Up from the Valley of C. Diff and Death

You see that window behind me? That might as well have been another world during my first three days. I could see little outside and I had no idea what it looked out over. I was growing curious about it, but it might as well been on Mars. I couldn't get to it even though it couldn't have been more than 25 feet away.

But on my fourth day of imprisonment a new face appeared by my side. She introduced herself as a Physical Theropist and she asked if I would like to take a walk.

You bet your bippy, whatever a bippy may be. It is certainly a word the spell check doesn't like. It changed my first bippy to tippy and my second to hippy.

She disconnected my IV from the pole and I slid off the side of the bed to my feet. She turned off the alarm. She asked if I wanted the walker, but I told her I could manage on my own two feet. She did put a strap about my chest so she could grip me in the back if needed to keep me upright. I asked if we could walk by the window.

I was a little wobbly, but I really didn't need her to hold me as we walked a few circles about the room and past the window. Ah, how nice to see outside. My room was facing the West. I could see the WTC Plaza, the last building I worked in at Wilmington Trust. (I guess it is called M&T Plaza, now.) Over on the left was the Washington Street Ale House and straight ahead was the parking garage.
Directly below the window was the pickup and drop-off circle before the main entrance.

Off to the right was the cemetery, something I always joked was not what you want to see from your hospital room, a too near reminder of where you might end up. I had never dreamed I would be the patient gazing out at it.

It had felt good to walk about again, but it didn't rescue me from the commode chair. I though I could use the bathroom like a big boy now, but every thing that emptied out of my body had to be eyeballed and examined by the nurse before being flushed away.

They were checking the content of the potty for consistency and color and somewhat the same with the bottles of urine. I believe they marked down the amount of urine and one time the nurse mentioned it was too light, it needed to be darker, like I controlled the hue.

My Pastor and his wife, Karen, showed up for a visit, so someone got the word to them of what had

happened to me, probably my daughter had posted something online. They said they knew something was wrong when I didn't come to the church picnic on Sunday. I always go to most church events if only to take some photographs. I had just not felt up to it the past Sunday. Pastor Randy Scott brought me a balloon of a silly looking monkey with a "Hang in There" banner on it. That thing floated around the room the rest of my stay like a stray Angel watching over me.

On the fifth day, when the shift changed at 7:00 AM, the night Nurse brought the new day Nurse in to be introduced. This was the ritual at every shift change. This time was a bit different for the Day Nurse was male, the first and only male nurse I had the entire time. Keep this in mind. The doctor came in and announced they were discharging me later in the day. Yay, I was going home. I called my wife and told her to come and get me around midday and bring me some clothes. All I had was the open back gown and I didn't see myself exiting back into the world just wearing that, even though I was certain half of Wilmington had seen my nether regions by then.

The nurse came in and ripped off my tapes and took out the IVs.  My wife came in, looking very bleary eyed. The Nurse gave me the discharge papers for signing and a copy for myself along with a prescription for Vancomycin. He told me a wheelchair would be there soon to roll me out. They never let you walk out of a hospital, they have to ride you to the front door. Heaven forbid you should fall and sue.

My wife left to get the car and bring it to the pickup circle. I waited for my escort. I could see out the window my wife going up the elevator in the parking garage and then after a few minutes our Red Honda Fit winding its way down the levels to the street.

I still waited for my wheelchair lift.

Meanwhile, another lady approached me and set up my home health care.      

And I returned to waiting and waiting for the wheelchair. The nurse told me it would come soon, there had been a little problem getting one.

Time ticked away. I began to feel nervous because I knew Lois would be getting upset at this delay. I had no idea how upset.

The chair finally appeared and whisked me down and out to the front and up to the door of our car. I could see my wife was fuming. I got in and she began ranting about the situation. It was a hot day and she was sweltering. The Valet had harassed her, telling her she couldn't park there. She told him she was picking up her husband, but he kept eyeing her there after. She took off in her fury. She was going out the exit a bit too fast, stopping a little too short behind other traffic, and when we turned down the street to the ramp onto I-95, she missed the ramp somehow and was headed down a street into what is called Happy Valley. Right then there was not a lot of happiness. I told her to pull over and let me drive. I thought in her state she would get us killed or back in the hospital.

