Tragic Sandwich

Category: Health and Fitness

  • This Post Probably Won’t Get A Lot of Views

    Because, really, how many people want to read about someone’s vasomotor rhinitis?

    All my life, I’ve had lousy sinuses. I cannot remember a time when I didn’t have to have a box of Kleenex next to my bed. In middle school, I took so much Dristan that it stopped working. For decades. In high school I started taking the first of any number of steroid nasal sprays.

    Allergy tests always came up negative. (“You’re mildly allergic to pet dander, mold, dust mites, and Johnson grass, but not enough to warrant shots.”) X-rays showed nothing that could really be improved by surgery. At least in grad school I had plenty of company; everyone I knew kept a box of Kleenex next to the door, because chances were good that a visitor would need a Kleenex even before they could say hello. Apparently Williamsburg, Virginia, kills everyone’s sinuses.

    A couple of months ago I had a CT scan and a consultation with an ENT specialist. I’m in a “grey area” regarding surgery. A couple of weeks ago I saw an allergist, who said, “Well, you don’t have allergies” and repeated the vasomotor rhinitis diagnosis I got from an Army doctor 30 years ago.

    That’s right, my sinus problems are caused by the weather. Thanks a lot, weather. It’s probably good that I’m not Ororo Munroe, because instead of being a powerful and largely benevolent member of the X-Men, I’d just use my powers of weather control to make my sinus problems more manageable.

    So, if I don’t have allergies and it’s not bad enough to mandate surgery, how bad is it? Well, let me put it this way. Before Baguette was born, I was on an Internet forum where someone posed the question, “Is there anything you don’t want your baby to inherit from either of you?”

    It took me about one second to type in: sinuses.

  • Christmas Redux

    Not the way you think. Baguette had a stomach bug that she passed on to Mr. Sandwich, and I developed some sort of nasal congestion/drippy horror that threw me for a loop. We had this exact combo at Christmas, when we traveled half the length of the state to visit Sandwich Pere and Sandwich Belle-mere. At least this time we were local.

    Baguette recovered first, and then just as Mr. Sandwich started to get over his version of her bug, he got mine. So now both of us have what has turned out to be a horrible cold, just in time for Baguette’s birthday party this weekend. And because we were sick, we took sick days from work–making this week even shorter than we had planned it to be.

    But at least there’s soup. I made another batch of potato-cheese soup, because the last one froze and thawed and kept an edible consistency. And then I made a batch of beef stew, which is what we’ve been eating the last couple of evenings.

    Soup, by the way , is easy. You just cut things up and then let them simmer. But let me tell you–when you have a cold, that process is exhausting. And you’re already exhausted. But you just want soup. So you have to choose between rest and soup. (I know there are canned soups. I don’t like them.)

    I chose soup. And it is tasty. But, wow, do I wish I had more rest.

  • What’s in a Name?

    Mr. Sandwich had his second surgery today, to separate the graft. The surgeon tells us that it looks like the grafts took 100%, which is a relief. It’ll be more of a relief when his pain goes away, and his stitches come out.

    While I was waiting to pick up his prescriptions, I had lunch at a nearby restaurant. The signage was a little confusing. Is it Amer’s Falafel? California Mediterranean Grill? Well, the menu clears this up: California Mediterranean Grill by Amer’s Falafel.

    I had the falafel plate (hey, falafel is right there in the name of the place!), which came with a vast number of tiny balls of falafel and three sides.

    The falafel was good, but the sides were the stars. The rice wasn’t particularly distinctive, but the avocado salad was delicious. What really stood out, though, was the hummus. Smooth, creamy, flavorful…this is the best hummus I’ve ever had. It was so good that I got a side order to go, so that I can have more over the weekend.

    The good news is that there are lots of places to get Mediterranean food in this area, which means that I can compare versions of hummus. But Amer’s Falafel has set the bar pretty high.

  • Best-Laid Plans

    So here’s the schedule: arrive at the surgical center at noon. Surgery at 1:15, lasting about 90 minutes. Recovery time, etc., figure we’ll be home late afternoon.

    Here’s what happened:

    12:00 Arrive at surgical center. Told the doctor is running about 30 minutes behind.

    12:45 Told the doctor is running an hour behind.

