This morning I finally went in to get some blood drawn for routine labwork. I've had this lab order sitting around for several months, but, for a variety of reasons, had never followed up on it until today. Part of it is that I've had past hassles with my insurance company, and though the last few years it's gone through with no snags, I'm still wary. The other was trying to find out just where I could go to get it done, and once I got that figured out, all was well.
So this morning, having starved myself since 8 last night, I went in and expected things to take a while, like it has in the past. I was pretty much ready for it. So imagine my surprise when I came in the lab office this morning to find it empty except for a very shy lady behind the reception desk. After a few moments of in-processing, she called me back, tied up my arm, stuck in the needle and took my blood sample. What I expected to take an hour and a half lasted about 15 minutes. I now have a nifty piece of gauze and a bandage on my left arm as a souvenir, and it's another thing taken care of. Plus I didn't have to be gone from the office as long as I'd expected, so that's good. (Now to find something to eat! Man, right now, I'm so hungry I could eat a sandwich from a gas station.)
:: The word "goofy" comes to mind I've touched a bit in previous meditations about this medical that's coming up, and that there are some circumstances that are making it a little complicated. (I prefer to call it "interesting," but "complicated" is probably more appropriate. Sort of like how, instead of saying I was basically fired from my first teaching job, I like to say "I was granted my free agency." See? It's all in how you spin it.)
Anyhow, I figure it might serve some good to touch on why this medical is a little more labor-intensive, and involves the guidance of the folks at the FAA. It's nothing really that exotic, but for privacy's sake I'll share only the broad outlines of it.
I'm pretty good about paying attention to my body, knowing what she likes and what she doesn't, and what's normal and what isn't. Well, one day about ten years ago, I noticed something that didn't seem to be right. It had been okay before, but now it seemed goofy, and it also started to hurt a little bit. So, I went to the family doctor's office. The doctor who saw me was new to the profession and didn't really know what the deal was, but he gave me a bunch of antibiotics he felt would fix it. (For the record, it wasn't Dr. Leo Spaceman.)
Well, that didn't work. But I figured it had been checked out by a medical professional, so I went on about my life. Still, my condition didn't improve, and I somewhat stupidly didn't follow up. It worsened to the point that I ended up in the hospital one day. Turns out the problem was a malignancy, and I was operated on as soon as the specialist could schedule me in.
The bad news? It was cancer, all right. The good news? They got it all, it hadn't spread, and it didn't involve anything I needed to carry out essential life functions. Oh, I'd still have to get a bunch of X-rays and exams, and as a precaution the doctor ordered a series of radiation treatments. But other than that, I was fine and my prognosis was excellent, and I would very likely return to full health, free to pursue a life of religious fulfillment.
I recovered from the surgery in no time, and once I learned how to manage the radiation treatments' side effects I actually gained a little weight (hint I discovered on one cancer support group's website: drink lots and lots and lots of water). I kept my mind busy, and I'd even go out and take brisk walks in the evenings after dinner. My stamina lagged just a tiny bit, but I kept on going.
(The only strange thing I can remember from the radiation is that, while I was on it, even just the thought of tomato soup made me ill. I tried eating some one night and it turned my stomach. Which was weird, since tomato soup had never bothered me before, and hasn't since.)
The funny thing is, I can't ever recall feeling sad or gloomy or pessimistic, or asking "why me?" Part of me saw it all as a new adventure; part of me was pragmatic, saying "well, I have to do it, so let's get this done"; and part of me realized how much worse it could have been, especially when I saw some of the other patients, some of them extremely ill, who were awaiting their turn on the radiation machine. I had been spared, for whatever reason. There were also times I'd sing Gilda Radner's cute (and somewhat obscene, so I can't share it here) little "I am well, I am wonderful, I am cancer-free" ditty to myself, because that's how I felt. I was going to beat this cancer.
It's funny, but I really don't have any bad memories of those days. It was something I didn't want to have happen (who would ask for cancer, anyway?), but I tried to make the most of the cards I was dealt. I had people around me who loved me. I had things to keep myself occupied. I had learned how to manage my side-effects. And I came through it with mind and health intact.
It'll soon be ten years since this episode. I have received excellent medical care for most all those years, and all my follow-ups have gone very well. The worst health crisis I've had since has been occasional sinus problems. My body works as well, and in some ways even better, than before; all the little lights light up and all the little switches switch inside, just like the cutaway guy in the old Bufferin ads. (Gee, if that's true, I'd work wonders with a button-hole stitcher in my nose, wouldn't I?) And I have never stopped being thankful that I survived and that I enjoy a happy and healthy life. (Something I forget too often when I'm grumbling about something petty like waiting in line at the post office or having to wait in rush-hour traffic is that, but for the grace of God, I wouldn't be alive.)
The FAA, however, gets very interested when your medical history involves the word "cancer," and in a way you can understand that. Cancer's a serious illness, and though we know a lot about it, there's also a lot about it we still don't know. The FAA's in a goofy position, because what's in question is a medical certification that lasts several years. On the other hand, even though you can understand their concern about any form of cancer, it still becomes a bit of a hassle and a potential nightmare when it's your medical history, and your future in a cockpit, that's in question. You have to round up all the medical records you can, because it'll probably end up having to be decided by the FAA and not your doctor.
This is where doing your homework comes in handy. There are aerospace medical experts who specialize in complicated medical certifications and will, for a fee, help you figure out what you need to do. (I've benefited from the help of one such doctor.) Organizations like AOPA and the EAA also offer similar assistance as a membership benefit. So, it can be done, and according to the statistics only a tiny number of applications for medicals get turned down for good. A lot of times, folks are able to get an issuance or a special issuance; some of them, though, get tired of the hassle and give up.
Still, it can be done. You just have to jump through the hoops. Even if it is a pain in the backside. (Which, to be honest, it is. But I'm the one who put myself up for it, aren't I?)
:: While looking for something else this morning, I found the lyrics to one of my favorite Warren Zevon songs, "Figurine." I have a low-quality cassette recording of him performing it at a live show, but I'll forever wish he had put it (and "Bujumbura") on a studio ablum.
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