One Sick Mother

Book Larnin'

Since I got sick, I have been referred three times to Physical Therapy. I have never graduated from PT. I never got the coveted graduation t-shirt. But I spent quite a bit of time over there. Nice people.

The first referral was for hands and back. Then it turned out that my insurance will only cover one body part at a time. I asked if "hands" was considered one body part or two?  It was one. So we started on hand therapy.  I was only a few weeks into therapy when I did something to my neck. So the neck became a priority and the hand therapy was were dropped. Fine.

THEN, about halfway through the neck therapy, my lower back went to pieces and the prescription was re-written. Again. No problem. We switched from neck to back.

Now the neck exercises had posed no problem for me. I have been pushing and pulling on little weights and pulleys and various thingys in standing, sitting and supine positions. The only real problem I ever had was if they "worked on me" upright. I learned the hard way that I needed to be flat for a neck massage or my pain went into the stratosphere.

When we started on "fixing" (ha!) my lower back, most of the exercises were performed laying on my back. That's when I started having seizures during PT. They and I tried a lot of stuff: eating / no eating beforehand, elevating my head somewhat (which definitely helped but didn't eliminate the problem), drinking water, no water.  We tried everything. But I could not show up for PT on my lower back and be sure I WOULDN'T have a seizure. In fact, I had them more than 50% of the time. It was starting to get silly, and I was politely asked to discontinue physical therapy until the seizure problem was fixed.  I was freaking out the therapists and the other patients.  Not to mention myself (but nobody asked me how I felt).

That was about 18 months ago. The problem isn't fixed, so I have had no physical therapy in that time.  However, I still have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. I still have problems with my neck, back and hands. None of that has gone away. Just the help was removed. I haven't really sweated it for now. I have bigger fish to fry. But physical conditioning -my lack of it- has been at the back of my mind.

Recently, when on-line at the pharmacy to pick up the pills for my freaky test, I picked up a book entitled "Overcoming Neck and Back Pain by Lisa Morrone, PT.  I flicked through it and it looked kind of interesting. A lot dealt with posture and sleeping position and very practical-looking tips. So I bought it for myself as a little Christmas gift.

I am not a big one for self-help books and I am really down on self-treatment without professional guidance. However, what I liked about this book was trhat it explained a lot that made sense to me: Like why sleeping on your stomach is bad (and I do it all the time) and how to correct it.

I don't want to turn this post into an advert for a book. I definitively think -especially for EDS-ers or people with any disabilities, actual physical therapy is the way to go. But there may be some people out there, who -like me- cannot go to PT right now, and a bit of book larning from this or a similar book  might benefit them too.

I haven't really started to implement any of the stuff from the book yet, BTW. I will post in a few weeks and let you know how I get on.

Backwards-izing

I used to be a total technophile. I had a cellphone in 1988, a palmpilot in 1997. I scorned paper, preferring electronic media -or good old-fashioned mental prowess- to store information. I never used speedial. I remembered most of the phone numbers I used regularly, and looked the others up on my phone or palmpilot.

My Da always used a slim black pocket diary, which he got for free every year as one of his "perks" for working for IBM. After he left IBM, I bought him a  similar diary for each New Year, because -although he was a technophile too, I never really got him into the mobile computing thing. Not until the very end of his life, and ...well. I still associate the slim black diary with Da and not the Sharp ...whatever-it-was, that I think I still have in a box somewhere, complete with his personal notes, too painful to read even 11 years later.  Honestly, I would rather have one of the diaries now, with his handwriting intact.

Since I became sick, I have lost a lot of my cognitive function and mental capacity. Initially, I tried to compensate by using machines: Software, PDAs and watches with alarms to ding and remind me to eat, take meds and go to doctors.

But technology has its limits, and somehow -I am not sure how- I pushed my devices to their limits. I totally wiped everything; appointments, names, e-mails, phone numbers. Twice. I had to e-mail as many people as I had in my on-line account and beg them to supply the missing information. Twice.

And then I decided that I could not do the syncing, connecting, fiddling and archiving that one needs with an electronic device. I just didn't have the wherewithal anymore.
 
So last week, I bought a slim back diary like my Da used to use. Yes, it's a step backwards; -from a technical standpoint. But I think it is the correct level of technology for me right now.  And if it helps me, who cares?

I'm all about help these days and less about the microchip.  I hope someday to reverse this back to normal (for me) priorities: Form before function. But I need to get well first.