    1:30 Mr. Sandwich is taken back to prep for his surgery. I go to move the car.

    1:40 I return to the waiting room to find Mr. Sandwich, who has been sent back due to the delay.

    2:00 Mr. Sandwich is taken back again.

    3:25 The doctor comes out to tell me that he will start in about 5 minutes. (I immediately–and, as it turns out, correctly–surmise that Mr. Sandwich has sent him.)

    4:10 I tell the only remaining member of the office staff that I, the only remaining person in the waiting room, am about to cross the street so that I can buy another book at Barnes & Noble.

    4:30 I return to find myself locked out of the waiting room. Eventually, someone lets me back in.

    5:55 A nurse tells me that Mr. Sandwich’s surgery is almost done, and he should be going to recovery soon.

    6:30 The doctor comes out and tells me about how the surgery went (generally well) and what Mr. Sandwich will need to do–and not do–over the next 10 days as he recovers. I know that none of this news is going to make Mr. Sandwich happy.

    6:45 A nurse comes to get me so that I can sit with Mr. Sandwich as he is in recovery.

    8:00 We finally leave.

    Of course, then I had to get him settled at home, call family members, figure out what each of us was going to eat (I’d had lunch before we left, but he’d had nothing since the previous midnight), and go back out to get his prescriptions filled. So it wound up being a very long day, which started with Mr. Sandwich in a dressing and bandage that covered his finger, and ended with him in a cast from above his elbow to beyond his fingertips. He’s got a sling for when he’s walking around, and he’s supposed to keep it elevated as much as possible.

  • Alas, Poor Fingertip

    After a week of intermittent Percocet, today we went back to the hand specialist to see what had developed inside the splint. Unfortunately, the reattached piece didn’t take, and tomorrow Mr. Sandwich will have to have surgery for a skin graft. He’s not supposed to eat anything after midnight, which will make for an awfully hungry Friday. But hopefully this will be more successful, and he’ll heal well. Wish him luck.

  • If You’re Squeamish, Stop Reading Now

    So I’m sitting on the couch while Mr. Sandwich and one of his friends are working in the garage. All of a sudden, Mr. Sandwich walks in briskly and says, “We’re going to the emergency room.”

    I follow him into the bathroom to learn what’s going on, where he shows me that his left index finger is now missing a chunk of flesh.

    What? I warned you.

    While he ran water over his finger, I handed him a washcloth and went into the garage to find the piece of his fingertip. There it was, on the workbench. I put it in a baggie, which I wrapped in paper towels and then put in a bag of ice (you want to keep it cold, but not wet or directly on the ice).

    That’s when we realized that we had no idea where the nearest ER might be. Fortunately, the 911 operator was able to give me the address and cross street, and away we went. The friend was kind enough to lock up the garage on our behalf.

    After an X-ray, some lidocaine, and a lot of forms, the doctor sewed the finger back together. Apparently there’s only about a 25% chance it will heal properly, and there are going to be a number of visits to a specialist to monitor it.

    But, hey, at least now we know how to get to that hospital. And guess who plans to wear gloves during future projects!

  • Quality Time

    Two of my friends–and one six-year-old–met for coffee on Sunday morning. (Not to worry. The six-year-old drank water. Her growth remains unstunted.) In an effort to find a location that was new, and was easily accessible from our three different points of origin, we settled on Jennifer’s Coffee Connection. In a corner strip mall in Studio City, Jennifer’s offers friendly service and a comfortable atmosphere. Oh, and the coffee’s pretty good, too.

    From there it was off to the mall (just me) in search of a pair of grey slacks. This search was fruitless, as specific searches so often are. However, while at the mall, I found Healing Hands.

    I’ve been meaning to find a new massage place, and this may be it. It’s not quite what I’m used to; the space is an open store with a combination of massage chairs, foot massage loungers, and massage tables. Everything is open, which is why you get your massages fully clothed. But you know what? It was pretty effective, and very affordable–I paid $35 for 30 minutes, which is a little more than I’m used to (I go to really cheap places) but certainly within my range.

  • Spectating

    I know you’re all wondering what it’s like to watch someone run a marathon.

    To begin with, you get up at 4:30 a.m., just like the runner does. Mr. Sandwich and I had prepared the night before; although we didn’t get to bed as early as we said we would, we did pack bags with every conceivable item that a runner might need, and put them by the door.

