What we don't know about ourselves

A great deal - a vast deal . . .

If you are a doctor, you, (hopefully) will have a very clear map of your own and other peoples' internal organs, lymph system, blood vessels, skeleton and so on - the rest of us . . . a vague notion of where one's heart, lungs and liver are, and probably not much than that.

It's weird to think of all these unknown miles of gut and vessels doing their thing, keeping you going, and not really knowing how any of it actually works or where it is placed in the body. I probably, even after not living there for some years, have a better idea of London's layout than where any of my lymph glands are, or what any of them look like.

Talking of glands . . . do you know where your adrenal glands are? those such vital things that control and deal with stress, flight or fight, etc. I didn't know until I stared reading about what happens when they become depleted - vaguely thought they must be somewhere in the neck. Nope . . . they sit snugly on top of the kidneys, and are complex/vital in operation and most often overlooked.

After a boring bout of Trigeminal neuralgia, which is still wobbling on slightly, I'm still trying to figure out what IT likes and doesn't, so started researching more into diet, stress, exercise, etc, and found out some fairly amazing stuff.

Sadly IT doesn't like me sitting too long at the computer, so I'll go and clean out the shed instead, but if you are as interested as I was, here's the rather wonderful Dr Berg explaining about how these Toblerone-shaped wonderments work.

The world belongs to those who check

                                             

I read this sentence somewhere a couple of months ago and it's taken up residence in my brain. As I am a checker anyway - doors, windows, gas off, crossing off elements on lists, etc, the phrase made me feel comfortable with this odd side of myself - someone often rather too spontaneous in other ways.
Anyway, a couple of days ago I had an MRI scan booked in and I didn't check what I was supposed to take until late in the preceding evening. When I did look, there was all the stuff I had imagined I would round up: medical card, forms to fill in, etc, and . . . oops, a product that would be injected into my veins that I had to go and obtain from a chemist.
Arg. Scan at 10.30; not a good idea to turn up without the required fluid as there might be much sighing and 'c'est pas possible!' - ing, from some scary reception woman. Extra stupid also as this could well be some special thing that should be ordered. Why hadn't I checked? I'd thought about it a few times, but kept putting it off until way after shops would be shut. Some internal subconscious revolt perhaps? True, my memory kept presenting me with images and recordings of a small constricted place filled with resounding pneumatic drill noise - something I was not overly keen to revisit.
I drove to a pharmacy and the assistant searched out the required box, placing it on the counter with a frown. 'Madame, this is this bit here on the 'ordinance' but that bit there - we don't have it'.
'What is that bit' I asked. She went to check and didn't know but reiterated that they didn't have it. And then said I couldn't have the first bit as there was no signature on the 'ordonnnance'. 'But it was sent to me like that' I protested, looking a little wild as the scan RDV time was looming. After some more checking I was allowed the box without the other bit. I drove to two other chemists who also didn't have the 'other bit' and then to another where the pharmacist informed me I didn't need another bit as it was all inside the box I already had from the first pharmacy. Mm.
So, I did get there on time and the receptionist was actually really friendly, although there seemed to be some confusion over what sort of scan I was having and why I had an ordonnance for a box of blue fluid anyway. She went to check and nope, not needed, so I donated it to them in case someone like me hadn't checked what they needed to take with them, and took my place in the waiting area while trying to ignore the now vivid thoughts my brain was presenting of potholing and other claustrophobic situations.
'Madame 'Ardy?'
'Huh? Oh . . . yes.'
I followed the efficient assistant to a changing room, removed all metal from my person, handed her my carefully translated 'histoire' of what I personally thought they should be looking for in my neck/jaw and then followed someone else to the machine.
Things have changed since the last time I was slid into one of these things some years ago. No music in the headphones (utterly useless as the drilling, whapping sounds overpowered all other noise by 100%); more comfortable, and there was a  rubber HELP!' bell, which I'm sure I wasn't offered before.
Weirdly it was quite pleasant lying there analysing the different beats, rather like reclining after one too many mojitos in an (admittedly over-lit) techno dance club, especially as two of the medical team had a quick dance in the adjoining room that I could see into - hands above their heads, styrophome cups waving about as the pitch increased to 'donk, donk, donk, donk, don,don, don,don, do,do,do,do d,d,d,d, baaaaaaarp'.
I was removed, asked if it had 'passed well' - 'bien passé?' and shown back to the changing room.
Out in the reception area after a few minutes I was handed one of the large, beige, scan envelopes. 'No chat with doctor'? It was all in the envelope. 'Au revoir, Madame'.
Had they read my rambling notes? Possibly not. Anyway, there was nothing sinister noted, everything in the right place and no explanation for the trigeminal pains (see a few posts back).
This particular version of Trigeminal Neuralgia I negotiate around every now and then seems to be termed 'Atypical' or in fact, Atypical of an Atypical form, i.e no one has a clue what it is and/or what I can do about it, other than to smother it with fairly hefty drugs every day.
I'd rather just live with the attacks, and work out what's not good to do - another system of checking. It's rather like having a small sadistic personal trainer living within myself - check: don't drink coffee, not too much tea . . . oo, steady on, is that the third cup today? Very little alcohol, check: are you sitting in a good position, check: how long have you been sitting at the computer - enough. Get off your arse and go and do some digging/walking/looking at stuff long distance. OK, sorry. Yes, you're right. I was slumping and yes, it's time I got off this.

