The side effect is this persistent sore throat that
has moved in like a bum uncle on the couch. It was predicted. As we progress
and the radiation works on the tumor, it also disrupts my surrounding structures,
and because of the proximity, settles in my throat. It will eventually pass
when I come to the end of treatment, but for now, it’s a bugger.
First, I used the solution wrong, even though the
label’s directions allowed it. “Swishing” this liquid did a quick and strong
job of easing my achy throat long enough to allow painless swallows through
mealtimes, but it also worked very well, thanks to my wrongly using the “swish”
option, in delivering a numb-tingling to the wrong characters:
Like a pre-extraction anesthetic at the dentist relieving
gum pain, it also drags your lips and tongue into the fight and knocks them
out, too.
Today, this all reminded me of the six-year old boy in
clinic who once told me: “I’ve got a headache in my stomach.”
Made perfect sense to me, and his description helped
the doc get right to the boy’s ailment, and combining this with other
diagnostics, to treat him with the right applications. If the boy had said that
his pain was a stomach ache in his head, well, that would’ve changed
everything.
You get the idea. As patients, we can best help
ourselves and our caregivers if we’re as descriptive as possible, using lively
images and clear language when describing pain. A “dull push” is not the same
as a “throbbing stab.” Or, a “heavy wringing” is entirely different from a “deep
stiffness,” and being specific truly does help the practitioner to accurately
diagnose and treat.
That’s the crux of medicine. Ruling things out. The
paths to finding healings and cures always begin with determining what the affliction isn't,
enroute to finding out what it is. And, because no two of us have all identical
everythings, one size never fits all. In medicine, each one of us is a cosmic
fingerprint.
That’s the art side of science, and enough metaphor
abuse for now.
So, I got a liquid syringe and targeted the dose to my
throat directly, bypassing my innocent buccal bystanders.
Tomorrow, I’m continuing my quest for simplicity in
the way forward. A good way is to return to the wisdom of floating organ boy.
Children have a knack of teaching us when we least expect it.
I also asked him if he knew how tall he was. Placing
his palm flat on top of his head, he looked at me puzzled, but answered
perfectly:
“This tall, silly.”
More as we go, El
This tall, silly....simple, right? Positive thoughts....do you need a bib for the drool? Oxox
ReplyDeleteThanks, Susan: Ha! Gotcha! You can't say "bib" anymore (wish I wasn't serious). In the caregiving milieu these days, it's "human garment protector." Sigh. That's another reason I'm here: to protect the language! Thanks for writing, Best, El
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