Heroes Who Battle on Behind the Scenes

In the early morning hours, my mind drifts into that space where I can see faces and hear stories. One story is of a farmer and family in North Georgia, a story of loss of eyesight, kidneys, and multiple hospitalizations. Another is the story of a farmer and his wife from West Texas, a story of hypertension, pulmonary problems, and heart attacks, and being brought back from the brink of death. Another story is of a farmer in NW Alabama, a story with surgeries, pain that comes and goes in intensity, and multiple hospitalizations.

There are more.  There are many more.

Somewhere in there I draw some comparisons between them and me.  Their challenges were part and parcel of the price of discrimination and its brutalities and facing down the Goliath, the USDA and the DOJ and many attorneys and complicated processes. The wheels of justice grind slowly, and sometimes along the way, the wheels grind people down.

My story is one of a medical procedure that demanded a CT scan. That scan revealed something I did not know about, a cancerous tumor growing on my right kidney. Multiple medical consults, multiple CT scans, two surgeries, and multiple blood draws by phlebotomists at TMC here in Denison, Baylor Scott and White in Sherman, and University of Texas Southwestern in Dallas.

Another thread is that posted by a longtime friend and former colleague of mine, Dionne. She honored her husband, Troy, recently in a Facebook post about those who serve behind the scenes. He is a clinical microbiologist who works in a hospital lab.

Another thread is one that I wrote about back in 2019. In August I wrote a post that included a phlebotomist whose name is Amira. She is from Ethiopia and has lived here for 18 years.  Another story from November is that of Achal who moved here from Southern Sudan. She has lived here for several years.

On one occasion, Amira did the blood draw on me, and then she walked the samples to the lab. As she walked out of her work space, I introduced her to Charla.  The lab must be on the same floor as the workspace for the phlebotomists. Generally speaking, I’ll have an appointment with the lab at one hour and then with my hematologist at the following hour.  I have been amazed that the test results were generated so quickly.

There must be a number of “Troys” in that space, and there surely are a lot of people who do work under the watchful eye of the “Troys” of UT Southwestern.

So, today I identify with my friends who have experienced much tragedy and procedures as a result of the trauma to their bodies and minds when dealing with the powerful USDA and DOJ. I resonate with them because I know that those good people had their own defined number of labs done.

In the spirit of gratitude, I am thankful for Troy and for what he brings to the people of West Texas. I am also grateful for those lab workers who very quickly provide test results to my physicians so that we can know which path to take.

And I am thankful for the spirit of service amongst the phlebotomists, especially those who immigrated from far away places.

My heroes these days are Black farmers who faced challenges to hold on to their land, physicians who oversaw their procedures, and those who worked on me, the lab personnel who drew sample after sample of blood from my veins, and the lab personnel who were unseen and provided accurate readings to my physicians.

So, as you meander along life’s paths today, as you do, offer up a word of thankfulness for those seen and unseen professionals who take care of you and me.

Yesterday, Another Pivotal Day

Yesterday was another day in my move toward recovery. I told my internal medicine specialist earlier this week that I was thankful that he was at the center of my treatment. He chuckled and said that he just gets the leftovers.  Since we started this insane medical journey, I seem to have accumulated quite a group of doctors. Want to know the list? It looks like this:  internal medicine, urological oncologist, hematologist, infectious disease specialist, cardiologist, and gastrointerologist, and then there is my urologist who started the whole thing.  It is dizzying to try to keep track of appointments and data, but thanks to the electronics of the EHR system and Charla, it works fairly well.

Yesterday was another pivotal day for a couple of reasons.  One, the cardiologist declared that my heart is healthy and free of disease, and that he'd send the report to the infectious disease specialist. That was a relief. Also, I had a nurse yesterday by the name of Jordan as I woke up from a heavy, sleep induced, over killed of lidocaine and propofol. For the first time ever, anesthesia was being shipped into my muscle and not the vein. That was miserable, but the nurse anesthetist quickly removed it and put it into the back of my hand.

Then, last night, several things came together. Following a good report and competent medical care, I was on the phone with a person from the DC area who reminded me of the notion of "Death by Zip Code." I had never heard of it, though I had heard of it.

It got me thinking once more. Charla and I live in a zip code. Our mail comes to us because of that number. People around us have the same zip code. It is a rather large area. I wonder who is likely to die inside my zip code. What about other zip codes? What about zip codes where the poor live, the under served, the least of these? Though we do not live in the wealthiest of zip codes around here, nevertheless, we are comfortable. I will learn more about death by zip code.