Part of the problem was the heat and the fact she hadn't been able to sleep the night before, an ongoing problem she has. She was too tired and upset to be driving. She calmed down after I took the wheel and we headed home thinking I was safe and secure from this blasted C. Diff. How little I knew about the disease.

On the Third Day the Waters Receded

By the dawning of day three, the diarrhea had slowed down. None of the jabbing and stabbings had, though. I was still awakened early by the vampire, who unlike the legends, disappeared as night fell and reappeared as the sun rose. She called me to wakefulness, standing over me with her trusty kit of butterfly needle and tubes.

The twice daily injections in my belly continued as well, as did that great bitter elixir of Vancomycin four times daily.

A doctor came in this morning, asked me my name, date of birth and if I knew where I was. He then asked me the day and date and I think even who the Presidents was. Wasn't I sick enough without that reminder? He then explained what I had and told me he had ordered a cat scan of my head. Why? The diarrhea wasn't in my head.

Once more I went on a joy ride down the corridors; a lot of corridors. I was wheeled into an elevator and I noticed he pushed the button for sub-basement 3. I was being transported down into the bowels of the Earth.

So into this basement far, far away we went. There were more corridors, but we weren't dodging anyone, they were basically empty. He rolled me up to a door that said Xray, stopped, mumbled something about it being occupied and then wheeled me in reverse down the corridor, turned a corner, went down another ing hallway and me placed along the wall in what appeared to be a kind of storage area.

And he left me there.

What a bleak feeling this proved to be. There was no one about. I was in this desolate place somewhere deep in the guts of the hospital. I had no means of contact, no means of escaping the gurney and if I did, how would I find my way back to civilization? How far could I walk anyway in my weakened state and almost naked body? I lay there and lay there feeling quite deserted, wondering if I would be forgot. An indeterminable amount of time passed before another orderly showed up and rolled me back the halls and into the Cat Scan room.

The young lady running the equipment was very nice and commiserated with me. She said they use to park the gurneys right outside the door in such circumstances, but then there was a change of policy and it was off to that storage alcove. She didn't particularly like it either and understood my discomfort.

The Cat Scan didn't take long and it is not as intimidating as an MRI, since the machine is more open and wider. You don't feel like you have been placed in a tomb. By this time, I had racked up 4 MRIs, 4 Cat Scans and several Ultrasounds over a month and a half.

Back in my room I began to contemplate the possibility I would never get out of the place or worse, be carted off to a Rehabilitation Home. I still had no means of communication and didn't know if anyone knew where I was. There was a phone in the room, I discovered, but it was clear over on the far side, much out of my reach.

Things were improving, relatively speaking. For one, the nurses decided I could try using a commode chair rather than a bedpan. All I had to do was prove I could stand up and walk a few feet to the chair.
They had wrestled it out of the bathroom, after a brief struggle because it seemed somehow entangled with the shower stall. They placed it up against the curtain that separated my present domain from the hallway.  The chair sat about 6 feet from my bed.

Although, they offered to help, I did manage to sit on the side of my bed and then plop my feet to the floor and stand. Of course, this set off the alarm bells like it was New Year's Eve. They turned off the alarm and followed me with the IV pole over to the commode, when I parted the gown and sat.  They handed me the call button and said ring when I was done.

It was loose and watery, but it did not go on forever as before and soon I called them back. They cleaned me up , changed the pads on the bed and once again I was absconded in my prison until the next call of nature.

A nurse told me my daughter had called, so now the home front had some information and knew where I was. The only problem was they told my daughter I was septic and she asked my wife if I was going to die. Actually, I learned later, I had come very close to dying.

When the doctor had been in during the morning he said he was putting me on a clear diet. Clear of flavor, I guess. I received a tray contains milk, hot tea, orange juice and this covered dish, which when revealed contained some sort of hot white substance. I took a spoonful and it was like paste. I didn't eat more. I think it was Cream of Wheat. It came again in a later meal and was a bit closer to edible after I spread some sugar over it. I kept getting drinkable things, apple juice, milk, even some coffee along with chocolate pudding, which has never been a favorite.

I think they are trying to starve me.

Sirens, Sheets and Plastic Shackles

I was at the mercy of the hospital staff now. As previously told, I was hauled on the gurney through hallways and passages and the haunted forests and plunked down in a bed.

