My Stay-cation in Anchorage, Part Four: Logistics and Frustration

 

Logistics and Frustration

 

I’m a planner.   I plan for every contingency, especially when I'm about to venture into the unknown.      I over-plan, make allowances for emergencies, and consider plans from all sides

With the familiar, however, I frequently follow the advice from  one of my Refrigerator Philosophy Magnets collection, that being a quote attributed to Marilyn Monroe: “Ever notice that ‘What the Hell’ is always the right decision?”

 

So, when  I first contemplated large hiatal hernia repair surgery a couple of years ago, I was stumped by the logistics.  I live a hundred miles from the doctors and hospitals.

 

You know how hospitals won’t let you leave in a taxi after procedures?   Yeah, that.  I fussed over that.  

 

Who could I burden with that chore?   Drive all the way to Anchorage, wait for my discharge from the hospital, and drive to a hotel.   I figured I’d have to hang around Anchorage for a couple of days after, just in case.

 

So, where would I stay that didn’t put me in the poor house?   And what would I be able to eat while staying in a hotel?   And who would want to stay in a hotel with me for however many days?

I found a convenient hotel in Midtown Anchorage and made reservations for five nights.   I also bought trip insurance.

 

And on and on it went, a veritable wealth of excuses for not proceeding with the surgery.  Me, chicken?   No, too many logistical hurdles.

 

Yes, chicken.

Phone photo taken post-surgery of our hotel room.  Obviously, I'm in bed.

 

After putting up with the pain in my back all of 2024, I had to admit I needed to do something to regain any quality of life.  

Plus, there was always the threat that my stomach or esophagus would be strangulated and that would be a medical emergency.   A pretty serious one requiring immediate surgery.

 

I called my stepdaughter Diane and asked her.   She said yes!   She had lived in my little town years ago and was always glad for a return.

Looking from my bed, past Diane's unmade bed, to the lounge, kitchen, and desk alcoves.

Hurdle one was solved and, as it turned out, my surgery date corresponded with when she was free of other obligations.

My first pre-surgery consultation with the surgeon went well.   I was impressed with the four framed “diplomas” on the wall, all attesting to his completion of specialized training.   Duke, Yale, Cornell, and another medical school?   Who wouldn’t be impressed?

Most importantly, I liked him.

We went through all my history and my concerns.   He carefully addressed my fears and laid them to rest, somewhat.

Before surgery, he said, I had to have three tests: a blood draw, an X-ray, and an ECG.

He didn’t specify, but I assumed that arranging for these was my responsibility after he submitted orders to the appropriate venues.

 

A scheduling clerk called and set my surgery date for March 24.   I asked about the three tests.   Could they be done on the 20^th when I picked up Diane from the airport?   Or, could they be done the day before surgery, which was a Sunday.   

 

She didn’t know if all the labs would be open on Sunday. 

And then began the most frustrating two weeks ever.

I waited a week or so and tried to make an appointment with one lab.   There was no order.   I waited some more.   No orders.

I tried contacting his office to find out when the orders would be transmitted.   No response, not even within the “3 day” noted on the recording..”  I called again.  No response.

I would be in Anchorage only one day before surgery and time was drawing nigh to get those tests done.   Still no orders.

I tried again and again and again.   No responses.

This photo is of the next room we had after extending our stay.

 

Finally, I dialed the hospital’s admitting nurse.   She reassured me that all three would be done on the morning of surgery.   I could relax.  Now, why didn’t someone tell me this before I drove myself into a dither?  

After thinking about this for a long time, I came to one conclusion.  Staff does this stuff every day and it’s rote to them.   Boilerplate.  They can’t see it from the patient’s side.   Plus, with my little bit of medical experiences, I was a neophyte.

So, on Sunday, Diane and I were off to the hotel in Anchorage, armed with a suitcase containing bone broth, protein shakes, fruit juice, and Gatorade for my post-surgery restricted diet.

Also with us was a bright red The Club.  

In addition to The Club, we had another device that locked the brake pedal to the steering wheel.  

