My Vital Patch experience

I had my yearly heart doctor appointment on the day Idalia scheduled herself to arrive. Because of this, the office called two days earlier and told me I needed to drop everything and get my ass there. I refused. They told me tough noodles, so my SIL and I put our adventures on hold while I attended my appointment.

I had a list of things to discuss. But the office was crazy, and I waited far too long. When she finally arrived, I answered her question about my "wonky skipping heartbeats" by telling her that my Apple watch had recorded an Afib in March, and her eyes widened. She examined me, read my EKG, and told me she wanted me to wear a monitor for 30 days. She explained this was different from the holtor monitor I wore in that they would monitor me 24/7, and if something happened, I'd have to come "straight into the office." Then, she left me at the scheduling desk and told me she'd see me in six months.

No appointments were available until the end of September to tether me to this device, so the girl told me they'd mail it to me.

Her: "It will come with instructions on how to hook it up. It's easy."

I drove home with my mind whirling, and when I pulled into my driveway to collect my SIL for a beach run, I was pissed.

Not only did I not get to discuss my list items, but I had two trips coming in September, one of which would have me flying to the East Coast. How the hell was I supposed to come "straight to the office" if I was in Vermont?

I ignored the problem until the device arrived after returning from my first trip. I opened it, read about it, and put it aside. The next day, the company monitoring the device left me a message asking if I had questions because they could see I wasn't attached to the monitor. The same thing happened again the next day, so I called my cardiologist's office and told them the problem. I dared them to get mad. I wanted to go off on someone about the terrible appointment.

But she was sweet, dealt with the insurance company, and called me back to tell me I could hook myself up the day after I returned from Vermont.

The device came with a cell phone. There were instructions and videos, and I strapped the device to my chest, but it wasn't connecting to the phone. I pulled it off and tried again. I had to do that three times before it clicked. Then, it gave me four numbers, and none matched the number of my device or the other three. 

I called the company for help.

The number on my device was AB345-88763-9090. I read those first letters/numbers and looked for AB345 on the phone. Isn't that how people read, from left to right?

Her: "Read the last four digits on the device. Do you see them on the phone?"

I did. Tom would say it was a user error, but I told the woman they should fix that little detail in the instructions.

The next part said: "If your doctor recommends an overlay, go to the next set of instructions," and since my doctor did not say a damn thing about an overlay, I skipped that part. I also spent a week not recording my PVCs and PACs when I felt them because I assumed she wanted me to report Afibs. And let me tell you, my heart was all over the place those first few days, but hell if I know if they were recorded. I didn't report them. Maybe that's my stupidity, but I WASN'T GIVEN ANY INSTRUCTIONS.

By the end of the seven days, my monitor was barely hanging onto my skin. You couldn't remove it once the device had less than 8 hours to go, so I had to stay up until that happened before reapplying the new one. By then, I had killed time by researching this company. That led me to a video on YouTube where everything was explained IN DETAIL. This Cardiac Monitoring Technology sends all patient data instantaneously to a secure cloud, enabling monitoring for 21 different cardiac arrhythmias and real-time monitoring for four important patient vitals. 

I learned that the overlay was a layer of protection to hold the device and that tapping the Report Symptom button would take me to another screen with options to tap, such as skipping heartbeats, shortness of breath, etc. Suffice it to say, weeks 2, 3, and 4 were done correctly, and that includes checking the phone constantly to make sure it was connected because it did not warn you when it wasn't.

I named the phone Little Heifer.

I missed him when our time ended and had to return him. 

It took four weeks before I heard from the office, and all I got was a reading of sorts from the results I found myself in my patient portal and a "the doctor isn't worried."

I had to Google the results myself and will discuss them with my regular doctor, whom I see at the end of November. Meanwhile, the overlay has aggravated my skin. I'm using a cream my dermatologist gave me for another issue because, after all of this, I'm practically a doctor. 

I've decided not to worry since the cardiologist isn't worried. Still, I will have a few choice words to say when I see her in February, especially about the notes from our appointment that said she discussed another test I might want. That never happened. Patient Portal is an excellent addition to the medical field, and if you aren't taking advantage of this perk, I urge you to do so. The things you will find...