Actually, it is kind of cool to be pushed down those hallways. Kind of a amusement park ride. It seemed as if the Orderlies, if such people are still called that, moved quite fast, finessing the corners without a bump and missing any blurry passerby.  (I believe at one point of my stay I heard the nurse call for a transport specialist, but perhaps I was partially delireous.)

That had been the first of several such adventures rides I would experience.

I can remember the next events, but not necessarily in order. It is like trying to catalogue the

landscape while inside a whirlwind. I know a nurse came in and she put an infusion hookup in my right arm. This is part of what is commonly referred to as an IV. It is the part plugged into the patient via a needle. There is a little short hose of a connector attacked that can be plugged into the IV tubing.

I hate needles, but nonetheless, for good measure or just for the heck of it maybe, she put an infusion hookup in my left arm, too. They never really did anything with the left one after that. What was it, for, Balance?

Anyway, she did hang a bag of something on the pole and run a tube from it to my right arm. I was now tethered to my bed by a plastic chain.

Another uniformed lady appeared, jammed a butterfly needle in my arm and drew out four vials of blood.

I did mention I hate needles, didn't I?

A technician then came in and did an ultrasound. I can't recall if it were my chest or stomach. I only know no needles were involved.

Then they all left me alone, but not for long. They had hardly stepped out until I rang for the nurse. It was bedpan time. I'm not sure if I ever used a bedpan before in my life, but it sure became a fixture now every quarter hour  for  the next couple or so days. It was an easy on and off, because all I had been left wearing was this thin hospital gown with the air conditioned back. It was only tied up at the neck, so it was definitely quick open; frankly it was sort of never closed. The bedpan itself was like a saddle, you kind rocked along with the flow, if you know what I mean.

Man, I was hit with terrible floods of diarrhea. I can see why people die from it. Unattended, you would probably suffer rapid dehydration. I understand part of whatever was in the IV was for the purpose of keeping liquids in my body.

I kind of hate putting people out if I can do it myself. The bathroom didn't look far away and I got it in my head I could make it in there. As my Pastor often says, "Br-r-r-k! Wrong Answer!" I threw my legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Immediately alarm bells began filling the air and people came running from all directions.

"Where are you going?" One of them asked as a couple of them grabbed me.

"I'm going to the bathroom," I responded.

"No, you're not, you have to get back in bed." I was still resisting, completing forgetting I was attached to an IV as well. "You're going on the floor, you know?"

I glanced down and sure enough, I was. I got back in bed. My attempt to save people the trouble of waiting upon me had resulted in them having to scrub the floor AND change the bed. I was indeed imprisoned upon that bed.

There was nothing very dignified in having this disease. Not only is it annoying to have to ride the bedpan constantly, in these circumstances a parade of people filed through who got to see my normally hidden equipment and probably the most humiliating thing of all is to have some strange woman wiping your bottom.

Along with the seemingly never ending diarrhea (where is it all coming from) there were other tortures.  Every morning the Vampire would show up and collect her vials of blood. She was one of the few people there that didn't appear to have a sense of humor. Twice a day a nurse would appear and inject me in the stomach with a needle and four time a day a nurse would squirt a fowl-tasting elixir down my throat. I wasn't able to eat anything and no one had really told me anything either.

And no one in the outside world, other than my wife, even knew I was here. My wife didn't even know where they had taken me. I had no means of communicating to the world at large, no computer, no phone, nothing. I feared I would never get out of the place.

The Prisoner of C. Diff

When I was a young boy and schools still taught Classical Literature, I would sometimes confuse The Prisoner of Zenda, The Count of Monte Crisco and The Man in the Iron Mask. This was because they all involved the unrighteous imprisonment of somebody to keep them out of the way of some nefarious plot. These prisoners all disappeared and no one knew where they went.

This is how I felt and I feared I'd never be seen again.

Where we left off in my last post was in a car heading toward the Wilmington Hospital because I was having trouble getting on my feet. We managed to park not far from the emergency entrance and I had brought along my wife's walker from when she had her knee replaced. We went into the building, my wife doing just fine, but me hobbling along like the old man I seemed to have come. We signed in.

You always wait and wait and wait in emergency rooms, so we took seats and did just that, waited. But I quickly felt I had to go to the bathroom.

From here things get rather gross.

I go up and set off for the men's room. It seemed pretty urged to do so, except I couldn't find the men's room. I saw the ladies' room, but they had hid the meds'  and I wandered about like a zombie trying to find. Unrealized by me, I was leaving a slimy train behind like a snail.