First well: Then pretentious.

Priorities, dahling.

It Is Interesting Who Finds Me

Actually, more interesting are the search criteria which bring people to this blog.

The biggest search is hypochondria, which leads to this post  (and sorry. I never wrote Part II. I started it several times, but each time, I got too angry to finish it).

Another big one is Michael Phelps and Marfan Syndrome or Michael Phelps and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Also Michael Phelps and Autism -although I have never written that Phelps may be autistic. However, I wrote about both subjects separately, so I guess searches will lead here.

Autism and schizophrenia is another big one, which takes one to this piece or one of the original posts that comprise it.

I get a lot of hits on vitamin C and scurvy questions which takes one here, here or here, depending on the search

Syringomyelia is another, but I don't often write about that

More worringly, however, are the recent hits I have had with people searching on "how to hurt yourself"  I wrote a post with that title here. But it was an Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome post, not a self-help guide to self-destruction.  I only believe in the "self-help" side of that equation.

I started this blog to help myself and in the hope of helping others who were looking for answers. There are clearly a lot of people looking for answers, given the hits I get from the search engines. But sometimes, I fear they *may* get the answer they seek, rather than the answers they need.

I don't think I can fix this and that thought makes me sad.

Freaky Test Christmas

First of all, I want to wish a merry Christmas and happy everything else to all my readers. I hope you are having a good winter break and eating lots of goodies that will make you fat. ;)

I had a seizurey Christmas, unfortunately. I thin kit was caused by the freaky test.

The freak test was my Endocrinologist's idea. He is checking adrenal function and God-Know-what else.  Now he is usually booked up two months in advance for visits, but they managed to get me in for two weeks from my last visit to go over these results, So I had to get the freaky tests done before Christmas. But because of the complicated test, migraine and family schedules, I was kind of delayed in starting the test.

The freaky test was this:

1. Follow a specific diet for a day.
2. Collect pee in a special bottle for a day/evening
3. Take two pills at night
4. In the morning, continue collecting pee and doing the diet
5. Have nothing to eat or drink, go to the lab and hand in the big jug of pee
6. Stand for 30 minutes
7. Have blood drawn
8. Give two more pee samples.

(the endo, sweetie that he is and knowing I have problems remembering stuff,  wrote it all down for me)

The second day with the blood draw, fasting and whatnot was Christmas Eve. I fully expected to feel horrible that day, after the meds, fasting ans whatnot. However I felt pretty good. The kids and I got a lot done, and I ate and drank coffee with no consequences.

Christmas day dawned. I thought (hoped) that my "good" day might be repeated. Wrong!  I was fine during present opening and all that stuff. Then I ate breakfast. And had a big seizure. I recovered after about 90 minutes and ate something else. I had a big seizure. Again.

I recovered (remember, during all his, I am trying to cook Christmas dinner. Thankfully we had no guests this year).  Fool that I am, I ate a little slice of gingerbread (I was starving!) I had ANOTHER humongous frickin seizure! Two hours I was out this time!.

I woke just in time to salvage the dinner, although by the time it was mostly ready, and not quite a nice as I had planned (but considering the circumstances, it's amazing we weren't looking for an open McDonalds), Joe was hungry and pacing like an ornery wee argumentative Irish tiger.

That was a bad seizure day, even by my standards. I don't usually have three full-out events in a row like that. Especially considering the food I was ingesting. So got to thinking if the funky test was responsible?  If the pills I took on Tuesday night, which made me feel a lot better on Wednesday, had some kind of rebound effect on Thursday?

I looked it up and it is a steroid, so has implications on almost everything. No real clues there.

I guess the endo and I will have a lot to discuss in a couple of weeks.

I hope you all had a better Christmas than I had. However, if this freaky test finally yields some answers, an imperfect dinner will be worth it to me.

Going to See Santa With A Nun

I should have entitled this piece "going with a nun to see Santa" Or "Brought to see Santa by a nun". Because there could definitely be some Connotations gleaned from that title. And knowing my friends, gleaned they will be.

Well I am sorry to report, this is not a story of a depraved bachelorette party or amateur porn. This is a story from my childhood. I was reminded of it today when felled by a migraine, I had to take a break from being run by errands and found Miracle on 34th St (the new version) on the telly. How different was my experience from the movies!  I thought I would put it in here for reminiscence sake, and for the benefit of those readers who find it hard to conceive what life was like in a Convent orphanage.

