The Attila Driving School and the Modern Flower Stall

All you need to do sometimes for fun in the city is just get yourself to the corner. The other day I was there and waiting for the light to change. I happened to look at one of the cars also waiting and the driver side door said "Attila Driving School". Does it attract a certain clientele? Perhaps those who wish to take no prisoners of pedestrians. And then, several months ago but my illness intervened before I could write about it, the flower stand on the corner changed hands and for several days all the green boards of shelving were taken down, cut up, reassembled in various layouts, then finally reassembled exactly as they were and painted a darker shade of green. While all the sawing and assembling was happening, my wife asked why. He was, the new owner/operator said, making a "modern" flower stand. It has been joined, on the other stand, by a modern cheap toys bazaar, which features a blonde doll the proprietor keeps wound up so the doll is waving her arms and legs as she lies on her stomach. Must work. The original one sold and today he had two more. For a few days there was also an outdoor fruit stand, but that -- despite me spending a dollar once for three good bananas -- seems to have folded.

Undergrounds

Every city of any size has its underground music scene. London has its Underground; we have the MTA in New York. But fall out of health and you find a whole new underground -- medical supply stores, places that when fully healthy and walking along the street, I never noticed or, if I did, gave them a glance and passed, losing the memory of them less than half a block on. Since getting the prescription from Dr. B., however, for what are delicately called "medical legwear," I got to enter a whole new underground with shelves stacked with items to restore health or cope with managing every kind of sickness. Who knew? Waiting to be fitted for my medical legwear, I sat in front of a display of inhalers, and the picture on the side of one box looked a dead ringer for our first grandchild, who for a couple of years had to use an inhaler frequently. In this array of newness I couldn't keep from wondering just how many more undergrounds exist for specialized segments of NYC's population

Enough of Recovery (for Now), Let's Talk Weather

The fourth straight day of miserable and surprisingly cold-feeling weather lingers here today. A tree got blown over Saturday night in Sakura Park, up toward Grant's Tomb, where I walk Sam in the morning. The evidence of the strength of the wind and rain, especially on Saturday, is everywhere in trash receptacles along the streets -- broken up umbrellas tossed away. Or sometimes just thrown down on the street -- in the small street corner park at 125th and St. Nicholas, whose main attraction is a sculpture which looks like nothing so much as a woman's platform high-heeled shoe, D. counted eight abandoned umbrellas, their cloth ripped, their spines turned inside out, just thrown down along the fence or by the pedestrian bench. We are promised an end to it all tomorrow; we shall see.

Well, OooooooK....

I forgot to ask the very impressive Dr. B a couple things at the appointment so, at his nurse's suggestion, sent him an e-mail with these three questions: 1) How long do I wear the stockings? All day except when sleeping? 2) Based on what you saw from the ultrasounds, what is the status of the clots in my legs? 3) How long would you recommend I wait before taking a short (2 hrs) and long (5 plus hours) plane trip?

He replied: "stockings during day, not at nite. i would avoid airplanes, they tend to make clots. clots are improved and flow better but still present." So I'll be wearing the stockings the rest of my life and never fly again? Hmmm...one question answered out of three. Will have to pursue with Dr. M., who will get the results of this referral.

I Don't Want No Stinkin Self-Injection Regimen

Dr. M. is not happy with the coumadin levels and so I am going in for twice weekly testing of them. The last -- from yesterday -- is higher, but not high enough. She had increased the nightly intake to 10 mg over the weekend and offered the prospect of self-injecting (or having DD or B inject) heparin as a supplement to bring them up enough. I balked at the prospect of sticking myself in the stomach (presumably) with a needle and we compromised on upping the daily amount of coumadin. It is now 8 mg and to be tested again on Friday. I intend to continue bargaining intensely against pointing and using a syringe on myself. We will see.

Yesterday was the vascular surgeon, Dr. B., who also -- from the newspaper articles on his consulting room walls -- does kidney transplants and is active in international dr. organizations. He had seen me in the hospital, but I had no recollection of him. From his tech my legs got a full ultrasound scan and the only outcomes were 1) a prescription for compression stockings on both legs -- as DD says, good thing I'm in relatively good shape because otherwise I'd be completely worn down from seeing drs. nearly every day. Anyway, that's down on E. 72nd. And 2) word that he doesn't have to see me for any further followup. These are good things.

Spring is in the air in NYC -- temps nearly 60 the last two days. Today I'm feeling great, far less spacey in the brain.

Coumadin Body

Here's the definition: Coumadin --by 1953, name for human anti-coagulant use of the rat poison warafin sodium, abstracted from the chemical name, 3-(α-acetonylbenzyl)-4-hydroxycoumarin; earlier known as Dicoumarol, it attained publicity when it was used in 1955 to treat U.S. President Dwight Eisenhower after a heart attack.

It's one of the main drugs I'm taking now. My sister A. used to talk about chemo brain to describe her inability to think as sharply after getting chemotherapy for her cancer (I have a little bit of that too, probably due to the combination of drugs. It makes me think I should be like the protagonist of Memento and tattoo clues to what I've done or haven't done, said or haven't said, on my body. Or have I already written that in a previous post ? See, there's the point.)

Anyway, coumadin body is what I now call my tremendous sensitivity to cold, which I've had ever since coming home and now, thanks to DD reading me a list of less dire side effects of the drug, understand better. For a hypersensitivity to cold tops the list of minor coumadin side effects. Although this has been a fairly typical Feb - March for NYC as far as temps go, I have been felt cold ever since coming home now just over two weeks ago. Sleep in my sweat pants and a couple layers of shirts, for example. And now with her reading the effects of the drug I now have an explanation for it. Next three days are supposed to be above 50 degrees. That should be a nice antidote.

I continue with follow-up appts, including with the lead doctor on the case, probably next week. So far all are pleased at the progress and find nothing unexpected in my recovery.

So Long PICC Line

Nurse C. came today and removed my PICC line. PICC, Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter, if you've never the pleasure of having one. It is used to deliver antibiotics, and I had my last dose today. Getting it placed was slightly painful, but my mind may just have been focused on the creey-factor, having plastic tubing threaded into a vein. My first one at the rehab became clogged and had to be removed. I watched. Very high creepy factor, like observing a scrawny worm being pulled from your insides. Today I did not watch. But painless. Tomorrow I go see the cardiologist. A little light-headed today, but otherwise, continuing daily improvement.

Life in the (Very) Slow Lane

J. flew off to Seattle today, so I am alone in the apt. until DD gets home tomorrow. He was a very fine caregiver. We will next see him in May, when he may move to New York. I would like that. All continues to go well, last dose of antibiotic is tomorrow and then I go see the cardiologist on Wednesday. Continue to wake up 2-3 times a night for an hour or so at a time. Still too much edema, despite the lasix medication. When I go out, I walk very, very slowly; I now belong to a group that I scarcely noticed before, but when I saw them, at least I made an effort to get out of their difficult way. Now living in that group, it's kind of amazing how many people moving at roughly 2-3 times the pace I am able to keep expect me to get out of their way and to do it quickly. That is, if they are even looking around themselves. For New Yorkers weave on the sidewalk, or pick their path and hold straight to it, or carry on an active conversation with their companions or can't be bothered to look where they are going because they are too busy texting. So, in the (very) slow lane, it is mighty hard to stay out of harm's way.