Being in the confines of a hospital continually reminds me of my privilege. In Dallas at UT Southwestern, most of the phlebotomists and techs are people of color. The nurses are a mixture of white and brown. The doctors likewise are a mixture of white and brown. All of them are the best of the best. Likewise at TMC, the doctors are competent.  My MD yesterday was from Pakistan or somewhere, most nurses were white, and one nurse was African American. Curious the differences, or so it seems between smaller town USA and medicine and big city USA and medicine.

At a time when Charla and I comfortable and are taken care of medically by the insurances that we have, congress and the president* are allegedly about to cut back on SNAP insuring that fewer children will have food to eat.  And, there are rumors that cuts to medicaid and medicare are coming. That is happening all against a tax bill that favored the rich and the powerful of our country while marginalizing children and the poor.

Those are going on while the president* is being impeached. We are in a mess. Yes, we are in a mess.

Some zip codes from what I have heard look like war zones.  Other zip codes are low SES and people struggle with all manner of things. They may have three jobs, but none have them covered with insurance. So, they ration their medications because they have to pay out of pocket.  Some do not get the medication they need so they will die.

Think I'm kidding?  Go to the podcast 1619 and listen to the fourth podcast, "How the Bad Blood Started," and listen to the story of Uncle Eddie.  Listen to her describe the events in the life and health of her favorite uncle.  Listen and weep.

We can do better America.  Yes, we can do better, but we cannot do so under the current level of thinking nor under the current administration.  This administration was built and paid for by the rich and the famous.  The Uncle Eddies of our lives will die.

May you, my reader, are an Uncle Eddie.  I hope not.  I pray not.

Needles, Phobias, and Stories

Long ago and far away I had a needle phobia, a serious needle phobia. It was real, complete with sweating, dreading, and pain far beyond what was really there in those nerve endings.  During my masters internships, I had the opportunity to sort through it. Apparently, there were some unconscious associations that were truly hidden deeply in my unconscious mind, and when those connections were made (that story is for another day), the phobia disappeared.

Now, after five months of two surgeries, multiple blood tests, a bone marrow aspiration, a partial nephrectomy, a gall bladder removal, and a diagnosis of small cell lymphacytic lymphoma, I feel all needled out, but tomorrow there will be at least one more, and there will be more down the road. 

Several people have made those penetrations and procedures bearable including, number one, hands down, is Charla.  She has been my number one supporter, cheerleader, and advocate. Of late we have discussed vicarious PTSD and the suffering of the caregiver. A distant second would be my medical team, those phlebotomists, technicians, nurses, nurse practitioners, and physicians, and the front line staff. 

Tomorrow I will show up for labs.  In that lab will be a large group of phlebotomists and some will recognize me and I will recognize them. I have my story of journeying to their place of work. They have their stories of journeying to their place of work from other countries. 

A goofy thing I do is to say to each person before she or he sticks the needle in my arm is the line, "I like to live in the pain-free zone. Can you help me live in that place?"  They usually say something after a chuckle like, "I don't know. You tell me." It lightens the moment and allows me to engage them and their stories. I will inevitably affirm their use of that needle. 

Tomorrow I hope to see Achal.  She is a very competent phlebotomist and is kind and gracious.  She immigrated to this country from South Sudan. She had wanted to go to college, if I remember her story correctly, and play volleyball. However, she chose to honor the request of her family, or the demands of her family, and thus she became a worker in the medical world.  She has lived in America several years.  When I asked her, "Has American been good to you," she replies with "there is no perfect place" and something about taking the good with the bad. 

I think America is not terribly welcoming these days to immigrants, especially those who are brown skinned. I do not know how much more difficult that it would be for people like her if they were trying to coming to American under the current administration. Check out a few things about the white nationalism that is lurking in the White House and is shaping policy.  It's all over the news these days.  

So, I'll be happy to see Achal or Amir or the guy from the Philippines whose name I cannot remember, the guy who put my blood in something like 17 vials a while back.

They have their stories of struggle and resilience.  Charla and I have our stories of struggle and resilience these last five months.  Our stories overlap and connect. That's what I like about hanging around with humans. We get to swap stories. 

Stories are our habituations.  We live in and through them. They give us meaning and purpose. 

As these good people do their jobs well, they are creating shalom, and some measure of justice, in making the world a better place, one procedure at a time.