I think I was seven or eight, which would make my younger sister, who is also called Grace, three or four. It was the first year we had been under the care of the Convent. It may have been the first time we stayed there for longer than a few hours.

I strongly remember how completely overwhelmed we were by by that place:  It was HUGE!  It had huge rooms; huge, long, poorly lit corridors with shiny floors, which echoed the clacky heels of the nuns' shoes; dormitories with rows of beds and nightstands along the walls, like an old hospital ward, and a space to walk down the middle. a "dressing room" with blue limelonum floor that had a bathroom with rows of low, child-sized sinks.  There was one huge room divided into bedroom cubicles (usually shared) for the "big girls", where each had a few square feet to call her own. There were front stairs and back stairs and other stairs; like the ones that led directly to the beautiful little ornate chapel, which was for both nuns and kids (although the kids rarely went there unless forced, or absolutely desperate to find a good place to hide. the Chapel -off limits for games-  was the perfect place, but the price and odds of capture were high).

There were kids everywhere, so there was noise everywhere: When we first started going there, the place was pretty much full. That probably means around 60-70 kids, ranging in age from three to eighteen (and one intellectually disabled sexual abuse survivor who was older, but had no-where else safe to go).

Outside, there was the "Nun's Garden" a formal garden with a Lourdes grotto, a pond with a fountain (which was never operating), a statue of St Brigit, and the softest sproingest lawn I have ever walked upon (now, technically, I shouldn't know that, because the kids weren't supposed to play in the Nun's garden, but that was where the best climbing tree was). There was also a large field,  a yew walk, a donkey, a basketball court, a huge courtyard, and more gardens; where vegetables, fruit trees and strawberries and other stuff grew. The mausoleum, which housed the remains of the departed sisters was near the kitchen garden, which was guarded by Sheba, a beautiful German Shepherd who took nonsense from no-one; -except maybe Candy, an overweight Golden Labrador who always had dirt on her nose and Maura, the deaf woman who cooked for the nuns.  We didn't go over that way much.  The whole place was surrounded by 12' high walls, most of which had a line of trees just in front, so it was protected well from the city outside.

But that Christmas, Grace and I had not discovered many -nor were very appreciative- of the charms of the Convent. We were just overwhelmed, shy, scared and confused. It was decided that we needed to be Cheered Up. The task of Cheering us Up fell to Sister T.

Sister T was a tiny woman. She was probably 4'10 and less than 90lbs. I hate the term "bird-like" but the description does suit her. She was never still, was very quick of movement and never moved one part of her when she could move her whole self to make a point instead. She had fair hair, visible under her veil, blue eyes and clear, perfect skin. She had a rebellious streak, I guess, her ears were pierced, and she wore tiny gold hoops in them. Speaking of "piercing": She had a very high-pitched voice, which she put to good use in her daily "job" of preparing  and serving the midday meal to a heaving throng of hungry, fussy children.  Sr T was not unkind, but like most of the nuns, she was very no-nonsense and took her work seriously.

Some of the nuns did drive, but Sr T was not one of them. So we went to An Lár (Dublin City Center) on the bus. A lot of the nuns' income came from sales of work and the parish collection plate. So most of the money they had to use was in small coin. Sr. T took us to An Lár on the bus to see Santy with a big bag of pennies and tuppences to pay the way.  I remember being mortified on the bus, as Sr T painstakingly counted out the three fares into the conductors big, impatient hand. I remember the bus was hot, and we were all wrapped up against the chill and drizzle. Sr T, wanting to be kind,. unwrapped Grace of several layers, not quite knowing how long the journey would take. They she had to hastily re-wrap her as we got close to our destination, Grace's eyes pleading from under her woolly hat for me to help, but there was not much I could do.

Now, in An Lár, The Place to see Santa was Switzer's. Like Macy's is the place to see Santy in New York. Back then, if you were going to see Santy in Dublin, you went to Switzer's.

We didn't go to Switzer's.

I can't for the life of me tell you where we DID go, It might have been Arnotts or Roche's Stores.  I can just tell you it wasn't Switzer's.