    So in the wee hours of the morning, we headed for downtown L.A. (noting, since we are not usually up quite that early, that the sprinklers need to be adjusted, because the sidewalk does not really need water to thrive). There we met his parents and sister, as well as the afore-photographed Glenn, who was also running. After walking the runners in the general direction of the start, Mr. Sandwich’s mother and sister and I headed back to the car and drove off to a point near Mile 9.

    We passed quite a bit of time at the McDonald’s at the corner of La Brea and Rodeo. (This is “Rodeo” like the competition with bucking broncos, not like the street where Julia Roberts did a lot of shopping in “Pretty Woman.” But I digress.) Clearly, this is the local hangout. The patrons all seemed to know each other, whether they were eating on their own or in large groups of older men. One man stopped periodically at different tables to ask for food; I bought him a large coffee as he requested, but did not give him 75 cents when he came back 15 minutes later.

    After a while we walked down to Rodeo and West MLK, where the race takes a hard right turn to head east before heading north. We cheered on Mr. Sandwich and his father, but neither of them had any idea where Glenn had gotten to. Since we had no way of knowing where Glenn was or what his pace might be, we headed back to the car to find another spot.

    This involves a lot of driving, because the Marathon closes off any number of major streets throughout the western half of L.A. Although we wanted to head northeast, we had to go quite far west to avoid road closures. Eventually (with only one instance of drastically overshooting our turn), we wound up between Miles 19 and 20–in a small-world moment, across the street from my boss and her family, who were waiting to see a friend of their own. Again, we saw Mr. Sandwich and his father, but not Glenn, and this time one of our many items of gear was actually needed–the SalonPas spray that we’d purchased at the expo. Mr. Sandwich took the spray with him, in case his dad needed another application, and the three of us headed back to the car and then back downtown.

    [Aside: In some parts of Europe, spectators at bicycle races will clang cowbells at the racers, apparently as an alternative to cheering. We have a small cowbell-esque bell, but between the water and the gear and the camera and the looking for my favorite competitor, I can’t also ring a cowbell. So if you’re ever at a race and you hear someone yell “COWBELL!”, come say hello. It’s probably me.]

    It’s impossible to get to the real finish line, so we waited in the “reunion area” which is marked by banners with giant letters, so that you can hang out with people whose last names start with the same letter as yours. The music is deafening and cacaphonous, and the food from the various vendors is very enticing. Eventually Mr. Sandwich and his father made their way over to the curb where we were perched, and shortly after that we managed to find Glenn. So all were reunited, and then we went our separate ways.

    And then there were cheeseburgers.

  • L.A. Marathon 2009

    Today was the L.A. Marathon, and Mr. Sandwich and his dad ran all 26.2 miles of it. By the way, Mr. Sandwich’s dad has run all of the L.A. Marathons ever. He is persistent.

    Sandwich9miles
    Here comes Mr. Sandwich, toward mile marker 9.

    Runners19miles
    See those runners run.

    SandwichFinish
    Mr. Sandwich finishes the marathon in five hours and some seconds.

    SandwichKnee
    Mr. Sandwich’s knees hurt. Here is one of them.

    SandwichesFinish
    Mr. Sandwich and his dad are done with running for today.

    GlennSign
    Glenn’s family made him a cool sign.

    GlennSandwichesFinish
    Glenn joins the Sandwiches in being done with running for today.

    So what did I do during the race? And what’s next? Well, the answer to the first is that I may write a second post about that. And the answer to the second is pretty simple. Cheeseburgers.

  • L.A. Marathon Expo

    Tomorrow Mr. Sandwich is running the L.A. Marathon with his dad. Therefore yesterday we went to the Los Angeles Convention Center, where the Expo was being held.

    First, we waited in line to pick up his race number and schwag bag.

    Expo1

    Then we wandered somewhat aimlessly around the Expo. This gave us the chance to buy a t-shirt, consider buying jerky, fail to find socks of the sort Mr. Sandwich prefers, sample some truly disgusting hydration beverages, sit in a Honda Fit (seems comfy), and stare mindlessly at Dodgertown.

    Expo2

    Because, really, what’s a marathon without baseball?