What are you doing here, man? You're too young to be here!" I wanted to reply with some sort of innuendo about my age and abilities, but those damn fever spikes really do make witty retorts quite difficult to fathom. The X-ray verdict: no fluid in my lungs and, between you and me, my heart looks freaking HUGE.

3. The fourth-year medical student came in sometime during hour six in the ER to report the "good news":
Fourth-Year: "Your mono and rapid strep test both came back negative. But, just like your last time at the hospital, your leukocyte count is... well... unusually high. So you're fighting something, and there's one more thing we'd like to check before writing it off as 'something viral you'll just have to get over'."
Me: "And what's that?"
Fourth-Year: "Do you know what a lumbar puncture is?"
Me: "You want to perform a spinal tap?!"
Fourth-Year: "I guess you've heard of it, then."

Another attractive attending physician came in and explained the details, risks, etc. By then, I was nearly at my wits end. Four veins mauled, two chest X-rays taken, and a lot of sweaty blankets: that's what I had to show for six hours in the ER - that, and the never-reassuring reassurance: "Yes, it is unusual for someone your age to be sick so often." Now, within a half hour, I was about to be shown a small sample of my own cerebro-spinal fluid.

The whole torture lasted about twenty minutes. I'm the type of guy who likes to be told when the bad stuff's going down, particularly when I can't (or won't) see what's going on. In the case of a spinal tap, I was sitting upright on my bed, with my head and shoulders folded over on a tray - any minute expecting to feel intense pain since, for reasons I cannot fathom, no one would tell me what was going on. Since I didn't know when it was coming, I spent the five minutes prep time in near hyperventilation in anticipation of an event I knew nothing about, except for the fact that it's been generally described to me as a painful event.

During the procedure, I began to regret my love of teaching hospitals. While the four mauled veins in my arm were one thing, hearing the cross-talk between the attractive attending physician and the fourth-year medical student added pounds of psychological trauma to what actually turned out to be a few ounces of physical discomfort.
Attending Physician: "Are you feeling resistance?"
Fourth-Year: "Yes, I'm feeling a lot of resistance."
Attending Physican: "Here, let me do it. I think you've been scraping bone with whole time."

My face was buried in Zach's sweatshirt, as he was standing in front of me with his torso holding my head in place, while his arms kept my shoulders firm. As soon as I heard "hitting bone," I let out a wail to rival the drunkards out in the waiting room. I've now decided that, for me, medical treatments involving needles and bodily fluids are a mere 1% medical science and 99% psychology. During the blood-drawing-from-hell earlier that day, I probably would have whimpered a lot less had a team of psychiatrists accompanied the attractive nurse and the fourth-year medical student into the room. As soon as all of the horrid mental images associated with the phrase "hitting bone" reached my brain (passing a protective layer of cerebro-spinal fluid, I might add), all psychological discipline cautiously built step-by-step during my 25 years on this planet, any and all manners and modes of self-control, and any culturally-induced mechanisms that permitted me to act like a civilized, adjusted human being collapsed like a frail house of cards.

A needle was scraping bone, and I wanted my mommy.

I'm a big fan of primate instincts. I enjoy pondering their existence, purpose, and function in a "modern" human culture and society. I realized yesterday, though, that my thought experiments neglected at least one important set of instincts: childhood instincts. Sure, they fade as we grow, but why? Do the genetic and psychological components influencing these childhood instincts fade in expression as we mature? Or, is it simply severe rounds of adult conditioning and societal influence that make us shed our childhood insecurities, and bury them under layers of psychological barriers?

For me, I'm now convinced that the latter case is true, and I apparently failed to bury my instincts deep - it took four jabs in the arm with a needle and the mental images of "scraping bone" to make this phrase, for the first time in over fifteen years, move to the forefront of my cerebral cortex: "I want my mom!!"

I guess, at the core, I'm still a "momma's boy." When I shared these very disturbing ideas with Zach today, he tried to reassure me that, "We all have our limits." Still, it was a pretty humbling situation. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

For the record, the spinal tap was successful. And my Cerebro-spinal fluid looks just like water! The test results came back in about two hours: no signs of meningitis or other infection. Which left Zach and I staring at the fourth-year medical student with my discharge papers, asking, "So what's wrong with him? And why does he keep getting sick?"

