Does this mean I'm OLD??!

I wasn't going to do this. I. Was. Not. Going. To. Do. This. Period. I just wasn't. Not ever. Oh, c'mon, you know what I'm talking about: discussing my aches and pains. It's just too darned old-personey. But since I know you're wondering where I've been, I guess I'll just have to give in and tell you.

The day after I returned from a weekend with my sister, I started having pain in my left leg. First of all, you should probably know that, in our family, the left leg is always referred to as "the polio leg." A legacy from my mother's bout with polio in 1950. Her left leg bore the brunt of the disease and the ongoing affliction. So my mom had a "good" leg and a polio leg. After many years of hearing it referred to that way, it just sort of rubbed off. Yes, you're right: we are odd.

Anyway, this pain in my polio leg was harshly reminiscent of the sciatica that I had suffered in my right leg (also know as my "good leg") until I had back surgery in 1998. The main difference this time was that the sciatica wasn't accompanied by back pain, and - after 24 hours of nonstop pain - I was starting to consider amputation as a viable treatment. See, the pain of sciatica is similar to what it feels like when you hit your funny bone; you know there's nothing funny about it. It's kind of electric and painful, all at once. But the sciatic pain doesn't stop - or at least not long enough to notice. And this time - another difference - the pain was starting mid-hip, radiating all the way down my leg, and going out - I'm not making this up - at my ankle. It really, truly, felt as if I could still feel it about three inches into the air around my ankle.

It hurt. A lot.

So, being quite adept at self-diagnosis and self-medicating, I decided that it was probably inflamed and I needed an anti-inflammatory. The best (non-prescription) anti-inflammatory I could come up with was aspirin. To my generation, aspirin still qualifies as a miracle drug. This, despite the bad rep it's acquired over the years. Those childhood lessons die hard! Yes, I know the dangers of giving it to children, and I am militant about that. But I personally have never had a bad experience with aspirin.

Since I fill the role of Granny Nanny to my 7 month old granddaughter three days each week, and add her 4 year old brother to the mix on Thursdays, I knew I needed to be able to function. I also knew I probably ought to go to the doctor, but could probably put that off till Friday. By Wednesday, the only way to keep the pain abated was with three (yes, you read that correctly) aspirin, every three (that, too) hours. Around the clock. I know it was around the clock, because when it wore off at night, the pain woke me up. So I just took three before I went to sleep, put three more on my nightstand for when I woke in the night, and then took three more upon awakening. Around the clock, like I said. Wednesday and Thursday. It was the only way I could keep from crying with pain.

Thursday I noticed that I wasn't hearing very well. When people spoke, the letter "s" didn't sound sibilant; it was as if it was being swallowed. And the blinker signals in my car were muted. But Jim had a cold that had gone into his ears, so I thought maybe I was catching it, too. All I really cared about was the pain, and I continued treating it.

Friday morning, I called my doctor's office. I must have sounded pretty bad, because they got me in right away. Normally it takes a day or two, but the scheduling nurse sounded really sympathetic. When I arrived, the nurse practitioner (superior to a doctor in many ways, in my estimation!) listened to my tale of woe and pain, asked all the pertinent questions, and began to prescribe. She asked me what I'd been taking, and I told her. I learned a long time ago not to lie to my medical professionals! Almost offhandedly, I asked her to please check my ears, since my hearing wasn't so good. She looked at me and said, "NO MORE ASPIRIN!" My ears were clear, but my hearing was shot. There really are warning signs on the aspirin bottle about that. But I'd ignored them.

So she fixed me up with Flexeril, Vicodin, and prescription-strength Aleve, told me to go home, take the drugs, and go to bed. And she handed me a sheet of exercises to help with the sciatica. I spent the next four days in a drug-induced stupor, mostly in bed, waking only long enough for bathroom, food, more drugs, and back up the stairs to bed. By late Sunday, my hearing was almost normal and the pain was mostly gone.

I stayed on a modified regimen of the drugs all of last week - taking only enough to take the edge off so I could take care of the grandkids - and did my exercises. Over this past weekend, the pain was relieved enough that I was able to prune my roses and even do a little shopping. Today I feel great!

I'm still taking the Aleve, since it's only twice a day and I have to take it with meals. I think today will be my last day with it, though. Oh, and I got rid of all the aspirin.

There, I've done it. I've gone public with old-age behavior. I hope you still respect me.

Growing old in the age of modern medicine

My mom (as well a lot of other people) used to say, "If I'd known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself!) That has become my new refrain as I move toward 62.

I don't feel old, and I certainly don't think of myself as old (I do refrain from mini-skirts, however; I'm not blind yet!), and I know that my 61 is not my grandmother's 61. However...

Years of falling off my bike, jumping from moderately high places, working long hours on my feet, and a lifetime of weight gains and losses have taken a toll on my poor knees. Especially my left knee. The dreaded arthritis. It hurts my viscera just to see it in print.

The pain was awful, waking me up at night and then keeping me awake. Bringing tears to my eyes at times. Keeping me from running and jumping at the playground with Addison ("You knee hurt again, Gran?") In other words, knee pain was dramatically affecting my quality of life.

So, off I went to The Bone Doc, a nice young man, only a year older than my oldest son, which is another thing about getting older, but that's for another day! He took x-rays and then took the time to x-plain them. Both knees are arthritic, and there's really no difference in the degree. So why does my left knee hurt and my right knee feels fine? He doesn't know and neither do I.

As I sat there, expecting him to start discussing surgical options, he surprised me by saying, "There are several methods of treatment, and I want you to be comfortable with what we do. It's really your decision." Since I had really thought my only option would be knee replacement, this was nice to hear. As he began to discuss the options, I was intrigued by the idea of injections - not cortisone, not steroids, but of a medication derived from roosters' combs! Hyalgan, it's called, and I had heard about it from a family member just a few weeks before. It requires three injections, one week apart, into the joint. The results can be dramatic and can last for up to a year.

Sign me up!

To make a long story short, I actually had four injections, because of our December snow "event." It caused me to miss a week and I didn't want to take any chances, since the injections weren't the most pleasant medical care I've ever had! More uncomfortable than painful, but still.

The last injection was two weeks ago, and the results have bordered on miraculous! I no longer wake up with knee pain during the night. I can crawl around on the floor with Addison, run and jump, get up and down stairs easily. Oh, I'm still a bit stiff sometimes, but that's to be expected, given my age and level of activity. BUT I DON'T HURT!

And that, Dear Reader, is cause for celebration.