I don't remember much about the surroundings. I do remember that the Santy looked like his beard was real, unlike those other Santys with the curly cotton wool stuff.   Sr T, Determined for us to have as much "fun" as possible, plonked poor Grace on Santy's lap -despite protests from them both, and then as Grace balanced rather precariously, Sr T, grabbed a handful of Santy's beard' "Look at Santy's Beard,  Grace! Here. touch it!".  Poor Grace gave the beard a half-hearted pat, as poor Santy turned red and contorted himself to try and save chunks of his face, while st the same time NOT dropping the poor bewildered child. We practically ran out of Santy's grotto, Grace starting to wail because Santy hadn't given her a present.  Turns out the presents were handed out by helpers on the way out. I got a skipping rope. I can't remember what Grace got.

On the way out, Sr T treated us to candy, which was paid for in coppers, and then -just as we were about to make our escape, she spotted on of those ride-on machines that they have in stores. She asked Grace if she wanted to go on it. Grace nodded yes. The price for the ride was 5p. Sr T got out two tuppences and a penny, which she tried to feed into the machine, despite my feeble protests that I thought it needed a 5p piece. The machine jammed. Sr T got hold of some unfortunate security guard and complained aboutthe machine. He pointed to the 5p sign. She held up her coppers "but I've got 5p" The he said it had to be a 5p piece. And she asked for the 3p, which had gone into the machine before it jammed. She got her money and we left.

On the bus home, the conductor spotted a nun with a bag of coppers and two miserable kids and he didn't charge us for the journey.

The Cost Of Free Services

I live in the USA. I am very happy to do so. My kids, US Citizens both, are both officially classified as Special Needs, and therefore they are entitled to free special educational services under the Individuals with  Disabilities Education Act.  

Hurray!

After (free) testing by the school, we had a long list of ...stuff that they needed: Speech therapy, Occupational Therapy, Physical Therapy, Special Education, social skills... Lots of stuff. I was going to say "Hurray" here again, but that they need help is not a "Hurray" thing for me. Frankly, I would far rather they didn't need any of this stuff, but instead could both be placed on the fasttrack to Harvard. But they need it, so we can get it. That is not as good as fasttrack to Harvard, but it is far better than needing it and NOT getting it, as is the case in many places in the world.

Yes. We are privileged to live in the USA.

However there is a cost for all of this. I just completed buying gift cards, trinkets and thank-yous for the teams of people who work with my kids in school. Here is it:

Teacher x2
Special Ed Teacher x2
Teacher's Aide x2
Lunch Aide x2
Speech Therapist -luckily they both have the same one this year, so only one gift there
Occupational Therapist
Physical Therapist
Bus Driver
and the school psychologist

Thirteen presents.  OK I know I don't *have* to get the school folk anything and they will still do a fine job. But I want to, because they do a fine job, and my kids are fond of all of them and I want them to feel some appreciation from us.

But you know, thirteen presents is really just a bucket in the ocean of cost for these "free" services.  And a voluntarty bucket at that, so I shouldn't complain (and I amn't really)

For us, most of the higher costs have been incurred already. However, I think they are probably worth recounting here -in case any of you are beginning a journey like mine. Here is a list with some approximate prices:

Cost of an independent evaluation, because the school initially didn't think there was much going on and tried to fob us off with a bit of speech therapy: $3,500

Cost of a private regular ed school because she didn't qualify for special ed preschool, "needed special ed services" but they would not supply those services to the home or daycare: $550 per month for two years -in addition to daycare (this was back when I was working, needless to say).

Cost in Mom's time spent in Internet research, books read, appointments, letters written and all that stuff? inestimable.

But to sum it up in the now-required manner: Seeing the results of all this effort is truly priceless.

I have a friend in the UK, who I know through my  "Autistic Moms" circle. She was ranting recently about how long it took to get services over there for her son. Compared to about two-three months for us over here, going through the NHS can take two-three YEARS (or more!). The services -once delivered- are excellent, -and free! But the wait... How much is lost in the wait?  Everyone know early intervention is paramount with Autism! Not to mention the frustration of both Mom and kid to have to live in the world with no additional help -no emergency provisions like we have here.

So yes. All free services have a cost. Sometimes the cost is money. Sometimes it is time. Sometimes it is something else. But no matter how you look at it, the old saying "nothing in life is free" is very true.

I Help Too Much, Apparently

I was driving the Monsters to their social skills group, and they were protesting as usual. The group is at kind of an awkward time: 2-3pm on a Saturday and it is a 20-minute drive each way. They don't like having their Saturday broken up like that, which is understandable. But we made a comittment to the group and they are going. Period.