I finally found he mens' room and when I sat I saw the stuff running down my legs and some on the floor. It also came gushing out of me like Niagara Falls.

I came out and Lois hustles me over to the side. There was a guy with a mop and bucket, not looking happy, cleaning up the waiting room. There was a young girl going in with her mother and suddenly she looked down and said, "What did I step it?"

This was terribly humiliation.

My wife went back to the check in desk and they said they would be right out for. A few minutes later they did, plopping me in a wheelchair and rolling me into the back where the emergency services were going on and in to a small examination room. People came in and asked questions. Somebody took off my clothes and stuffed them in a paper bag. I don't know what happened to them. I think they took them somewhere dan burned them. At least, they disappeared.  They slapped a less than modest hospital gown on me and said they were going to admit me upstairs. Lois took my wallet and phone and stuff and she left and I was at their mercy. They Lifted me on to a gurney and took me off, down the halls, up the elevator, more halls into a hospital room. There they lifted me again and left me in a bed.

I became the Prisoner of C. Diff and things only got worse.

I've Fallen and All that Jazz

I had to urinate. I was back in bed and fallen asleep watching TV, but I woke and felt I better get up and go to the bathroom before really settling in, except I couldn't get up.

Simple act, isn't it, to hop out of bed and patter off to the facilities. You just roll over a bit, slipped the legs off the edge and stand.

Except I couldn't move. I tried kicking my legs over, but there was no kick in them and I couldn't do a sit up for anything.

I was stuck on my back like the poor proverbial turtle.

I finally decided maybe I could slide off on my knees and push myself up from that position. It was the wrong assumption. I just ended up sliding off the bed to fall flat on my face upon the floor. I had fallen and I couldn't get up. I began crawling toward the bathroom, pulling myself inch by inch very slowly toward that place.  I didn't make it. I was part way through the bathroom door when I felt my shorts grow very wet.

I began screaming for help. Eventually, my wife heard my cries and came to investigate and between she and my daughter, got me up on my feet.

Somewhat later, perhaps the next morning, I get confused on the exact timing of all that happened, but I did get into the bathroom. Even though this was another urination situation, I thought I better sit on the toilet to be safe because I felt so shaking. I sat down and immediately slid off the seat to the right.  Part of my lower half remained part way on the seat, but my upper half went into the bathtub. I was now in this jackknife position with the top of my head resting on the tub floor.

And I couldn't budge. I could not push myself up.  I began my plaintive cries for help again, unfortunately I had locked both bathroom doors and my wife could not get in. I could not reach the locks from my odd position. It seemed as if doom was lurking.  With a great effort, and I am sure the help of God, I somehow managed to get myself out of the tub and on to the floor where I could crawl over and unlock a door.

So we called the Doctor and he said to go to the emergency ward.

Just as we were ready to leave we hear some growling and realize Sara is out, but Flacco is, too. Flacco goes after Sara. I step in and try to move Flacco back to my daughters room, but he reaches up and grabs my right wrist with his paws and kerplop, he pulls me right down to the floor. You have to realize this is one big cat, a Siberian Forest Cat. He is huge and he has me down and is attacking my arm, which he tore up pretty well.

My wife, with the help of a broom, manages to get him back into my daughters room, but now we are faced with getting me off the floor again, where I'm flopping about like a newly landed fish. While she is backing our wildcat down the hallway, I somehow get a hold of a kitchen chair and manage to climb up its legs to a seated position.  Yay! I actually have gotten upright, maybe the worse of all this is behind me.

I to to my feet, grabbed a walker and we shakily went out to the car. The walker had been down in the storage room, expecting not to see it again. It had come our way earlier in the year when my wife had a knee replaced. I wasn't having any knee needs, but my legs had deserted me and I thought this would steady me.

Little did I know, as my wife drove out I-95 toward the hospital, that the  worse lay ahead.

Take Ataxia to the River to Watch Fee Fishing

For those who can recall the way Tim Conway would walk as "The Old Man" might then be able to picture how I was now stepping about.  My new gait was easily spotted by others, although it was probably not at pronounced as I saw it in my own head. I felt in my own mind as if I was walking as you see those who have Multiple Sclerosis walk. Legs slightly splayed, arms swung out oddly.

It was as if I had become one of "Jerry's Kids".