For those finding this website because they have to wear this patch, here are some pointers from my experience:

• The numbers on the patch and the phone - read the last four numbers to match
• Read the instructions and watch the video
• Wear the overlay!
• When you remove the old patch and hook the new one, hell yes, take time out to take a REAL shower. No one cares if you aren't hooked up immediately, and that shower will be the best damn thing ever! 
• Showering with the device, I used a washcloth or a hand towel over the patch to keep it from getting too wet.
• Record your symptoms, and yes, it will take a while to retrieve the phone, hit the menu, find the right button, etc. Don't do this while driving.
• If you walk away from the phone, make sure to check it when you return. If you aren't connecting, hold the phone to your chest and/or push against your patch.

Feel free to comment if you have questions too. Or Google it on YouTube. Or laugh at me because you have no issues and think I'm an idiot. My heart can take it.

Cyst saga II

Epidermoid cysts LOVE me. If you are a long time reader of this blog, you've read my 2016 cyst escapade, but in case you missed it or you're tuning in now, go here, here, and here, because we are about to embark on another. 

Several months ago, a pea-sized lump appeared just below the notch of my sternum between my breasts. I panicked, which now in thinking back, why? Why, after having been through the above, would I panic? But panic, I did.

Madison: "It's a cyst."

Duh. I felt foolish. I quit worrying. It just sat there.

My dermatologist appointment for my yearly skin check was last Wednesday. I love Dr. M. He has a great sense of humor (read the above here, here, and here), and he puts up with my bullshit. But his office could use my help. 

For the last three years, they've charged above and beyond my copay, and every time--EVERY TIME--the office mails it back a good six weeks to nine weeks after my visit. It annoys me, and when I've tried to reason with the money collector, last year the girl told me, "Who cares? We'll send your money back if we overcharged."

Everyone who knows me can't believe I walked away from her. But I did--seething.

Both my daughters go to Dr. M. and now, a month ago, my husband. None of them--NONE OF THEM are charged anything over their copay. Same family. Same insurance. Go figure. It's an airport patdown, a shakedown, and I keep bending over.

But I like Dr. M. 

So, I returned this February, and he checked me over from head to toe very thoroughly, and in the process of the examination, after he told me to "lay down," I corrected his grammar and gave him a lesson on lie and lay. God help me, but I did.

I became my mother.

He retaliated by squeezing my cyst.

No, that's a joke. I think.

He did squeeze my cyst. He grabbed my fat stomach and squeezed and squeezed, and cyst goop poured out. He didn't tell me he was going to do this, and when I felt him doing it, I did NOTHING. I blame old age. Even though I had not forgotten any part of my 2016 cyst escapade. But apparently, I had a small window of memory loss.

Dr. M: "I'm doing this because when I do the surgery later this month, it'll be smaller."

He wiped me with gauze, finished examining me, and then I signed an Ipad saying he could charge me millions of dollars to freeze something on my shoulder. At that time, I mentioned the payment issue and said I was going to charge him interest in keeping my payment so long. He told me to speak with his billing department. We parted ways.

I was charged $223.06.

Her: "And you have a deductible of $650.00 for the surgery. Do you want to wait to schedule that?"

Yes. Yes, I did. I left there seething once again.

After running some errands in germ infected places, I returned home, where I washed my cyst with hydrogen peroxide and put on Bacitracin, covering it with a bandaid.

Thursday morning, I woke up to a yellow and purple cyst and area. Friday, I was in pain and took off my bra by noon. Saturday and Sunday I went braless because the cyst was so painful. But there was no fever. Monday, Madison had her cyst behind her ear removed by Dr. M.

He did a great job. I can barely see it when I clean and wrap it. Madison said she told the nurse about my cyst.

By Tuesday, the cyst looked red and swollen.

Madison: "That's nasty. You should call them tomorrow."

Darcy:

Wednesday, I called the office and pushed the line for critical care. I left a message at 8:00 a.m. By 4:50 p.m., having never heard a peep from Dr. M.'s office, I was calling my neighbor's dermatologist for an appointment. They didn't answer.

Really?

This morning I called Dr. M.'s office and requested an appointment. The nice girl who answered the appointment line told me she'd get me in with the nurse. Uh-huh, I've been down this road.

