Our eldest daughter Jaye has a vivid recollection of a childhood event involving the human skeleton.
For a Halloween costume, she or perhaps her mother chose a skull mask. Jaye says the mask was the sum total of her costume: regular clothing plus a black and white skull image, that’s it.
After trick-or-treat night was over, in reasoning only a child could understand, Jaye says she became afraid of the skull imagery.
This phobia became so strong in the little girl that eventually her rather slow-to-catch-on parents asked what was wrong.
Sure enough, she did open up about it to her Daddy (who was – and is – me).
Recently, Jaye said, “I remember you told me that skeletons are nothing to fear. You told me ‘You have a skeleton inside you. Everyone does.’”
If I was really that wise forty years ago with my little girl, I am relieved. These days, I might squeeze my brain real tight and exude something erudite, but I don’t recall being very smart like that in the old days.
Live X-Rays
When I was in high school in Brighton, we’d go shopping at Wall’s Clothing in old downtown.
In the shoe department, they had a machine that would X-Ray one’s feet. You’d stick your feet in slots, wearing the new shoes, to see if there was a good fit.
It was live, true X-Ray. One could move his feet and watch them through the green viewfinder. I don’t suppose I ever got radiation burns from it – or from any of the other trillion X-Rays that were taken of my wretched body in those early years.
You don’t find a lot of public-access foot-X-Ray machines in shoe stores today. Maybe someone figured out that X-Ray isn’t necessarily harmless.
To this day, however, the medical community will tell a person that no harm will come from any of the imaging machinery – or from the goop they make one drink or from the vile radioactive liquid that is injected into one. Nope. Won’t hurt you a bit. (“It’ll be out of your system in 60 hours.”) Sure guys.
Just a joke
After Halloween one year I saw a plastic skeleton for sale. Had to have it. It is almost full-size, hardly anatomically correct, but spooky nevertheless.
I put her behind me on the motorcycle, bungeed her in place, and took off for Eaton. A state policeman followed me into the A&W, parked beside me, rolled down his window and laughed. “I had to have a closer look at that,” he said.
Later, we put “Esther” vertical next to a tree in the back yard at home. I figured she might scare off a prowler one day. (Esther is named after a remarkably complete and well preserved ancient Anasazi mummy found in the Four Corners area. You can probably still see her at Mesa Verde.)
When our Esther deteriorated to the point that she could no longer remain vertical, we laid her to rest in “Bonehenge” at the front of the house. She is compliant, crumbling into dust like a real skeleton. So far, no one has even mentioned seeing her there.
Skeletons
Of late, I’ve looked inside myself in images produced in three media with medical orientation.
The first was my skull, all by itself. We had a big difference of opinion with the lab over this one. The billing said they’d done a CT scan.
What I knew had been done was a set of old-fashioned X-Rays. The doctor’s prescription had specified X-Rays. I presumed the technician would have followed the doctor’s orders.
With a quirk that can only be explained by the word “supernatural,” we obtained possession of the X-Ray films themselves.
Once I had the hard copies, I told the lab’s billing department to go fly a kite. “So sue me,” I said. “Even a dense judge can see what I have is an $80 X-Ray, not a $900 scan.”
Argument over. The physical problem has persisted, however, and the X-Rays weren’t any help. I had been complaining of sinusitis, etc. ad infinitum.
I still have that particular problem; as in so many medical things, I have merely learned to put up with it. I spray my nasal cavities with saline solution and go on with my life.
As a bonus though, I still have some rather trippy X-Ray photographs of my skull. This should be sufficient for my daughter, as evidence that even old Dad has a skeleton. Each of us has a skeleton, even those spineless bastards in Congress.
The next step
Recently I had the opportunity to undergo what’s known as a “CT Scan.”
Because I am a recalcitrant patient, my physician resorted to this method of imaging in an attempt to discover what is going on with my Old Man Gland.
The scan worked to a certain extent. It showed there is a problem. But hell, we already knew that, didn’t we? I may appear in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the world’s highest Prostate Specific Antigen (PSA) blood count. I ain’t saying what that count was. Privacy, you know.