It occurs to me at this point that Tim Conway might not be allowed to do his "Old Man" shtick anymore in what has become our humorousness society. Some self-pitying loser might be offended that he is making fun of elderly people; of course, Mr. Conway is an elderly person himself nowadays (He's 82).

If by chance anyone is offended by anything I write go sulk in a corner and suck your thumb and be even more pathetic. You know, if we lose our sense of humor about life, we lose our soul. I fear our country has lost its soul.


I followed up with my Doctor (I use the term loosely) and here is what he did, after he shrugged and said, "Golly, gosh gee, I don't know." Then he wrote out orders.

Schedule an MRI of my Lumber Region

Schedule an MRI of my Brain

Schedule a visit to a Neurologist (he of course supplied a name.)

Schedule several tests at the Cardiologists (he of course supplied a name.)

Come back and see him, good ol' Dr. Fears, in 6 weeks.

So what did I do? Exactly what the Dr. ordered.

I got home and called an Imaging Business and scheduled the MRIs, which I was surprised I could get the very next day.

I called the Neurologist the Dr. named and scheduled an appointment. They could not give me one until September 7, however.

I called the Cardiology Business and scheduled for three ultra-sound tests, but they could not schedule me for the first test until July 28, the second on August 11 and the third of August 15.
Cutting it close, because my follow up visit to Dr. Fears was August 16.

Now why were these tests so spread out? Each of them only took about 15 minutes, so why not just do them all at once? Years ago I had these tests and they were all done together with no problem. So, I asked, "Why do they have to be separate visits?"

That they told me is new government regulation under medicare, each had to be done on separate days. That's our government, inconvenience the public and garner some extra visit fees for the doctors; how does that save us health care costs?

I didn't tell them about the fourth test on the order nor schedule it nor take it. That was a stress test. They had determined I was too old and feeble for the tread mill, thus I was to get a chemical stress test. When I saw this took 2 12 hours and that they would be squirting foreign chemicals in this body, naw, I don't have time for that junk.

So I take the tests and then get a call from Dr. Fears. He wants me to go get a cat scan of my head. I keep telling them they'll find nothing inside my head, but they keep looking in it anyway.

I soon got a call from the Primary giving me a name and telling me to see a neurosurgeon. I called and made the appointment. Somehow on the day of the appointment, I got the wrong time. I walked in at 2:00, which is what I had on my calendar and the receptionist says, "Mr. Meredith, your appointment was at 10:30."  But the doctor was good enough see me anyway.

First, a young assistant came in, questioned me and put me through some simple tests, you know, like

touching my nose, holding a leg up. Then she gave me the "roadside sobriety test". You stand and try to walk straight ahead placing the heel of one foot right in front of the toes of the other.

I failed miserably. One step and I veered far to the left. I tried again and this time she had to catch me as I stumbled off to the right.

All I could think was "I hope a cop doesn't stop me. I don't drink, but he'll think I'm drunk."

After reviewing the MRI Images the neurosurgeon said: "Golly, gosh gee, I don't know."

He couldn't come up with a reason for my problem. The images showed a stenosis of my lumbar region, but he said, you guessed it, this was not unusual for my age and it wasn't enough to explain my gait and weakness. He ordered another MRI, this one of my neck area.

I am not going into those tubes again. I went and did this MRI, but I shook the whole time. I didn't think I had claustrophobia, but after those three MRI I have developed a lot of anxiety and apprehension.

And nothing supplied any explanation, yet in the meantime since the beginning of June I have seen my Primary twice, (both times he said, "Golly, gosh gee, I don't know,")  a Urologist, a Rheumatologist and a Neurosurgeon. I am scheduled immediately after Labor Day at the Neurologist, Nephrologist and the Cardiologist. Meanwhile, my Primary called and wants we to schedule a visit to an Ear, Nose, Throat guy (he supplied the name).

The gait I have is called Atxia Gait: "an unsteady, uncoordinated walk, with a wide base and the feet thrown out, coming down first on the heel and then on the toes with a double tap;----the presence of abnormal, uncoordinated movements. --- An unsteady, staggering gait is described as an ataxic gait because walking is uncoordinated and appears to be ‘not ordered’. 

Then just on the cusp of seeing people who might be able to explain my several tests and strange walk, I was interrupted by the hospital horror.

