December 20, 2024
Diagnosis
We begin the day by taking stock of our small studio apartment. It’s a curious place, and not really one that we relish the thought of staying at for the next five weeks. It’s very cramped, for one thing. It’s a small L shape with the bed around the corner from the long leg that includes the kitchen, a dining room table of sorts, a couch and a small round coffee table next to it. The bathroom fits into the overall rectangular shape of the whole unit.
So it’s small, feeling more like a tiny house than an apartment. Five weeks is a long time, but we’re used to many living situations by now so we’ll do fine here. It’s the other features or the lack of them that’s the most perplexing and irksome. This is perhaps the least adequately appointed Airbnb we’ve stayed at yet.
There are definite plusses. It’s great having a refrigerator and washer/dryer. Unlike many places like this, there’s a good selection of bowls, glasses and silverware. And in an especially nice touch a pound of fresh-ground coffee greets us when we open the fridge. But there’s no coffee maker of any kind, which makes that pound of coffee seem like an odd choice, almost a taunt.
There’s a good pair of scissors, and three corkscrews and bottle openers. But there’s not even a single cutting knife. There’s no toaster. There’s toilet paper, but no paper towels. There’s hand cleanser, but no shampoo. There’s a closet with a clothes rod, but not even a single hanger to hook over it. Very odd.
On the plus side, our host seems pretty responsive. We drop a note observing that there’s no coffee maker or toaster, and even though he says those aren’t usually included in these units he’ll see what he can scrounge up - and the next morning one of each is waiting outside our door for us.
On the more positive side though, the location is ideal for us. A block from Elizabeth’s place, directly across the street from our storage unit, two blocks from Safeway, five blocks from Caffe Umbria in one direction and five from Lovejoy Bakery in the other. And it’s cheap, as far as places in this neighborhood go. We’re probably saving $1,500 by staying here, enough to make a good dent in those uncovered ophthalmologist bills when they come due. We’re complaining, but we have no complaints.
________
So we settle into what’s likely to be our standard morning routine here. Besides the toiletry business, mine starts with a light breakfast - a bowl of granola - so I’ve got some food to accompany my morning medications that now include the most important item in my diet, the 60 mg prednisone dosage that will hopefully fight back against my immune system and bring some return to my vision.
And about that morning bathroom and breakfast routine. Our dining table is a narrow, short slab maybe twenty inches wide and three feet long, with two small chairs that tuck under the ends. There’s not much real estate there to work with and we manage it carefully. We each keep to our own small end and make the best use of it that we can. If we keep up with the gin games it won’t be at this table because there’s not really room for it.
The table is flush against one wall of the long side of the L. On the left is the refrigerator and sink. The wall segment on the right is about the same short length as the table, with it ending on Rachael’s end at the opening to the bed space; and on mine at the door to the bathroom. When I’m sitting at my end of the table I have to get up and move so that there’s room for Rachael to get past and open the door to the bathroom. Cosy!
I finish my light breakfast, we rehash plans for the morning, share a warm hug, and go our own way for the next few hours. Rachael plans to head across the street to the storage unit to see if she can find anything useful there and then walk over to LA Fitness for a second workout there using her Silver or Fit membership that comes as a benefit of our medical insurance policy. And I walk those five blocks to Caffe Umbria for my morning coffee, the other half of my breakfast, and to work on the blog. I take with me what’s to be my standard kit when I go out on my own: wallet, phone, glasses, iPad, and the Lumix.
I take it carefully walking those five blocks, checking and double checking at each intersection for cars or bikes or pedestrians or dogs, and keeping an eye on the street and sidewalk for any irregularities that might trip me up. It reminds me of walking the tortuous sidewalks in Taiwan, where it seems each passing storefront has its own bit of sidewalk edged with rises, drops, or a step to be managed. I also keep my eyes and ears alert for any birds though, because I’m still holding steady at just the four for the year so far.
And I’m in luck. I see some black movement in the sky above and what looks like a bird landing on one of the rooftop towers that are a legacy of the Pearl District’s industrial past. And he stays put long enough that I can find him in the viewfinder and collect a blurry shot.
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
The Umbria outing is a success. I hang out there for two hours, manage to get back to my table without spilling my coffee and feeling like a fool, and am pleased and heartened by what’s possible. I have no problem completing the day’s post, catching up on emailed and commented correspondence, completing the NYT crossword, and scrolling through as much of the horrid daily news as my stomach can tolerate.
When it’s time to go I hit the restroom, pleased that I can see well enough to manage the keypad for the door lock. When I get back to the table and start inventorying my items there’s a panic because I can’t find my phone. I search the table and the floor, and then head back to the bathroom where I find the phone on the floor, supposedly dropped from my pants pocket. it’s like with the rucksack left in the Raven - I’m just not seeing well looking straight down. I really do need to up my game here.