Fourth-Year: "Oh, he probably just has some pharyx-associated virus, based on how raw his throat looks. Keep the fever down by alternating high-dose Ibuprofen with Tylenol, but look out for the side-effects. And do a follow-up with your doctor after a few days."
Me: "But, how will I get over it?"
Fourth-Year: "Time and rest."

Four bandages on my arm, one on my back, and two chest X-rays later: "Time and rest."

Those 7.5 hours in the ER amounted to more of a psychological awakening than medical progress. While I've again been a burden on the health care system, I guess they were asking for it this time.

Publish or Perish

For some reason, Halloween sharpens the competitive edge at the Hutch. My rotation lab is engaging in a two-front war with another lab here. Front one: Halloween costumes - and I think we're pretty well screwed there, as we have no concrete ideas yet.

On the seccond front, however, we show promise: a haiku competition. Each lab member of each lab can submit up to three (topic = "science"), though each lab selects five total from among its members to present to a neutral judge who, on Halloween, will select the best haiku from the batch. Today, we voted within the lab for the five haiku that would be submitted for our lab to the neutral judge. None of my selections made the final cut.

(They may not be up to his standards, but they work for me.)

Science Haiku:
The first two bitch about lab difficulties, the first being the simple equation C1V1=C2V2. Yes, the same one we all learn about in general chemistry - and yet I time and again trip over it. The latter two bitch about the grant I have due in a week.

Oh, C1V1!
I’m getting a Ph.D.,
And still you mock me!

P.C.R.: smug and
Abusive; cruel and cold. Yet,
I come back for more.

Pressing matter: my
Grant is ten lines too long. But,
Iron Chef is on!

"I don't give a damn,"
Says Rhett. Can I say the same
To the N.S.F.?

Mortality

By the time you read this, I may have already expired.

I'm going kayaking tomorrow.

When you read my obituary, which will no doubt detail the accounts of how an intelligent primate was pathetically beaten by a plastic, elongated flotation device ["novice-sized"], stop and ask yourselves: was this some sort of tragic (albeit hilarious) alignment of the planets, or part of an extensive cosmic plot to snuff out my big, sexy brain before its prime?

Then again, I'm pretty sure I my mental capacity peaked at age twelve, after damage from an especially severe case of Brain Freeze (ah, the dangers of eating-ice-cream-too-quickly) ruined any further cognitive potential.

So, perhaps consider a more approrpriate statement of consolation to toss Zach's way: "I'm surprised he made it this far."

...And hope that my vengeful ghost doesn't come looking for you with a kayaking paddle!

(Does kayaking come with it's own special paddles? I guess I'll find out.)

Fractures

Mike Luckovich, my favorite political cartoonist (stop and ask yourselfs: who is your favorite political cartoonist?) over at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, has now been given the power of a weblog to catalog his latest creations.

But, if you go, admire his work, but don't forget the comments section. Far lefties and far righties clash, spat, trade insults and threats, and in the end leaves me wondering...

Are we really on the verge of tearing each other apart?

Pillow Talk

Zach: "You know what?"
Me: "What?"
Zach: "I think that we spend so much time together that it makes us retarded."
Me: "Retarded?"
Zach: "Yes, retarded."
pause
Me: "Well, I suppose there are worse fates."
Zach: "Like what?"
Me: "We could have an asthmatic kitty."

Anniversary

Me: "We missed an important date."
Zach: "Huh?"
Me: "An anniversary, of sorts."
Zach: "When was it?"
Me: "A few days ago. Between our birthdays."
Zach: "Oh. What was it?"
Me: "Remembrance of a very important historical event."
Zach: "Oh?"
Me: "On October 14th, it was the 939th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings."
Zach: "Oh."
Me: "William the Conqueror won it. An ancestor of mine fought in it."
Zach: "That's nice."

Sadly, since this conversation, I have realized that any other gay couple out there could have had this precise conversation, but instead concerning the fact that October 11th was apparently National Coming Out Day.

I could file this incident as reason #489 why I make a better nerd than a homosexual, but the very fact that I even catalog such events would qualify as reason #490.