Take Ataxia to the River to Watch Fee Fishing

For those who can recall the way Tim Conway would walk as "The Old Man" might then be able to picture how I was now stepping about.  My new gait was easily spotted by others, although it was probably not at pronounced as I saw it in my own head. I felt in my own mind as if I was walking as you see those who have Multiple Sclerosis walk. Legs slightly splayed, arms swung out oddly.

It was as if I had become one of "Jerry's Kids".

It occurs to me at this point that Tim Conway might not be allowed to do his "Old Man" shtick anymore in what has become our humorousness society. Some self-pitying loser might be offended that he is making fun of elderly people; of course, Mr. Conway is an elderly person himself nowadays (He's 82).

If by chance anyone is offended by anything I write go sulk in a corner and suck your thumb and be even more pathetic. You know, if we lose our sense of humor about life, we lose our soul. I fear our country has lost its soul.


I followed up with my Doctor (I use the term loosely) and here is what he did, after he shrugged and said, "Golly, gosh gee, I don't know." Then he wrote out orders.

Schedule an MRI of my Lumber Region

Schedule an MRI of my Brain

Schedule a visit to a Neurologist (he of course supplied a name.)

Schedule several tests at the Cardiologists (he of course supplied a name.)

Come back and see him, good ol' Dr. Fears, in 6 weeks.

So what did I do? Exactly what the Dr. ordered.

I got home and called an Imaging Business and scheduled the MRIs, which I was surprised I could get the very next day.

I called the Neurologist the Dr. named and scheduled an appointment. They could not give me one until September 7, however.

I called the Cardiology Business and scheduled for three ultra-sound tests, but they could not schedule me for the first test until July 28, the second on August 11 and the third of August 15.
Cutting it close, because my follow up visit to Dr. Fears was August 16.

Now why were these tests so spread out? Each of them only took about 15 minutes, so why not just do them all at once? Years ago I had these tests and they were all done together with no problem. So, I asked, "Why do they have to be separate visits?"

That they told me is new government regulation under medicare, each had to be done on separate days. That's our government, inconvenience the public and garner some extra visit fees for the doctors; how does that save us health care costs?

I didn't tell them about the fourth test on the order nor schedule it nor take it. That was a stress test. They had determined I was too old and feeble for the tread mill, thus I was to get a chemical stress test. When I saw this took 2 12 hours and that they would be squirting foreign chemicals in this body, naw, I don't have time for that junk.

So I take the tests and then get a call from Dr. Fears. He wants me to go get a cat scan of my head. I keep telling them they'll find nothing inside my head, but they keep looking in it anyway.

I soon got a call from the Primary giving me a name and telling me to see a neurosurgeon. I called and made the appointment. Somehow on the day of the appointment, I got the wrong time. I walked in at 2:00, which is what I had on my calendar and the receptionist says, "Mr. Meredith, your appointment was at 10:30."  But the doctor was good enough see me anyway.

First, a young assistant came in, questioned me and put me through some simple tests, you know, like

touching my nose, holding a leg up. Then she gave me the "roadside sobriety test". You stand and try to walk straight ahead placing the heel of one foot right in front of the toes of the other.

I failed miserably. One step and I veered far to the left. I tried again and this time she had to catch me as I stumbled off to the right.

All I could think was "I hope a cop doesn't stop me. I don't drink, but he'll think I'm drunk."

After reviewing the MRI Images the neurosurgeon said: "Golly, gosh gee, I don't know."

He couldn't come up with a reason for my problem. The images showed a stenosis of my lumbar region, but he said, you guessed it, this was not unusual for my age and it wasn't enough to explain my gait and weakness. He ordered another MRI, this one of my neck area.

I am not going into those tubes again. I went and did this MRI, but I shook the whole time. I didn't think I had claustrophobia, but after those three MRI I have developed a lot of anxiety and apprehension.

And nothing supplied any explanation, yet in the meantime since the beginning of June I have seen my Primary twice, (both times he said, "Golly, gosh gee, I don't know,")  a Urologist, a Rheumatologist and a Neurosurgeon. I am scheduled immediately after Labor Day at the Neurologist, Nephrologist and the Cardiologist. Meanwhile, my Primary called and wants we to schedule a visit to an Ear, Nose, Throat guy (he supplied the name).