  

MIR scanner with its placid grey coating and one without. Might be more difficult to convince people to be slid into the second . . . and no wonder it's a tad noisy . . .

Back from computer holiday

not that the ailment has gone away, but I've just decided to write through the pain . . . such a hero.
Trigeminal Neuralgia. What a bastard thing. It has been called the worst pain known to man - yippee, and it is certainly pretty vile.
I think I have a type which is a little unusual - always against fashion, that's me . . . most people have a 'typical' TN which seems to be set off by touching the face, cleaning teeth, etc; mine (I hate to say this - as if I'm rather attached to the thing!) appears to be rather more random, and I suspect is linked to another pain - in the neck - literally. I've had this one on and off for about thirty years and various tests have revealed nothing. I reckon it's one of the pair of Submandibular glands that reside under one's jaw bone and produce saliva - my personal theory, and one that was crushed by a particularly vicious old 'specialist' I saw a couple of years back who told me the two could not possibly be related. Excuse me, I live with this . . . you don't.
So, what's it like, this TN thing?
Imagine some repulsive and abusive old relative that you only ever see once a decade phoning you up and telling you they are going to come and stay for a while. Before you can protest, they are at the door, pushing it open and hauling their case up the stairs. They settle in, take the best armchair and show you their new range of taser weapons which they will zap you with if you don't do exactly what is required.
You creep about doing all the right things or what you imagine are the right things, but inevitably they are not and you receive a few warning stings in the face. You know they are not going to move out in a hurry so continue to walk on eggshells, placate, move quietly, but then remember that the old sod actually likes taunting you, and whatever you attempt to do to improve the situation, won't. New tasers appear: ones that send zig-zags of hot electricity coursing through your teeth, tongue, scalp until you weep.
Yep, it's that bad. After a few days you start to contact the bailiffs (doctors/acupuncturists/neurologists, etc) to try and evict the offenders, now well and truly ensconced in your sitting room, feet up on the sideboard and all the weaponry lined up.
Last time, the growling Dickensian uncle as I like to see my own particular TN, grudgingly packed up his torture equipment after a month and shuffled off to catch the bus back to wherever he came from. I sighed the biggest sigh of relief ever and started my life up again. This time, he's outstaying his 'welcome' and more bailiffs will have to be contacted. In the meantime, I've realised it doesn't make a salt grain of difference if I write or not - something I have been avoiding as it seemed to make the pain worse, so, YES, I can lock myself in a room he doesn't know about and get back to my latest book at least.