It doesn't stop them complaining about it, though:

Joe: "Mom? why do we need to go to social skills again?"
Me: "So you can learn about people and how to deal with people. This will help you when you are older."
Grace: "We will have to do this when we are older?"
Me (misunderstanding)" "Yes of course. You will deal with people all the time"
Grace: "But you told us the group would be over in the Spring. We have to go until we are adults?"
Me (almost crashing the car): "Oh! No no. ...The group will be over in the Spring. But you will need to use social skills all of your life; -especially when you are an adult. They are not just for Saturday afternoon, you know."
Grace: "You mean we will have to be nice to people all the time when we are grown up?"
Me: "Yes. You should be nice to people all the time now."
Joe: "But... Why do you send us to this stupid group anyway?"
Me: "I told  you before. To help you to learn..."
Joe: "I don't want help. I want to stay home. You always help us. You help us too much.
Grace: (seeing an opportunity and taking it): "Yes. You help us too much."

And then  the kicker: 
Joe: "I wish I lived in a orphanage.  They wouldn't help us at all"

Now, I know he didn't mean this, and he had no real clue what he was saying. So I tried not to take it to heart. However -most of you don't know this- but OSM has frst hand experience of an orphanage. I lived in one -a proper Convent orphanage in Ireland on-and-off for many years. So that remark cut pretty deep. I told Joe he had really hurt my feelings, but didn't eloborate (he knows about the orphanage, so I reckon he figured it out). He stayed quiet after that.

We arrived at the group and I watched while my kids greeted the other kids like old friends. They all sat together, caught up with news, spoke about TV shows, admired one guy's books and another guy's toy and all went off to the room happy.  Not a single complaint beween the lot of them.

And I spent the next hour wondering if I do help too much?  Yes they have special needs, and yes, I want to do all I can to help them overcome any limitations they have and become functioning adults. And I don't think sending them to groups and therapy is helping too much. I will do that as much as I possibly can (despite their protests). But maybe I help them too much in other ways? Maybe if they didn't lead such coddled, sheltered lives they might have more of a clue about what it really means to give and need help?

That has been on my mind a lot since then. In fact, methinks some volunteering with the less priveliged will be in their future very soon. Maybe by helping others, they  will begin to understand what it really means to give, receive and need help?

Tis the season, after all...

My Version Of Eastern Medicine

A few people have urged me to consider alternative medicine, particularly Eastern medicine. Several of my real life friends, several people here, and my rheumatologist; flummoxed and frustrated, desperately clutching at straws, has given me cards and flyers for everything from vitamin seminars to  a Reiki practitioner.

I haven't gone.

I have seen an alternative medicine guy, (#26) but I was overcharged and underimpressed, so I dumped him. If I ever get desperate (and rich) enough, I may try his current recommendation; chelation to rid myself of heavy metals, at $125 a session, three sessions a week for a few months.  But for now, I plan not to see him again. Even if I had that kind of money, I have better things to spend it on.

So my nod to Eastern medicine is to go to Chinatown about three times a year, where my endocrinologist, a Chinese-American D.O., has his practice.

Yesterday was my last visit for this year.

He marched into the treatment room all smiles and happy "How are you feeling?"
"Not good" said I,  and I indicated my right arm, which had begun shaking before he even got there. The smile disappeared. He watched the seizure for a bit (it progressed but didn't generalize) and gave me a very competent neurological exam -for an endocrinologist.  He took a lot of notes.

We had a chat about a few things. He said he has no Big Ideas (no-one has) and asked again about neurology. I said again that neurology has said the primary problem is metabolic, and even if I have Epilepsy, it cannot be treated as such because of my hideous reactions to the meds.  I had found some information online, and to the man's credit, he read it all. He also read test results from #27 and then he ordered a bunch of new tests, for rarer stuff like adrenal function.

I wanted to go for the first of the tests today, but I guess a trip into the city and the seizures yesterday wiped me out. I woke hurting all over, with my hands inflamed. I couldn't face going to the lab in the snow, so I went back to bed. I slept most of the day.

I'll try again tomorrow.

The Downside Of Blogging

I have written about the benefits of blogging here and here. I firmly believe that blogging is beneficial. But there is a downside, which thought I should quickly mention.

