PCP

Okay, just a couple of more holes for me to fill in on the latest in the medical front.

Last Friday I saw my Primary Care Provider (PCP), who I see at least once a month. This scheduled monthly visit allows me to work with a terrific doctor (Love you, Dr. LaSalle!), who follows up on everything and essentially coordinated my care. She allows me to take care of alot of things by phone with her, which I greatly appreciate. But monthly face-to face is very helpful.

Interestingly, one of the main things she does for me is be my insurance coordinator. I cannot see a specialist, get anything other than a routine tes, and even think of a surgery or procedure without advanced authoriztion from my insurance company. Being my PCP and having to deal with my insurance company is no small task. Yet she keeps me, and cares about me. We have even become friends of sorts. Our children attend each other's birthday parties. She is a good woman professionally and personally.

Okay, back to last Friday. We go over the results of my way-too-many recent tests. We cover the refills I need. We discuss the notes that my Specialists have sent. We review my mental health (A new post to come). Finally I ask her to check my surgery incision because it is bothering me.

It is infected. Not good news for anyone but as an IS (Immunosuppressed) person, this news is scary. Believe it or not, a simple infection can possibly kill an IS patient. I go to the pharmacy on the way home (I am there at least once a week) and pick up my heavy-duty antibiotic.

That night the area is really hurting me. I take off the dressing to look and it has ripped about half open. Uh oh. I put a new dressing on and decide to think about it.Maybe it will go away if I don't think about it. Saturday morning I call the breast surgeon on call and you probably can guess what she said. I ignore the instructions, go to John Paul's baseketball game, hang out with the fam, and head off to get a haircut and then go to Mass. By the time I get to the hair salon, I am REALLY hurting. I go to the bathroom, peel the dressing back, and now it is totally open. And icky stuff coming out. I skip the haircut and call my Catholic sponsor Tamme ( a great story to post later, and it's not the AA type of sponsor) and tell her I won't make it.

I go home and hang out, watch movies, suffer and worry.

Sunday was a long day.

I see my breast surgeon at 1:00pm today. I don't know if I can sleep anymore, which is not that unusual in itself, but I am seriously hurting. I have developed a significant aversion to hospitals and avoid going there, even the ER, if at all possible. Who doesn't right?

I will probably get in trouble. It's not the first time......