The hotel was conveniently located for those staying for medical reasons.   It was also conveniently located for the homeless and the thieves who prowl the parking lots for vehicles to steal.   And, it was in a large cluster of such hotels.

I read Anchorage crime reports on Facebook and was well aware that these hotels, as well as the hospital parking lots and garage, are prime targets for the parasites around town.

 

The couch became my bed, post-surgery, as I had to sleep propped up and not lying flat.

The tray next to Diane was provided in all the rooms, and was excellent for holding the stuff I needed near.

The kitchenette and desk area were opposite the couch.  Large and roomy, with sink and fridge.   The only problem was there was no coffee pot for the coffee maker.  The pot had disappeared from our first room and the second room didn't have one to begin with.   Repeated requests failed to bring the arrival of a coffee pot.

My nest on the couch, and a king bed for Diane.

Beyond the TV and closet was the sink alcove and the bathroom itself was opposite that alcove.   Excellent layout for this room.   The TV is mounted on an interior wall and not on the wall for the next room.

My Stay-cation in Anchorage, Part 3, The Decision

 

Adventures, Challenges, and Quality of Life Decisions

 

As reliable as the tides, the new year of 2024 changed the page on the calendar, bringing with it some much-anticipated plans and some that were not-so-welcome.

 

My friend Leilani was to move to Florida in June so our bird photography outings were coming to a close.  She was always the "ears" for our outings as with her acute hearing could hear and identify birds while driving slowly down a remote road with the window open.

 

Still, when she called and suggested a trip to Homer in early March, I thought she might be a bit barmy.   Way too early, I thought.   We went and saw several birds that I had never seen before (and some wonderful scenery).   We call those birds “lifers,” as in first time in my life.

Evening grosbeak.   Blown off course and rarely seen in this part of Alaska.

Long-tailed duck, formerly called an Old Squaw.   One of the few drakes that is prettier in its non-breeding plumage.

Sea otter with starfish.

Sunrise in Homer

An old cabin in Ninilchik on the way to Homer.

Moose

I began my 18^th season of cleaning up litter along 44 miles of the Seward highway in early May, and made it through 17 miles before  I had to quit for the foreseeable future.   I was plagued with those continuing back pains when I absent-mindedly tightened my abdominal muscles so I took a lot of breaks to wait for them to go away.

 

I’ll tell you one thing: trying to unlearn Mom’s admonition to “hold your stomach in” is almost impossible.

 

Leilani and I, along with two friends from Canada,  had plans to fly to Nome in early June to photograph migrating birds that we never get to see in our part of the state.   Plus, there were muskox all over the place, right in town.

So away to Nome we went, a place  I had never been before.   It was a roaring success, with several “lifers”.

 

 

The extraordinary Bluethroat, the prime goal of the trip to Nome.

Rock ptarmigan.   I've seen lots of willow ptarmigan, but this was my first rock.

Long-tailed jaeger!!!

American golden plover.

A herd of muskox crossing the road.

 Then, with a short gap in between,  I was once again picking up folks at the airport.   My two cousins, Bud and Bob, came to replace three sets of exterior stairs that were rotting away after a couple decades.  Bud is younger than me by five months.   Bob, by five years. 

 

Mission accomplished and now it was my turn to embark on some home maintenance projects.    I had three walls of my log-sided home to refinish as the Behr Log Home finish had failed.   This was not the first time, but almost an annual necessity.

Hauling around ladders and planks to jerry-rig scaffolding, hanging onto a 4-1/2 inch angle grinder with coarse sanding disks was not easy and again I found myself taking frequent rest breaks to wait for pain relief.

The facia needed restraining.

 

Then, in August, a windfall!   A completely unplanned trip to photograph the huge Coastal brown bears and puffins!

 

Digging razor clams.

Horned puffins.

By the time autumn arrived, I had to face that quality-of-life decision.   That pain was interfering in everything, including holding up my camera with its heavy, long lens.  Can’t have that.

I contacted the gastroenterologist I had seen a couple years before and requested an appointment, promising that I would go through with the surgery this time.   Eventually, he referred me to surgeon, and I followed up on the appointment.