Me: "Great! See you in an hour!"

It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. The office staff couldn't have been more different--cheerful and delightful. I was checked-in, called in quickly, and when the nurse saw my wound, now red and with some protruding spots, why, yes, I took a photo.

That's on my stomach. It is not a nipple.

Nurse: "Okay, let's get you in a gown, and I'm going to go get Dr. M. since he squeezed the cyst on Wednesday."

Me: "We're blaming him?"

Nurse: "Absolutely."

I waited. Dr. M. came in, and without looking at it, apologized. I accepted it. Then I reminded him of the 2016 cyst escapade. I told him I wanted an antibiotic if he planned to lance it.

Me: "I know you don't remember, but I was sick. Very sick. For three days. I can't do that again."

Dr. M.: "Okay, so this is maybe more than staff bacteria on your skin, and me opening a hole for it to dive in."

He took a look.

Dr. M.: "Oh, boy. That's infected. I'm so sorry. Let me lay you back. That's correct, right? Because I'm putting you down. If I told you to do it, I'd say lie. Lie down?"

I squeezed his arm like my mother once did when she passed Hulk Hogan in a restaurant during his troubled times.

Me: "It brings a tear to my eye that you took my lesson to heart, but please, I am so sorry for correcting you. That was wrong of me."

Dr. M.: "Are you kidding? Ask my staff, I'm constantly correcting everyone's grammar. I'm the Grammar Police at this office. I loved it. I love learning."

Me: "Yes, but my mother always did this to doctors, and it annoyed the hell out of me, and now I'm doing it."

Dr. M.: "You're afraid you're becoming your mother? It's fine, but I'm going to have to lance this cyst. Make a big hole. I'm sorry. It's my fault."

I signed the Ipad and kept my lips pressed together. Dr. M. numbed me, then he cut me, then he numbed me again because I felt him slice me, and then he squeezed.

Dr. M.: "Oh, boy. There it is."

I looked. Green goop sat on my stomach. Yucky, bacterial, green goop.

Me: "Yeah, that's infected. I'll need an antibiotic."

Dr. M.: "I'll give you one."

He squeezed and pressed. 

Dr. M.: "Oh, there came some fat. You didn't know you'd get some liposuction today too, did you?"

Me: "Squeeze harder!"

Then he scraped. Supposedly, he got the cyst wall too. (Read above...I have my doubts). Then he and the nurse packed it with the packing gauze and covered it. I'm not to shower.

Oh, boy.

There will be a hole. I am to remove the packing and shove in some prescription cream. The wound will heal from the inside out. (Read above...it did before, fingers crossed it does again) I took the antibiotic as soon as I got it. The pain is miserable. I have to recline without a bra and hold my saggy boobs up because of PAIN, PAIN, PAIN. 

I pray this is the end of this saga. No 2016 repeat. He promised me I could go on vacation for Spring Break and swim. He'll see me back in a month.

I only paid my copay after explaining everything to the money girl--the same one who got me in to see the nurse today. 

I made my next appointment for a Thursday. Apparently, that's the day to go. Here's hoping the magic lasts!

Dog eats semi-sweet chocolate

I have three children--two daughters and a dog--although technically, according to the dictionary, my dog would not fall into this category. 

Only, trust me, he falls into many subcategories of the definition, including "causes extreme worry and concern to the parents until death," and yes, before you ask, I refer to myself as my dog's parent.

Yesterday afternoon we discovered our dog had eaten a container of semi-sweet chocolate chips. This led to education on Pet Poison Control, a late-night trip to the emergency vet, and shelling out several hundred dollars. Don't even get me started on the worrying, the crying, and the slinging of blame.

This is not the first time Elliot has eaten chocolate. He does so only when he is pissed at us.

Yesterday, while at my volunteer job, the house security app alerted me to motion at my front door at 11:30 a.m. I viewed my daughter arriving home from her volunteer job. She had left behind her lunch and had come back to get it before going to work. She peed the dog, loved on him, and left. Total time at the house: Five minutes.

Uh oh.

Me: "Let me tell you now that my dog will go into my daughter's room and will go through her garbage. This is what he does when we come home briefly and then leave again. He punishes us by going through garbage cans and/or taking whatever is under my kitchen baker's rack."