When the CT results were in, my regular physician sent me hot-footing over to a urologist, who was kind enough to show me the pictures, using his cursor to educate me about the images and to point to scary areas.
Next step
Still harboring a strong negative intuition about the long-dreaded “needle biopsy,” my doctors then scheduled me for (listen for the drum roll) a full-body bone scan.
This time, the technicians gifted us with a CD of the results. The urologist explained to me that the images in this medium are going to be fuzzy. There’s nothing high-def in it.
Nevertheless, even without special training, I could see the image was actually ME. There are certain things about my skeleton unique to me. There’s not a chance in hell they got my image confused with someone else’s.
Sure, even without technical training, I could see there are problems. I’m told these are treatable problems. I looked at the computer screen and I saw a guy whose right leg is a lot smaller than his left.
I saw a guy whose left femur is a lot shorter than his right. I saw a guy whose right tibia and fibula are a lot skinnier than his left. I saw a guy whose right hip ball and socket are almost non-existent.
Shocking? No. Oddly, it was reassuring. It was as if I could finally pick myself out of the crowd. My skeleton sure isn’t much to look at. But it’s MY damn skeleton. It’s been right there inside me all this time.
One day, I hope to project some of the images on a canvas and paint a self-portrait like no other.
What’s next?
Sometime next week, Jayebaby (my pet name for my little girl) is scheduled for a CT scan of her skull. She has suffered a broken cheekbone in a fall, and the scan will show if corrective surgery will be necessary.
A week after that, I’ll go for that next probing step in diagnosing my care needs.
Just like I told Jaye all those years ago, everybody has a skeleton. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.
-0-
Word of the Week: Intuition. From the Latin, intuitus, to look at, regard, or contemplate. It means to us the immediate knowing or learning of something without the conscious use of reasoning. It means instantaneous apprehension – such as regarding a needle biopsy.
After trick-or-treat night was over, in reasoning only a child could understand, Jaye says she became afraid of the skull imagery.
This phobia became so strong in the little girl that eventually her rather slow-to-catch-on parents asked what was wrong.
Sure enough, she did open up about it to her Daddy (who was – and is – me).
Recently, Jaye said, “I remember you told me that skeletons are nothing to fear. You told me ‘You have a skeleton inside you. Everyone does.’”
If I was really that wise forty years ago with my little girl, I am relieved. These days, I might squeeze my brain real tight and exude something erudite, but I don’t recall being very smart like that in the old days.
Live X-Rays
When I was in high school in Brighton, we’d go shopping at Wall’s Clothing in old downtown.
In the shoe department, they had a machine that would X-Ray one’s feet. You’d stick your feet in slots, wearing the new shoes, to see if there was a good fit.
It was live, true X-Ray. One could move his feet and watch them through the green viewfinder. I don’t suppose I ever got radiation burns from it – or from any of the other trillion X-Rays that were taken of my wretched body in those early years.
You don’t find a lot of public-access foot-X-Ray machines in shoe stores today. Maybe someone figured out that X-Ray isn’t necessarily harmless.
To this day, however, the medical community will tell a person that no harm will come from any of the imaging machinery – or from the goop they make one drink or from the vile radioactive liquid that is injected into one. Nope. Won’t hurt you a bit. (“It’ll be out of your system in 60 hours.”) Sure guys.
Just a joke
After Halloween one year I saw a plastic skeleton for sale. Had to have it. It is almost full-size, hardly anatomically correct, but spooky nevertheless.
I put her behind me on the motorcycle, bungeed her in place, and took off for Eaton. A state policeman followed me into the A&W, parked beside me, rolled down his window and laughed. “I had to have a closer look at that,” he said.
Later, we put “Esther” vertical next to a tree in the back yard at home. I figured she might scare off a prowler one day. (Esther is named after a remarkably complete and well preserved ancient Anasazi mummy found in the Four Corners area. You can probably still see her at Mesa Verde.)
