In just 20 days, Wisconsin voters will officially enter the 2008 political marathon, and I couldn’t be more befuddled or excited. I must confess, here, that I was a kid who couldn't wait to turn 18 just so I could register to vote, and I am still fired with that same wide-eyed energy when it comes to U.S. politics. As a republican—and, frankly, what feels like the token and oft misunderstood republican in academe—all I can think of is an old fight song that we used to sing to taunt the opposing—or, when awful circumstances warranted, our own—football team:
We’ll take a neck from some ol’ bottle!
We’ll take an arm from some ol’ chair!
We’ll take a leg from some ol’ table!
and from a horse we’ll take some hair [we’ll-take-some-hair].
And then we’ll put them all together
with a little string and glue–oou–ooou!
And we’ll get more action from a gosh-darn dummy
than we’ll ever get from you–oou–ooou!
Ah, to have a Build-A-Candidate Workshop! To make a composite candidate from all the best qualities from the field: a dash of McCain’s record for collaborating across the aisle, a pinch of Romney’s organizational leadership record, a smidgen of Huckabee’s integrity, a nip of Giuliani’s chutzpah and support for the nation’s servicemen and women, and several ladles of Paul’s grasp for the constitution and the (limited) role of the federal government delineated therein—what a project!
Together, these candidates (though Giuliani is now officially out) make an interesting collage, one that communicates a great deal about the complex and somewhat metamorphic identity of the republican party at present (I’ll tackle that topic another time and in another place, perhaps). While the idea of creating the übercandidate selected from the best qualities each has to offer is perhaps a wistful or amusing aside, in truth politics is always—has always been—about the human condition—which is fallible, vulnerable, contradictory, and often inconsistent. It is also precisely what makes it possible to learn, to defend that which must be defended and to eliminate that which is unjust, and to collaborate, deliberate, and negotiate across difference; it is what affords one the ability to hope, to dream. The trouble is, for me, what am I willing to concede to the realm of ‘let’s agree to disagree’ and what positions (and records) among the candidates are, for me, deal-breakers?
At this point in history when we as a people approach such a unique and nearly unprecedented presidential election, and in this precise moment and mood that I write, I am inclined to think that the best hope for our country—the very best possible spur and curb—is to see the parties come together and share the ticket: a republican and a democrat coming together to share the responsibility of leading the country from within the executive branch. I’m not a political scientist, perhaps obviously, and I suspect the implications of such a move could be . . . complex to say the least. But since I can’t use the Build-A-Bear—er, Candidate—approach (and even if such a thing were possible could we as an American constituency ever actually agree as to what qualities were ‘best’ anyway?), it might be interesting, for just a moment, to imagine where together, say, Senators Obama (for whom I have a great deal of respect for his apparent temperance) and McCain could take the country.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Friday, January 11, 2008
Caffeine Wishes and Anesthesia Dreams
You have to appreciate trends in modern medicine: through them I finally got my wish.
Long ago I decided that life would be much simpler if I could just have someone hook me up to an IV of caffeine—I wouldn’t have to slow down to sip. In my pre-op screening, the anesthesiologist asked me about my caffeine consumption. I explained my ‘caffeine layering’ technique: chai in the morning (2-4 cups); ‘energy water’ midmorning; coffee in the afternoon (pro re nata); the occasional espresso in the evening; caffeinated mints throughout. He asked me if I get headaches when I don’t consume. Well, yeah. So he ordered 500 cc of caffeine to be added to my IV. Nice man. My hero.
I thought he was kidding, but soon the nurse came with a little bitty vial of the good stuff. She checked the order, then asked me hold on. I overheard the conversation:
500 cc? Is that right?
Yes. That’s what he wrote.
Okay. I just wanted to check [pause] because [pause, then whispered] she’s so small.
Yeah. 500 cc. That’s the order. That’s what he wrote. I can check with him again . . .
No, no. That’s what he wrote. Okay. Just like to double check.
[end dialogue]
I have such appreciation for modern medicine.
Long ago I decided that life would be much simpler if I could just have someone hook me up to an IV of caffeine—I wouldn’t have to slow down to sip. In my pre-op screening, the anesthesiologist asked me about my caffeine consumption. I explained my ‘caffeine layering’ technique: chai in the morning (2-4 cups); ‘energy water’ midmorning; coffee in the afternoon (pro re nata); the occasional espresso in the evening; caffeinated mints throughout. He asked me if I get headaches when I don’t consume. Well, yeah. So he ordered 500 cc of caffeine to be added to my IV. Nice man. My hero.