 

Of course, I moaned about how scared I was and the various reactions I’d had to meds and procedures and how I feared I might not pull through one of those reactions etc., etc.,etc.   All excuses.

By the time I left his office (awed by the certificates from Duke, Yale, Cornell, and one other medical school that were displayed on his wall). I consented to the surgery.  

 

But first two more tests were required.   I’d managed to talk him out of an endoscopy.   He said he would do it while I was under the anesthetic for surgery, thereby eliminating double anesthesia.

 

So, the worst was the barium contrast X-ray.   This test had caused problems for my mother and I was not looking forward to it.

 

But, I went, swallowed the barium, rolled around on the X-ray table, and never did see the barium again.

By now, it was 2025.   I spent the next couple months terrified of the upcoming surgery date of March 24.   I also made meticulous plans, arranging a ticket for my step-daughter to fly up from Arizona to be my nanny during the operation, making hotel reservations because I had to remain in Anchorage for five days after the surgery, and stocking up with clear liquids to consume pre-and-post.

Then, it was time.  I was off to do something I’d been postponing for a long, long time.

 

 

 

My Stay-cation in Anchorage, Part Two. The Diagnosis

(I had some cute clip art in the draft    form but there's no such thing as free anymore. Hence, the unusual spacing.)  

About three years ago, I leaned across my dining table to reach something and a searing pain cut across my midriff.

Well, I thought, that’s a weird place for a cramp.  

(IMAGINE CLIP ART OF STOMACH PAIN.)

It happened again a few times, always when bending over.  The fact that it was horizontal pain and obviously not muscular intrigued me. 

 

When my annual Medicare wellness exam arrived, I mentioned it off-handedly to my doctor.   She expressed concern but we went no farther  as she is limited as to what is covered in the Medicare wellness protocol.

And that’s when a series of frustrating events began which served only to reinforce my aversion of doctors and hospitals.

My primary care doctor, whom I trust and admire because she puts up with my nonsense, is in a large clinic that accepts Medicare patients.   Physicians that accept Medicare patients are rather hard to find in Anchorage.

I tried to get another appointment with my doctor, but the earliest date was too many months in advance , so I took a date and time with another doctor in the clinic.  This time it was with an Asian doctor whom I’d seen before.  Unfortunately, between his accent and my hearing loss, I simply cannot understand him.

He sent me off for an X-Ray.   Later, his interpretation of it noted “large hiatal hernia.”   Big deal, I thought.   Lots of people have hiatal hernias, wherein the stomach begins to protrude through the hiatal opening in the diaphragm.  It was the “large” that I should have paid attention to.   I just thought my stomach was over-achieving.

A third doctor got involved and focused on a slight anomaly in my heart and she pestered me mercilessly until I submitted to an echocardiogram, which showed inconclusive results.

(IMAGINE CLIP OF OF MULTIPLE DOCTORS HERE)

After a couple months of all the doctors and aides going in different directions, I was pissed off and ignored them all.    There were too many different doctors involved.   Now, that is the mission of that clinic—that a patients can always get medical attention from one of the many doctors.   Nice principle, but in practice it is baffling to the patient.

The next spring, I began my 17th year of picking up litter along 40 miles of the Seward Highway and what a concerning wake-up call that was!   I got out of breath easily and frequently had a horrific pain near the bottom  of my rib cage on the left side--an incapacitating pain.   I had to sit down and relax for a while before it went away.

(IMAGINE CLIP ART OF BACK PAIN.)

 

I have a vivid memory of struggling to reach the end of one day’s route, holding my breath, all abdominal muscles clenched against the pain, and barely making it.  What’s more is that the distance I could clean daily was a fraction of what it should have been.  

Little by little, I realized that two things brought on that pain:   overeating and tightening my abdominal muscles.  As for over-eating:   guilty, guilty, guilty.   The thing is, I never knew how much or how little that amount would be.

I ate much less than usual, as friends can verify, but the pains still came.

Then, my annual wellness exam rolled around again and after further discussion with my primary doctor, I agreed to see a gastroenterologist.  