Tactition

Since today was Zach's birthday, I pretty much let him run the show. He opened his presents in the morning during his usual Sunday morning "tradition" (news shows: Meet the Press, the McLaughlin Group, etc.), lunch at our favorite shady Mexican restaurant, an afternoon of him enjoying the presents I'd gotten him while I studied, and finally dinner at this sushi place he likes with our mate Paul, who was in town from New York.

I've realized yet again that, with food, I don't respond as much to taste as I do texture. Sure, I enjoy certain flavors and flavor combinations - we all have our particular likes and dislikes. But, for me, texture trumps taste time and again.

Tonight, for example, I discovered specifically why I don't usually enjoy this particular sushi establishment as much as Zach and Paul apparently did: texture. Some of the sushi selections had (what I could only describe in my own "special" term as) a "creamy factor" that left my appetite subordinate to my mouth's perception of (and displeasure with) the food's texture. My mind convinces my mouth that food (especially sushi) should not trigger the "creamy factor" defense mechanism, and thus I'm left eating less than I usually would. I wasn't downright repulsed or anything... the "creamy factor" merely ensures that I'll become satiated faster than the average human.

Which made me realize that, if I really want to get serious about dropping a few pounds, a diet best described as variations-on-a-theme-of-creamy-factor would perhaps serve me best in the long run.

Fresh Air

Suzie started coming down with some sort of ailment last week. Based on her "hacking," I blew it off as "hairball." But, by Tuesday, it was pretty obvious that her energy levels had fallen. She was still eating and drinking, but she spent much of the day (and night) sleeping. By Wednesday, she spent her time eating, sleeping, or simply "sitting." She wouldn't play much, and would usually begin "hacking" (me: "Maybe this isn't a hairball, Zach..." Zach: "No sh*t.") soon after beginning any sort of activity.

Thursday morning, Zach took her to the vet while I, on three hours of sleep, attempted to muddle through my morning class. As I was cramming for an afternoon class around lunchtime, Zach rang me.
Zach: "Kitty has asthma."
Me: "Huh?"
Zach: "Kitty has asthma."
Me: "Can cats GET astham?!"
Zach: "This one can."

So, Suzie has asthma. Four chest X-rays confirmed "a little bit" of fluid in her lungs, apparently tell-tale signs of asthma. The vet also confirmed a "slight" heart murmur ("Barely anything to worry about," she told Zach). I was a bit floored, to say the least. When Zach apparently asked what, of all things, could have triggered an asthma attack in a cat, the vet apparently gave him what I would describe as a "hand-waving" answer: "Oh, any number of things... her food, her litter, mold, the weather..."

Helpful.

So, kitty came home Thursday with a 30-day supply of oral steroids to help bring this attack down. Afterwards, we'll have to see... the vet warned us that "this may be a rest-of-her-life type of thing." At that point, I didn't care. I just wanted her to be back to her old self. Suzie, who...
1. won't let us hold her
2. plays with anything small, shiny, or string-like
3. knocks over huge glasses of water and orange juice with gusto
4. attacks my feet
5. licks plastic bags
6. scratches up whole loaves of bread
7. jumps into lamps
8. leaps head-first at windows
9. does NOT like to sleep in bed with us
10. is definitely not a "lap cat."

Thursday, when I came home exhausted from school, two doses of steroids had stopped her "hacking" (vet: "It's not 'hacking,' it's sheer coughing!"), but her energy level was still low (vet: "It'll take two days or more to get her back on her feet."). Zach and I spent most of Thursday night holding a kitty-so-weak-she-can't-escape-from-our-grasp in our laps, petting her, and letting her sleep curled up in two blankets at the foot of our bed.

Friday, however, the honeymoon was over. By Friday evening, Suzie was back to her normal feed-me-but-don't-hold-me self. On the one hand, I was thrilled. I gladly left out cups of water for her to kick over and boxes for her to climb in and out of time and again. When she attacked my shoelaces as I attempted to tie them, I grinned and yelled, "Kitty's back!" But, on the other hand, I liked it when Suzie wouldn't claw at paintings on the wall. I liked it when she would let us hold her (granted, she was simply too weak to escape) and would sleep in bed with us (granted, she was simply too weak to escape).