The gait I have is called Atxia Gait: "an unsteady, uncoordinated walk, with a wide base and the feet thrown out, coming down first on the heel and then on the toes with a double tap;----the presence of abnormal, uncoordinated movements. --- An unsteady, staggering gait is described as an ataxic gait because walking is uncoordinated and appears to be ‘not ordered’. 

Then just on the cusp of seeing people who might be able to explain my several tests and strange walk, I was interrupted by the hospital horror.

Ya Shouldn't have Kicked that Last Stone -- It Musta been Kryptomite

Those shorts are gone. Burned to ash and buried under lead in a secret location, but that is a later tale; a rather gross, disgusting horror tale at that.

But on this bright day in late May there was nothing gross or disgusting, and it didn't begin with anything frightening, like waking up to goblin under he bed.  I was just out for my usual early morning walk, something I have done for years now. My main way for keeping fit. I begin when the sun dawns and stroll for five miles or so and feel ready for the day.

I had completed a third of my route. I was going down the long sweeping path that surrounds the meadow at Rockwood. Everything felt good and fine and no different than any other morning jaunt.

Then someone, somewhere, threw the light switch.

What in the world just happened? All the power just left my upper legs. It was as if my thighs were tires and they just went instantly flat. I could barely wall. My legs were hard to lift and I felt like I was walking through sand in iron shoes. Believe it or not, I actually considered continuing my usual route, but the further I stepped, the more weary my leg muscles seems to get.  No, I might be lucky to reach my car and drive home.

What could this be? Less than a week earlier I had my regular physical at the Doctor's. Ha!, physical is sort of a misnomer anymore. There is far less physical than chemical. The Doctor hardly ever touches you. Ha! Doctor, you seldom actually see the doctor. You generally see a Nurse Practitioner, who takes your blood pressure and your temperature with devices that work automatically. No more old time thermometer with Mercury; no more cuffed sphygmomanometer with the squeeze ball. (Do they even call it a sphygmomanometer anymore? I think it is just a Blood Pressure Meter.) Mostly, though, they give you a scorecard (this is where the chemical comes in) breakdown of your scores from a lab. Most of these are blood tests, a couple are from urine.

Anyway, I had passed with flying colors (red and yellow?). It was one of the best physicals I ever had. Everything was in good balance. My creatine was a bit raised, but it had been at that elevation for over a year and I had a nephrologist keeping an eye on it. I had a follow-up appointment with that guy coming up in June. Of course, my cholesterol  were higher than they liked.

No reason not to continue of long morning walks. In fact, the NP was surprised and delighted I  took these and she encouraged them. You got to keep moving for good health. The only complaint I had was a slight running of my nose and stuffiness. She thought it was just a spring allergy and she prescribed some antibiotic called Cefdinir along with OTC Allergy Relief tablets.  I dutifully followed her direction and faithfully took these.

And then someone threw that light switch.

I was a good boy, I went the doctor about it. Yeah, I waited a bit because I had two doctor appointments lined up in June, one at the Rheumatologist and one at the Urologist.  I decided to go to those appointments and see what they might say. Thy both said I was doing great, come back to see them in 6 months. Sp then I called Dr. Fears office and sang them my tale of woe and they booked me in right away. (Dr. Fears is not his real name, but it is what I am going to call him.)

Lo and behold, Dr. Fears came out of the secret Bat Cave and saw me himself. I don't consider that a good thing. He always acts impatient, like his time is so valuable and you are interrupting whatever it is he does back in the Bat Cave.

I told him first of all I had followed the nurses proscribed medication and direction, but it didn't work, I still had that throat clearing, nose-running. He grabbed a proscription pad (actually his tablet) and did an order for more Cefdinir.

Hmm, I am already on a medication that lowers my immune system, but treats my Arthritis.

Meanwhile, Dr. Fears is already out of his chair headed toward the door. He hadn't even addressed my main concern and why I came. I quickly stopped him, "I can't walk," I blurted.

He cam back and sat down. "What do you mean you can't walk."

So I explained to him orally all of what I wrote about above.  He grabbed the trusting proscription pPrednisone belongs to a class of drugs known as corticosteroids. It decreases your immune system's response to various diseases to reduce symptoms such as swelling and allergic-type reactions." 

ad again and ordered me some Prednisone. "

He then gave me an order for two, not one, but two MRIs and a bunch of Cardiology Tests.

I was told to make an appointment with a Neurologist, who name he gave me. 

So, let the fishing begin!