In his office, I described all my symptoms (including how I could make the pain vanish) and handed him a sheaf of test results.   He leafed through them as he considered my symptoms, and said, “AHA!   You have a large hiatal hernia.”

That, he continued, explained all my symptoms, the pains, the shortness of breath, the elevated red blood cell count, and maybe that slight thing with my heart.   He did not put any emphasis on the LARGE, so I continued to think of it as an over-achieving stomach.

“You need surgery,” he said.   I told him all my reservations—possible cognitive decline after anesthesia, a weird reaction after a colonoscopy that had me going to the hospital for a CT scan, and NO confidence-inducing hospital experiences.   Quite the opposite, in fact.

(IMAGINE CLIP ART OF SURGERY SCENE)

And right then I dug in my heels and they remained dug in for two more years.

 

(IMAGINE CLIP ART OF STUBBORN WOMAN) 

My Stay-cation in Anchorage, The Lead Up

For Spring Break this year, I opted for a week in Anchorage.   A stay-cation, rather than a vacation, if you will.

Borrowed this photo from the Internet.

 

No islands in the Caribbean with tropical breezes and sharks slipping through the clear waters, no vast  savannahs with African birds of every color and prowling  big cat predators,  no penguins of the Southern Ocean surrounded by their pink poo, where hurricane-force winds rage.   No scenic views, either because my view would be the rooftops of various hospital buildings.

Instead, I chose—somewhat involuntarily—the city where I grew up, graduated high school, and worked in several professions.   No single career choice for me, either.  I began in print journalism, then radio, then as a legal secretary.   I doffed it all to be a breakfast cook at a ski resort 35 miles from Anchorage, where I felt more at home surrounded by mountains and forests and black bears.

Some people think I’ve had a varied career;   I think I had a short attention span.

I went on to many other jobs, but that’s a story for another occasion.   I've gone astray.  Today we’re talking about my Stay-cation in Anchorage.

Up in the second paragraph, I mentioned it was “somewhat involuntary.”  Put the emphasis on involuntary.  I would never have done this t had it not been necessary

I’ll tell you about it because I want it to serve as warning for the rest of you who have similar symptoms, like when you think you have heartburn and sit around patting your chest with your fist.

I dealt with GERD, for decades, a condition in which stomach acid bubbles up into the esophagus.   The esophagus becomes very unhappy and lets you know about it.

 

Google provides a better description:  

This is a chronic disease that occurs when stomach acid or bile flows into the food pipe [esophagus] and irritates the lining. Acid reflux and heartburn more than twice a week may indicate GERD.

Symptoms include burning pain in the chest that usually occurs after eating and worsens when lying down.

 

Relief from lifestyle changes and over-the-counter medications is usually temporary. Stronger medication may be needed.

This is a video.   Click one the YouTube link after you skip the ad.

Pay attention especially to the last part where it describes hiatal hernia.

 

Always the contrarian, my GERD pain transmitted  to my spinal area and was so strong that when it first began occurring, I thought I was having a heart attack.   It was scary. Little did I know then what scary could be.

 

Left untreated, the stomach acid can erode the lining of the esophagus, leading to a pre-cancerous condition called Barrett’s Esophagus.  That got my attention. 

 

I detected (don’t you love self-diagnosis?) that it happened when I overate. I bought Costco-sized bottles of Tums and tried not to overeat.  “Overeating” can be as drastic as eating a huge juicy steak with all the trimmings, or as simple as half of a Costco hot dog.   It varies.

 

So, the Tums accompanied me for a couple decades wherever I went and then one day in Anchorage, things turned ominous. 

 

After two bites of a delicious hamburger at the Arctic Roadrunner, I was literally foaming at the mouth.  I could eat no more, certainly didn’t want to, and soaked napkin after napkin with foamy saliva.  I could not stop it.   It was awful.  And embarrassing.

 

I employed my usual method of medical treatment: ignore it and it will go away.

 

And I went on like that for another couple decades, trying not to over-fill my stomach, and occasionally failing as the “signal” that I was full was slow. 

 

 Until two years ago.   That’s when the fan got plastered with globs of unpleasant stuff, so to speak.

 

Next:  Pain transference