Boss: "What is under there now?"

Me: "Potatoes. He will scatter those through the house. It's his fuck you to us."

Boss: "That's funny."

It normally is. 

I got home at 1:08 p.m. and immediately went into the daughter's room to discover. I know my dog well. He'd gotten into her trash, although it'd been a half-ass attempt. Only three Kleenex tissues had been ripped and left on her floor. He had not touched the potatoes. I should've been suspicious. 

Instead, I put away groceries and made myself lunch. The dog did not beg me for a bite. Even then, I WAS NOT SUSPICIOUS. Looking back, I do believe there was a twinge, one of those in the back of the head itching to move forward, but I ignored it. I was tired and had a medical issue at the forefront of my brain. I missed the signs.

At 4:15 p.m., the daughter returned home. Several minutes later, she and the dog began playing hide and seek, running through the house, her hiding, and him seeking. She discovered the yogurt container in the Steelers room that had--as of last week--been full of semi-sweet chocolate chips. It was completely empty.

My husband had left the kitchen pantry open that morning, and instead of messing with the potatoes, Elliot messed with the container. He took it into the Steelers room, pried open the lid, and yum, devoured its contents. 

We stared at the dog. He was smiling and waiting for my daughter to run. He showed no signs of distress. Having been through him eating chocolate before, we really didn't panic. They continued playing, and we went about our day.

He did not eat his dinner, nor did he show any interest in it. All he wanted to do was drink water. Even then, while we were upset at this inconsistency, we did not panic. It wasn't until after 9:00 p.m. when he upchucked a quarter size goop of brown, chocolate water that my daughter Googled the problem.

Holy shit! There is a big difference between a dog eating milk chocolate to a dog eating semi-sweet chocolate. 

WARNING! WARNING! DEATH! DEATH!

Everything said we should've done something immediately. Dogs must be forced to vomit in the first two hours. If not...

WARNING! WARNING! DEATH! DEATH!

We panicked. We cried. We imagined all the most horrible worse case scenarios, and then we blamed ourselves, each other and the husband/father. We even blamed the damn dog. 

Who still seemed none too concerned.

By the time the husband/father strolled in at 9:38 p.m., we were in full-blown, out of control, hysteria. He's not good at confronting that. We went around and around in circles. We told him he needed to take the dog to the vet. Eventually, we must have convinced him to at least call the vet.

He called and left a message. That message was relayed to the emergency vet in our county. While waiting for his call to be returned, husband/father Googled the issue. 

WARNING! WARNING! DEATH! DEATH!

Then he threw around blame and caused us to cry.

He called the emergency vet number, got the info they'd just been updated by our vet, and told him to call Pet Poison Control. At PPC, after giving them $75 via credit card, they devised a plan. It consisted of TAKING HIM TO THE EMERGENCY VET IMMEDIATELY.

Meanwhile, the dog had pooped normal and was sitting outside in the front yard, enjoying our cooler weather. He wasn't thrilled about a car ride, but off they went.

After a thorough check which came back with all of his vitals normal, the emergency veterinarian conversed with PPC and then gave Elliot an injection to induce vomiting. Which he did. Piles and piles of liquid, watery, chocolate. 

Vet: "He vomited quite a lot of chocolate."

HOURS after consuming it. 

It just sat on his stomach. 

We aren't sure if it was because it was old chocolate or because of divine intervention or because of a stubborn stomach, but out came the poisonous death chocolate.

They let him puke until nothing more came out, then they gave him anti-vomit medication, IV fluids, and sent him home. He could barely walk when we met him at the door at midnight, sobbing and slathering him with kisses and love. All he wanted was water. Which he couldn't have. Not for four hours. 

Tom stayed up with him for another hour or so. I went to bed but didn't sleep. At 4:30 a.m. Tom got up and gave him water and watched him for signs of vomiting. When he kept down the water, they both went back to bed. This morning he ate his normal breakfast, and he's been normal since.

I, however, have found multiple gray hairs. 

More sprouted when I came looking for Elliot to find him sleeping by the OPEN PANTRY.

I take back my first sentence. 

I have four children--two daughters, a dog, and a husband.