Belligerent magpies and indifferent doctors

Hello cyberspace!! Hello people who might stumble across this page, and hello me - oh hello, you must be the one who loves writing stuff, but has been lurking in other rooms away from the computer, throwing the odd furtive glance onto the blue bar after tapping in something to do with face pain, vitamins and mineral baths (to quote Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot).
It's still here the pain (see last post or two, IF you want a wee insight into trigeminal neuralgia) but I think I'm working out when to do things - like this - and avoid a fine, sharp blade slicing into my upper gum line. SO, anyway, that's the last time I'm going to mention it.
The main soundtrack of the moment in the Hothouse, apart from me swearing a lot more than usual, has been the almost continual cackle of magpies. After a couple of days of the said noise I went out and sat still until I became part of the garden and thus un-worrying to the resident bird population. It transpired that the reason the sound was moving to different areas of our compound was the magpies tracking down the cat and mobbing him.
I watched, fascinated as he lay in the sun, tail twitching, as the two birds hopped up to him and pecked at his ears, their cries becoming more strident. Occasionally he would stretch out a lazy paw and whack one of them; they would retreat and then start again. Why? I wondered; what had our cat done to them? Ezra suggested a stolen egg or chick, but it's perhaps a little late in the season for that. Then I noticed one of the birds had no tail feathers. I assume Bronzino attempted to catch the bird, failed and was left with a mouthful of shiny feathers, for which he is being persecuted relentlessly.

I just checked - quite common apparently. Here's another mog (same colour as ours )being attacked (photo treknature.com)

If the doctor, or specialist I went to see yesterday could be portrayed as a bird, I would say perhaps a whispy-headed cross between a supremely snide vulture and a bored owl.
I had made the RDV two months ago and had waited with interest and slight angst for him to reveal great truths and wisdom about the thing I wasn't going to mention again . . .
A dear friend took me- thanks Chris- as my driving might have been somewhat more erratic that usual.
After climbing the spiral wooden staircase in a backstreet building I sat in a sweaty waiting room flicking randomly through estate agent brochures and hunting magazines, listening to the occasional laughter that issued through the walls of the doctor's office.
Good, I thought, he must be approachable and warm, someone who will listen intently, taking down all the little details I had amassed, before forming them into a comprehensive diagnosis (after a bit of a poke about, presumably). He would then shake my hand and wave a contented and relieved me off down the stairs to return to his office feeling, no doubt, satisfied and full of human spirit; reaffirmed in his role as an upstanding example of the medical profession.
Not.
Bonjour, madame . . . come in, sit here, no there. He turned drab, bespectacled eyes on me; eyes that had seen a million frightened patients before them, and were now probably looking forward to their retirement.
I scrabbled in my folder, through photos of my brain from various angles, through bits of paper to do with the social security system and found my LETTER. Mark and I had concocted this, thinking it would be helpful to him to understand a little of my history and relationship with the affliction, including a few homespun theories of why this had happened and what it might in fact be.
He leant back in his chair after snapping the paper from me, then read to himself, waggling his copious eyebrow hair and smirking at my ideas - (I'm not a doctor, but I think that the person who lives with the affliction should be given a chance to theorise - just a little).
He slapped the papers down and glowered at me.
'Non, Non et NON, madame. NONE of this is remotely possible - that bit is nowhere near that bit; there is no possible connection', etc, etc . . .
'But what about . . . '
Deep sigh: Comme j'ai dit . . . it's not possible - pas-du-tout!'
'But what about the fact that this all started when I got up suddenly after a nap and something went criiisszzzkkk in my neck?'
'I will now perform an investigation.'
He gestured to chair; I duly sat in it and he span me around facing him, disconcertingly close, with my knees wedged up agains his . . . well, bollocks, really.
'Open your mouth, Madame and say eeeeee,'
I did, and after producing a long thin piece of steel, proceeded to insert it into my throat without much warning. I retched like an inexperienced porn actress and he sighed again - 'bon, ça va pas, huh! we will pass through the nose, alors'.
After a spritz of anesthetic spray he nonchalantly threaded the long boingy steel tube down one of my nostrils while I thought helplessly of various torture scenes in sci-fi films where the baddie introduces a ravening brain-killing slug or similar nightmare into the captive's nose.
'Non, rien. Nothing, madame, not so much as a nose flea or a wayward brain cell.'
'But what about this sore lump here that I have had on and off for thirty years, eh?'
'Non, c'est rien du tout, you may have a little neuralgic plinky plonky obnidextrouas conflabnigation there, but it's nothing. REALLY!'
'But, what is that?'
He stood up abruptly and signaled that I should follow suit. 'See your doctor again, and if the condition persists you will be offered teyrhetsuidjnfbduuaaaaasge.'
'Does that have undesirable side-effects, Monsieur le Docteur?'
'Perhaps if you take it over a long period of time. That will be 45 euros, Madame.'
'But I have CMU.'
'No, you do not.'
Yes, I do, here is the piece of paper.'
'It is not the right piece of paper.'
'Yes it is - see there: CMU.'
'Ah, oui, humph.'
I collected together my scorned-upon documents, kneed him in the groin (shook his hand), and left.
'Goodbye, Madame,' he said, shutting the door with as much condescension as possible.
At home later, I found several useful bits of info that I am now putting into practice, and will work towards my own doctorate in the treatment of elderly depressed retired 'specialists' in the hope I shall one day welcome him into my own practice room and be thoroughly NICE to him. Ha.