When our Esther deteriorated to the point that she could no longer remain vertical, we laid her to rest in “Bonehenge” at the front of the house. She is compliant, crumbling into dust like a real skeleton. So far, no one has even mentioned seeing her there.
Skeletons
Of late, I’ve looked inside myself in images produced in three media with medical orientation.
The first was my skull, all by itself. We had a big difference of opinion with the lab over this one. The billing said they’d done a CT scan.
What I knew had been done was a set of old-fashioned X-Rays. The doctor’s prescription had specified X-Rays. I presumed the technician would have followed the doctor’s orders.
With a quirk that can only be explained by the word “supernatural,” we obtained possession of the X-Ray films themselves.
Once I had the hard copies, I told the lab’s billing department to go fly a kite. “So sue me,” I said. “Even a dense judge can see what I have is an $80 X-Ray, not a $900 scan.”
Argument over. The physical problem has persisted, however, and the X-Rays weren’t any help. I had been complaining of sinusitis, etc. ad infinitum.
I still have that particular problem; as in so many medical things, I have merely learned to put up with it. I spray my nasal cavities with saline solution and go on with my life.
As a bonus though, I still have some rather trippy X-Ray photographs of my skull. This should be sufficient for my daughter, as evidence that even old Dad has a skeleton. Each of us has a skeleton, even those spineless bastards in Congress.
The next step
Recently I had the opportunity to undergo what’s known as a “CT Scan.”
Because I am a recalcitrant patient, my physician resorted to this method of imaging in an attempt to discover what is going on with my Old Man Gland.
The scan worked to a certain extent. It showed there is a problem. But hell, we already knew that, didn’t we? I may appear in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the world’s highest Prostate Specific Antigen (PSA) blood count. I ain’t saying what that count was. Privacy, you know.
When the CT results were in, my regular physician sent me hot-footing over to a urologist, who was kind enough to show me the pictures, using his cursor to educate me about the images and to point to scary areas.
Next step
Still harboring a strong negative intuition about the long-dreaded “needle biopsy,” my doctors then scheduled me for (listen for the drum roll) a full-body bone scan.
This time, the technicians gifted us with a CD of the results. The urologist explained to me that the images in this medium are going to be fuzzy. There’s nothing high-def in it.
Nevertheless, even without special training, I could see the image was actually ME. There are certain things about my skeleton unique to me. There’s not a chance in hell they got my image confused with someone else’s.
Sure, even without technical training, I could see there are problems. I’m told these are treatable problems. I looked at the computer screen and I saw a guy whose right leg is a lot smaller than his left.
I saw a guy whose left femur is a lot shorter than his right. I saw a guy whose right tibia and fibula are a lot skinnier than his left. I saw a guy whose right hip ball and socket are almost non-existent.
Shocking? No. Oddly, it was reassuring. It was as if I could finally pick myself out of the crowd. My skeleton sure isn’t much to look at. But it’s MY damn skeleton. It’s been right there inside me all this time.
One day, I hope to project some of the images on a canvas and paint a self-portrait like no other.
What’s next?
Sometime next week, Jayebaby (my pet name for my little girl) is scheduled for a CT scan of her skull. She has suffered a broken cheekbone in a fall, and the scan will show if corrective surgery will be necessary.
A week after that, I’ll go for that next probing step in diagnosing my care needs.
Just like I told Jaye all those years ago, everybody has a skeleton. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.
-0-
Word of the Week: Intuition. From the Latin, intuitus, to look at, regard, or contemplate. It means to us the immediate knowing or learning of something without the conscious use of reasoning. It means instantaneous apprehension – such as regarding a needle biopsy.
I will be keep you in my good thoughts, all of which will be certain.
ReplyDeleteA little humor:
All Doctors/Physicians know one thing for certain. More than often, that one thing is of absolutely no use to a diagnosis of certainty.
Unc Tom, interestingly enough my Uncle Dave Moore has one of those foot x-ray machines at his home. Although I'm sure he's not emitting those crazy rays into his feet on a regular basis....I almost thought you were gonna say that Esther the skeleton was my grandma Esther...LOL
ReplyDeleteDavid