So, Friday night, I embraced this bittersweet moment: the steroids were helping kitty catch a full breath for the first time in probably a week, and we helping her old self reemerge... but, there would be no more kitty-holdings (at least, not without strong arms). Plus, there're the unanswered questions: will steroids be needed on a long term? Will her asthma return? And what the hell triggered it? The steroids have upped her short-term appetite CONSIDERABLY... she's devourted a day's worth of food in eight hours, for example. How much longer can this go on? I'll be sure to quiz the vet during Suzie's follow-up this week, and I'm anxious for a prognosis.

As these thoughts swirled in my head Friday night, Zach and I snored and tossed in bed. Sometime around 1:00AM, though, I felt something heavy and warm on my feet. I ignored it and went back to sleep until 5:00AM, when Zach woke up to use the bathroom, and I heard him purr, "Awwwww."

Kitty was fast asleep at my feet.

Cain

When I go many days in a row without a full night's sleep, the effect of slow, persistent sleep-deprivation manifests itself in an odd way: my eye.

The lower right quadrant of the white of my left eye gets red - and stays red.

It's been that way since high school - if James is well-rested for many nights in a row, James' eyes are gorgeous (albeit with a somewhat vacant look). Usually around night four with only five hours of sleep, the Mark of Cain appears... and stays...

Most folks never said much about it. In college, occasionally I'd be asked if I had pink eye.

Now, however, a woman last night on the bus asked me if I had bird flu. Yesterday morning, an obviously-high man asked me why I didn't "share." Wednesday, when it first appeared, a woman I barely know suggested that I'm not jogging enough, and need herbal supplements.

F***ing Seattlites.

Nap Time

Twenty-five years ago today, I was born, sadly unaware of my surroundings and in dire need of a nap.

And I see that things haven't changed much.

The Outgroup

I'm actually floored at how quickly I've become attached to my first rotation lab. It usually takes me quite some time to warm up to new people; and much longer for them to warm up to me, quite frankly. I consider it a good sign that I'm already comfortable enough with half of my labmates and my PI to joke freely with them, and so forth.

As I feel I've grown close to them, however, I've also become paranoid about what they think of me. Every mistake (believe me: there have been plenty) is amplified in my mind with thoughts of: "Do they think I'm a complete moron now?!" So far, indications lean towards the No Camp; but hey, you never know.

It's also become somewhat obvious that all members of this particular lab share cultural and recreational bonds that reinforce their coherence. For example, they are all
1. devoted coffee drinkers
2. outdoorsmen/women
3. skilled, competitive athletes
4. married/engaged/partnered for "many" years
5. amateur chefs.

James, on the other hand
1. drinks tea for his caffiene buzz because coffee "doesn't agree" with his digestive system
2. has been camping on three occasions
3. will shamelessly drool at gorgeous athletes
4. just moved in with his boyfriend
5. makes Zach cook.

Perhaps it's early enough in my developing "relationship" with these fine folks that my insecurities about "fitting in" are more exposed than they'd be in other situations. After all, in my old lab job, I fully recall harboring similar reservations about my ability to "find my place" in a group of folks with which I appeared to have little in common. But, over time, I found their percieved similarities to be superficial, at best.

Still, the fact that I now work with four competitive runners and a triathlete, while I tripped thrice climbing four flights of stairs, pretty much circles me as an outgroup... with a giant red marker.

I can't wait to tell them I listen to classical music!

Substitutions

Zach has recently started a new job, as a political lobbyist for a Jewish organization. He's been very excited by the prospects of the position, and interested in all aspects of the organization and its mission.

Perhaps he's gone a bit far. The other day, I sent him to the store to buy bacon. He came back with matzah.

Whipped

I woke up on my own this morning, about ten minutes after six, rolled over, looked at the clock, and thought, "Oh holy hell, I didn't set the alarm. Time's a-wastin'! I have to get to the lab!"

Fifteen minutes later now, with my backpack packed, breakfast cooking, and a towel around my waist for a pending shower, my mind clicked in: "James, it's Saturday."

For a moment there: euphoria mixed with inner frustration. Sure, I'd been up and about for fifteen minutes, but now I could shed these meager drapings of a first-year graduate student's rushed weekday morning, skip down the hall, and join Zach in bed.

Then, the next moment: cold acceptance. Even though it's Saturday, this first-year graduate student does have to get ready and get into lab. He does have things to do.

Never before has wearing something as ridiculous as a towel been accompanied by such sobering reality.