I thought he was kidding, but soon the nurse came with a little bitty vial of the good stuff. She checked the order, then asked me hold on. I overheard the conversation:
NURSE
500 cc? Is that right?
OTHER NURSE
Yes. That’s what he wrote.
NURSE
Okay. I just wanted to check [pause] because [pause, then whispered] she’s so small.
OTHER NURSE
Yeah. 500 cc. That’s the order. That’s what he wrote. I can check with him again . . .
NURSE
No, no. That’s what he wrote. Okay. Just like to double check.
[end dialogue]
I have such appreciation for modern medicine.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Stapedectomy Revisited
A little less than three years ago—on May 25, 2005 to be precise—I wore a hearing aid in my left ear for the last time.
That moment came thirteen years after the word ‘otosclerosis’ ushered me in, none too gently, to the world of hearing impairment—where audiograms signed with Xs and Os have nothing to do with notes of endearment but mark left- and right- side decible levels on graph after graph, charting peaks and valleys far below the 20dB ‘normal adult threshold’ for hearing.
What I learned in those thirteen years, both about otosclerosis and about myself, could fill a book: cliché aside, it has. And now I am about to be able to complete that book, a collection of non-fiction essays that I began in 2000: now, as I am about to submit my right ear to the same procedure I had on my left in 2005, I can’t help but think about the relationship between the body and the self, the physical and the ethereal, the allegory that is written by our bodies and edited by our consciousness. Too heavy? Well, I guess I’m feeling a little heavy. Funny, but I am more nervous this time around than I was the last. More on that in a moment. For now, a little about otosclerosis, the reason for my hearing loss.
Otosclerosis is a congenital condition affecting the bones of the middle ear (incus, malleus, and stapes) that causes degenerative hearing loss; it is caused by an abnormal growth of spongy bone that prevents the bones from vibrating correctly and carrying sound waves to the inner ear. Surgically, the condition is treatable through a procedure called a stapedectomy: the removal of the stapes, via laser, and its replacement with a small titanium rod. The procedure eliminates the spongy bone and allows for proper movement and conductivity in the middle ear.
The stapedectomy yielded very good, though not perfect, results for me in 2005: though my hearing on that side does not quite break the normal threshold, I have noticed a marked improvement over my preoperative hearing, and I have not, after all, even seen my old hearing aid since I handed it off to my husband just before the surgery.
So why am I more nervous this time? This should be comfortable territory as there are far fewer ‘unknowns’ this time around, having been here before. But that’s just it: last time, the condition of my middle ear came as a surprise to my otolaryngologist—he’d not seen such significant bone growth in someone so young. In addition to the expected spongy bone, a ‘bony shelf’ had formed over all of the bones, making them difficult to access. This explains why my onset was so early in life: I was 16 when I was first diagnosed, while onset for otosclerosis usually doesn’t occur until folks are in their late 20s or early 30s at least. To complicate matters more, I apparently have a malformed incus, a deep ear canal, and a prominent facial nerve (which, for those who are not necessarily anatomy enthusiasts, courses right through the middle ear), making the logistics of working in my middle ear even more challenging. What should have been a laser procedure required a drill. What was already a difficult maneuver became an even greater challenge. And Dr. P– expects to find the same thing when he goes into my ear on Wednesday. But, no—that’ not really what is making me feel a little uncertain.
The fact is that last time I was fully hearing impaired going in to the surgery; I had nothing to lose, really. If the procedure worked, then great; if it didn’t —and there’s always the risk—I still had another functioning, if aided, ear. There was safety in that status quo offered by my right. Though the left is now improved, I know that it is still weak. The potential for having little to no improvement in my right—or losing my hearing in that ear all together—is unsettling. To go through all of this only to be no better off is a discouraging potentiality.
Then, of course, is the potential for facial paralysis; loss of feeling, function, and control; inability to produce or control tear production; loss of muscle control, speech impairment, taste disruption, et al., et al. As a person who makes her living, at least in part, by speaking, this is not an appealing prospect. As a woman who at least tries to look reasonably put together, superficial though such objectives may be, well . . . . And as a person who loves to sing (though what results in not fit for normally-functioning human ears), and smile, and laugh, and chase her children around making a ‘lizard face,’ entertaining the possibility of exchanging hearing impairment for facial impairment nearly makes me want to rethink my ante.
And finally, in what is perhaps the ultimate example of illogical though compelling human impulses, I am worried about being able to hear.
Let me explain: I was very angry when I was first diagnosed with otosclerosis. I refused to wear my hearing aids. Chaos and disappointment ensued. I was obstinate. It was a long, complex battle. Eventually, I healed. I learned. And through it all, quietly and without a particular, discrete, discernable turning point, I adopted a new cultural identity. I belonged to a discrete community. I was ‘hearing impaired.’ The hearing loss became a significant part of my identity; who might I be without having that experience? Who will I be, in Pound’s words, “after the sound” (Canto XIII)?