First I need to tell you a little about my friend, whose head fell off about four years ago. Really. She fell off a horse onto her head and it fell off. It was only held on by skin and sinew. She also broke her C1 in four places. There are medical terms for what happened to her; long-winded and remote,  but they sound too distant and cold to really get the idea of what actually happened. I much prefer plain English. She broke her neck and her head fell off inside her skin. That sums it up nicely.

Of course, she didn't know any of this when it happened, she came to, caught the horse, led him back to the house and then sought medical attention. And you thought one had to swim twenty miles and ride a bike to be an iron(wo)man?

Miraculously, she lived.

Unfortunately, the doctors who took care of her immediately after the accident completely missed the internal decapitation, and they did a woefully inadequate job of repairing the C1.  Such an inadequate job, In fact, years later, it is still broken. And her head -quite literally- isn't screwed on properly, because the internal decapitation wasn't treated at all, it fused back together wrong.  Despite not having her head on straight, she is one of the most sensible people I know. How's about that for a confusing statement? 

Here is a link to her blog, BTW, because she is a blogger too. And that is why I mention her.

Here is where I get to the downside of blogging: She and I have met. I visited her in hospital, we have eaten lunch together. We have each other's numbers. But we tend to keep up with each other through our blogs. There is nothing wrong with that. We are thousands of miles apart and both unwell. Reading the blogs allows us to keep us up-to-date on the major stuff, and it saves us repeating ourselves in conversation. But it shouldn't be the only contact.

Today I finally picked up the phone and we had a chat. It was wonderful!  We talked about people we both know, TV shows we watch and other little important snippets, which may not end up on the blogs, but are still part of who we are. And I sought and received some good advice. Hurray!

And that is the downside of blogging: Not picking up the phone when we should. A blog shouldn't replace the phone, but should -if done right- provide more to talk about.

If you feel you want to comment to this post please feel free to do so. But first, you must pick up the phone and (re)connect with someone the old-fashioned way.

Please?

A Low Trick

At Joe's ten-year checkup awhile ago, the pediatrician noticed a murmur that had not been there before. Because it was new and because we have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, she referred him to a cardiologist. Now, I have been through all this before with Grace, so I wasn't too worried.

Grace's murmur was declared innocent,  and I was pretty sure Joe's murmur was probably innocent, too. I don't believe in worrying until there is a reason. The only real worry I had was getting Joe through the appointment, because the people at the hospital hadn't been the nicest and fuzziest I had ever encountered and Joe can need some careful handling.  It helped that he had come along to Grace's appointment for the same thing, so he knew what to expect.

I prepared him as well as I could. I packed his ER /doctor letter and reminded him of the positive aspects of Grace's visit: No needles and he had liked the cardiologist. 

However, I had NOT liked the cardiologist and here is why:

At Graces's appointment, the cardiologist had come into the room, immediately spotted Joe, ruffled his hair (which Joe hates) and asked Grace "Is this your bother?"
"Yes"
"Is he mean to you?"
"Yes"
"Does he fight with you?"
"Yes"
(and Joe chimes in: "She's mean to me!")

Then the cardiologist says (and this is the low trick part)
"And how about Mom?  Is she mean too?"
Grace looked at the guy as if he was crazy and said
"No! Mom's nice"
He dropped the subject and settled down to listen to her little heart.

But it bothered me that he had asked her that question. You cannot tell to look at Grace (or at most Autistic Spectrum kids), but she has some communication difficulties and could easily misunderstand a question like that. I thought it was completely inappropriate for him to ask a closed-ended, leading question of that sort to an unknown  child in a setting like that. What if she had said "yes"? -Not that she would, but you know what I mean?   I spent the next ten minutes fuming about that. I couldn't figure out if he thought he was being funny, and there was no hidden agenda, or if that question was some kind of ham-fisted attempt to try and weed out abused children.

I thought of some of my friends with special needs kids, and how their kids might answer a question like that. Some may say "yes" because maybe mom had insisted he eat breakfast that day. And what then?  Probably nothing, but the incident, with all its inherent assumption, really rankled with me.

Compared to Grace's appointment that time, Joe's appointment was very uneventful. The technician was nice and gentle. She had read his letter and allowed him to remove the sticky tabs himself.  His murmur was declared innocent early on, and he he didn't need an echocardiogram. We were out of there in less than an hour.

And the cardiologist didn't ask any nasty, leading questions.  No low tricks that day. Just some very welcome good news.