Lurking things

We all have our aches and pains; personal little catalogues of inflictions that come and go, or come and stay, and then go - if we are lucky.
Some health problems can be dealt with, some can be ongoing and managed, and some can lurk backstage, waiting to jump out and scare the shit out of you, so to speak.
In my last post, I eluded to this thing that leapt up and bit me, hardly daring to mention it, hoping it would just skulk off again, but it hung around making yesterday truly memorable, and not it a good way.
Driving back from an abandoned couple of days holiday with something stabbing long hot needles into my head was pretty appalling, as was crying in a chemist shop at the pharmacy woman's kind words, (I had to force myself not to hug her, so bad was I feeling).
Trigeminal neuralgia is truly an infliction; I have had a taste, just a little taste of how supremely terrifying and excruciating it is.
Back in 2010, I experienced what the doctor termed A-typical TN, even he wasn't sure and I just worked out my own theories, staring round-eyed at three in the morning at what Google had thrown up when I couldn't sleep with worry.
True TN seems to be triggered by just about anything: a breeze, cleaning your teeth, kissing someone, before you are thrown into an electrical, clenching pain that throbs and zaps over your face, into the hairline, right into your teeth, tongue, eyes and leaves you crying and gasping for it to stop - the worst pain known to man it has been called, and yes, I think that's fair to say.
The worst part of it is the anticipation of a 'strike'. I could liken it to watching a horror film; the music is warning you something is about to happen, but you don't really know when, so you creep about, doing whatever you think will prevent the stabbing pain: constant alert, and it's exhausting.
My version seems to be connected to something in my neck - an ongoing irritation of flaring pain that comes and goes - so far, no one has discovered what the problem is and I can totally live with that pain as it's nothing in comparison.
So what is this post about? Other than me moaning on . . .  Just my findings and ways of coping with the flareups in case anyone out there is going through the 'staring at the internet pages' stage. It may not be of much help, but a few things I read about, now written here, helped me a lot.

Stop drinking coffee: One of the most useful things I ever read was by a Doctor in India; his internet page started with that: Stop drinking coffee - my symptoms were reduced by about 60% immediately. Tea's not great either, so I try to stick to two cups a day.

Don't do a lot of this - sitting at the computer; difficult if that's your job, but for me I know it's one of the biggest culprits. At least get up, stretch, walk up a flight of stairs, look out of a window and change your focal depth onto something real: trees, birds, a car park even.

Use the phone as little as possible, especially mobiles. I know when I had a major attack a few years back it was during a stressful period of house-selling and the phone had become a permanent lodger crunched between my ear and shoulder as I dealt with all the usual household stuff.

Exercise: VITAL. Preferably something outside like gardening where you become lost in an activity very different to the usual routine. Brisk walking and cycling, swimming. This may be impossible if you are suffering from a true TN attack, but at any chance, do it.

Eat magnesium-loaded foods: pumpkin seeds, dark green cabbage, organic liver . . . and/or take supplements. Also, watch you have enough vitamin B12 in your diet - vital!

If you have to be away from family, friends and pets, etc, carry a photo or two of them; in the middle of one of those hideous lonely times of pain, just holding onto a visual reminder of who is dear to you can help.

I've just read an article about acupuncture being extremely useful; perhaps a good one to try, as the drugs offered can be fairly heavy, or so I've heard.

Anyway, time's up and I'm off to attack the garden as I can feel the music starting up; a long way off
but it's there none the less.