Back at the room I listen sympathetically as a frustrated, almost angry Rachael describes her encounter with the asshole rep with an attitude at LA Fitness who denies her access to the facilities she thinks she’s signed up for and entitled to. She points out that a different rep worked with her yesterday and helped her with her first visit but this Scheisskopf isn’t having it. He thinks his coworker screwed up and shouldn’t have let Rachael in yesterday either, and blows her off.
Not long after that the phone rings. Rachael takes the call and then hands it to me. It’s Jason, the surgeon who performed the biopsy. he’s calling to inform me that results are in and they’re positive for the condition they expected to find. I have a diagnosis. Jason sounds a bit taken back when I say that it’s good news. He acknowledges that this means I can start working with a rheumatologist on whatever follow-up treatment plan I’ll need, and then wishes me luck and hangs up.
So let’s give this ugly sucker a name, now that I’ve met my enemy. He goes by several names, but the preferred one apparently is Giant Cell Arteritis (GCA), an autoimmune disease that attacks your circulatory system starting with the temporal arteries in your head, near the eyes which are often the first victims of the damage that may come. Here’s a link.
Now that we’ve got the diagnosis we’ve been waiting for I fire off a request to my PCP to find me a rheumatologist, something that couldn’t be done until the condition was definitively known. And then I’m out the door again because the weather is unexpectedly dry and we’ve got a few hours before Bruce will drive over to take us to my ophthalmology appointment down at Sunnyside. I want to use the time by walking over to the Willamette and south along the waterfront a ways to see what I can see.
I enjoy the walk, which I extend as far as the Steel Bridge before turning back. It’s a grey morning which doesn’t help the vision but I’m comforted by familiar sights - the bridges, the river, the riverside walkway I know well - and I collect a few more birds along the way, each one feeling like a personal triumph and a benchmark of sorts. The only disappointment is that I don’t see the raft of scaups or scoters that often out on the river by the grain terminal in the winter. They’re not here today that I can see, but maybe it’s because there’s no grain ship being loaded this morning either. Maybe they’re drawn in by the loading activity somehow, such as by the grain dust that will drift out and float over the river.
The photography itself is frustrating though, because I can’t really tell if I’ve got the birds in focus. It might be blurry because of my eyes, or it might just be because the camera hasn’t focused in. I won’t really know if I’ve brought home anything useful until I get back to the room and unload the day’s catch.
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
| Heart | 1 | Comment | 0 | Link |
| Heart | 1 | Comment | 0 | Link |
| Heart | 2 | Comment | 0 | Link |
We’re standing on the sidewalk at 1:45 when Bruce pulls up to drive us south to Sunnyside to my ophthalmology appointment - which I was grateful to have gotten scheduled for so soon after we returned to Portland. It couldn’t have unfolded better than this. We’re down there for maybe an hour, starting with me being tested and imaged before the ophthalmologist steps in to make his own inspection and offer his thoughts. He tells Rachael and me (We’ve left Bruce in the waiting room with his book) that he sees swelling or damage in both optic nerves, with the right being much worse than the left. And he gives us some dark news in the way of a prognosis. He says that typically when patients enter treatment the goal is preservation of whatever vision remains, with limited prospects for improvement. He writes a prescription for a still stronger dosage of prednisone - 80 mg this time - and sends us off with scheduled appointments for a baseline vision test up at Interstate Monday and a follow up with him next Friday. And he also initiates a request for a rheumatologist appointment for me to start me on management of the disease side of the equation.
We stop by the nearby pharmacy to pick up my new prescription before we leave, and on the way out are alerted to avoid the nearby Clackamas mall where there’s apparently a lockdown situation. Maybe it’s another mass shooting - we haven’t had one in the region for awhile and we’re probably about due for our turn.
Bruce drives us back home following the slow route along the river, which is probably the fast one because traffic on I-205 is often horrendous at this time of day. On the horizon to the west Bruce points out the striking sharp line of the clouds above the Tualatin Mountains and the beginning of a sunset; and I’m pleased to be able to see it clearly enough to appreciate it myself.
Back in the neighborhood, Bruce drops us off near one of our favorite local restaurants, Toro. It’s a place we’d meant to eat at last month if I’d ever felt well enough to do anything more than sit around eating ibuprofen. It’s a delicious meal, the company can’t be beat, and afterwards we walk back to the apartment holding hands, me on the right. Later we’ll watch the next episode of Broadchurch, and although I don’t say so to Rachael I’m concerned that I’m having trouble making out the faces of the actors. Two steps foreword, one step back. Hopefully.
| Heart | 2 | Comment | 0 | Link |
__________
A footnote. This is another of those dark episodes, but we take heart from an email we receive from one of our friends out there. He’s a retired medical professional, knows what GCV is, and offers the hopeful observation that in his experience medical professionals generally offer the most negative prognosis so as not to encourage overly optimistic expectations. He counsels us to not give up hope, and we won’t.
| Rate this entry's writing | Heart | 8 |
| Comment on this entry | Comment | 1 |
3 hours ago