Absurd though it may seem, my most significant concern is not that the surgery won’t work, but that it will.
That moment came thirteen years after the word ‘otosclerosis’ ushered me in, none too gently, to the world of hearing impairment—where audiograms signed with Xs and Os have nothing to do with notes of endearment but mark left- and right- side decible levels on graph after graph, charting peaks and valleys far below the 20dB ‘normal adult threshold’ for hearing.
What I learned in those thirteen years, both about otosclerosis and about myself, could fill a book: cliché aside, it has. And now I am about to be able to complete that book, a collection of non-fiction essays that I began in 2000: now, as I am about to submit my right ear to the same procedure I had on my left in 2005, I can’t help but think about the relationship between the body and the self, the physical and the ethereal, the allegory that is written by our bodies and edited by our consciousness. Too heavy? Well, I guess I’m feeling a little heavy. Funny, but I am more nervous this time around than I was the last. More on that in a moment. For now, a little about otosclerosis, the reason for my hearing loss.
Otosclerosis is a congenital condition affecting the bones of the middle ear (incus, malleus, and stapes) that causes degenerative hearing loss; it is caused by an abnormal growth of spongy bone that prevents the bones from vibrating correctly and carrying sound waves to the inner ear. Surgically, the condition is treatable through a procedure called a stapedectomy: the removal of the stapes, via laser, and its replacement with a small titanium rod. The procedure eliminates the spongy bone and allows for proper movement and conductivity in the middle ear.
The stapedectomy yielded very good, though not perfect, results for me in 2005: though my hearing on that side does not quite break the normal threshold, I have noticed a marked improvement over my preoperative hearing, and I have not, after all, even seen my old hearing aid since I handed it off to my husband just before the surgery.
So why am I more nervous this time? This should be comfortable territory as there are far fewer ‘unknowns’ this time around, having been here before. But that’s just it: last time, the condition of my middle ear came as a surprise to my otolaryngologist—he’d not seen such significant bone growth in someone so young. In addition to the expected spongy bone, a ‘bony shelf’ had formed over all of the bones, making them difficult to access. This explains why my onset was so early in life: I was 16 when I was first diagnosed, while onset for otosclerosis usually doesn’t occur until folks are in their late 20s or early 30s at least. To complicate matters more, I apparently have a malformed incus, a deep ear canal, and a prominent facial nerve (which, for those who are not necessarily anatomy enthusiasts, courses right through the middle ear), making the logistics of working in my middle ear even more challenging. What should have been a laser procedure required a drill. What was already a difficult maneuver became an even greater challenge. And Dr. P– expects to find the same thing when he goes into my ear on Wednesday. But, no—that’ not really what is making me feel a little uncertain.
The fact is that last time I was fully hearing impaired going in to the surgery; I had nothing to lose, really. If the procedure worked, then great; if it didn’t —and there’s always the risk—I still had another functioning, if aided, ear. There was safety in that status quo offered by my right. Though the left is now improved, I know that it is still weak. The potential for having little to no improvement in my right—or losing my hearing in that ear all together—is unsettling. To go through all of this only to be no better off is a discouraging potentiality.
Then, of course, is the potential for facial paralysis; loss of feeling, function, and control; inability to produce or control tear production; loss of muscle control, speech impairment, taste disruption, et al., et al. As a person who makes her living, at least in part, by speaking, this is not an appealing prospect. As a woman who at least tries to look reasonably put together, superficial though such objectives may be, well . . . . And as a person who loves to sing (though what results in not fit for normally-functioning human ears), and smile, and laugh, and chase her children around making a ‘lizard face,’ entertaining the possibility of exchanging hearing impairment for facial impairment nearly makes me want to rethink my ante.
And finally, in what is perhaps the ultimate example of illogical though compelling human impulses, I am worried about being able to hear.
Let me explain: I was very angry when I was first diagnosed with otosclerosis. I refused to wear my hearing aids. Chaos and disappointment ensued. I was obstinate. It was a long, complex battle. Eventually, I healed. I learned. And through it all, quietly and without a particular, discrete, discernable turning point, I adopted a new cultural identity. I belonged to a discrete community. I was ‘hearing impaired.’ The hearing loss became a significant part of my identity; who might I be without having that experience? Who will I be, in Pound’s words, “after the sound” (Canto XIII)?
Absurd though it may seem, my most significant concern is not that the surgery won’t work, but that it will.
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