The House Part II and the Doctors in Daytona

 Well, the house did not close on Aug. 24^th. Turns out the mold contractor only removed the mold affected wood, but did not replace it. Yes, that’s right. They left the sinks on the bathroom floor, no cabinetry around the dishwasher, and the drywall removed under the dining room window. Back to the negotiating table! Who is going to pay for the repairs to put the house back into its original, sellable condition?

We found a contractor who could make the repairs, but he was on another job until after the Labor Day Holiday on the 3^rd. We weren’t going to make our second closing date of August 31^st or September 5^th. And where was I going to have my surgery?

On Saturday, August 4^th I had a terrible panic attack. I imagined my cancer had spread to my lymph nodes. I had an appointment to see Dr. Harichand, an oncologist at Florida Hospital near Daytona.  Dr. Harichand is a second generation Indian-American, young, very smart, and most importantly, a caring person. She spent a great deal of time with me, feeling under my arm and listening to my concerns. She was extremely generous with her time. She calmed me down and talked me in off the ledge. She said she did not feel any lumps under my arm, but, because it had been 11 weeks since my last mammogram she wanted me to have another one. She arranged for me to have it the following day.

The imagining center did a thorough job of scanning my breast and they also did an ultrasound. I waited in the dark room for the radiologist to come in and when he did he gave me the bad news. My cancer had grown and spread since my last mammogram in Seattle. He was very stern with me, “You HAVE to get this taken care of right away! You cannot wait even two more weeks!” I was back in freak out mode.

I am not afraid of dying of cancer. No, in fact, I would welcome it. But once I told my children, (I was advised on breastcancer.org to tell my children) they insisted I had to live not matter how deformed, mutilated, and maimed both psychologically and physically I would be for the rest of my miserable life.

No, my fear was that I may have been stupid and waited too long, that I was going to lose my lymph nodes and have lymphedema, that I might lose a good chunk of my chest muscle and have to have additional treatment like chemo and radiation.

I went back to Dr. Harichand the following day. She had to calm me down again. She was very kind and patient and explained that there was nothing to freak out about. But, that we did have to make a plan and move forward. I agreed.

She helped set me up with appointments in Daytona. The first one was with Dr. Zamora, the plastic surgeon. But, I really wanted to see MD Anderson in Orlando. They are a well-known, world-class, highly acclaimed cancer center. Dr. Harichand encouraged me to go there, too.

Dr. Zamora is a man in love with his craft. He has had way too many procedures done on himself. His assistant showed me to a room and immediately announced that I would not be a good candidate for the “tummy tuck” breast surgery. This is where they harvest extra body fat from your abdomen and fashion a new breast out of it. The advantage is that is looks and behaves more like a natural breast. It gains and losses weight and moves naturally. I, however, did not have enough belly fat to make a breast. (I find that debatable).

The doctor came in and confirmed that the only choice for me were expanders and a silicone implant. The expanders have to stay in for 6 weeks. You have to go in every week to be pumped up. When they are the size you want, you go in for another surgery and have the implant inserted. 3 months later you go in and have another implant inserted in the other side to make them look more alike. Altogether it is about a year long process.

Then Zamora said to me, “You better get it through your head that your breasts are NEVER going to be the same again. And that they never will look alike. Sometimes the nipple dies and it has to be cut off and sewn shut. A fake one can be tattooed on later. The implant will never have any feeling and sometimes the augmented breast looses sensation, too. If you don’t get used to that idea, you are going to be very unhappy.”

All of the air sucked out of the room. I could barely speak. I slipped off the examination table and stumbled to the car. I could not breathe.

My Car And My Phone

The first order of business on my arrival in Florida was to get a new phone. My Blackberry, which I had for years decided now was the time to die. I wanted an iphone, I just didn’t expect to have to buy one right now. But I had to buy a phone and why wouldn’t I upgrade? What could go wrong? Eddie very kindly took me to the Sprint store where the salesman quickly hooked me up with an iphone 4 and a brief overview of how it worked. I knew there would be a learning curve, but little did I know that my unfamiliarity with that phone would cause one of the worst panic attacks I ever had.

The next order of business was to acquire a car. I had sold my 95 Honda Accord with over 245K miles on it before I left Washington.

I knew I wanted another Honda because of the reliability, but I wanted something a little bigger, a little more comfortable. I decided on a CRV, a “mini-SUV”. It would be perfect for road trips, camping, picking up visitors from the airport, dogs, groceries, and yet small enough for around town. Ok, so, it’s really more like a “mom car” like the mini-vans I drove for years, but, oh well, that is what I am. Guilty!

Eddie took me to a used car lot in Daytona. We were met by a toothless mechanic at the back who directed us to the overweight, bleach blond, sales manager wearing the shorts in the front office.

They had one CRV on the lot and she gave us the key to drive it around the block. It made it ¾ of the way when it died and we had to walk the rest if the way back to the lot.

I wasn’t dissuaded though, and dove into Craig’s List. I was determined I was NOT going to buy from some fast talking, slick dealer and pay more for what I was getting. I filtered out “dealers” and only looked at private parties.

There were about 5 CRV’s in the year I wanted, in my price range and with the features I wanted. The problem was that 4 of them were in Orlando, about an hour and a half away. I could not ask my brother to drive me that far and then not buy the car. What if I didn’t like it?

There was one listing in the Daytona area. I called and a young woman with children screaming in the background answered. Yes, they had a 2003 CRV for sale, but she didn’t know when she could show it. She was busy with a garage sale and her girlfriend’s wedding. She wasn’t sure why they were selling it. I had to wait to talk to her husband.

I called back and they agreed to meet us in Daytona. Awesome! But they never called to set a time and place. I called back the next day and we set a time and place. Tim and I waited. They never showed up. I imagined the car was full of spilt milkshakes and French fries anyway. I was furious and embarrassed for dragging Tim all around. I was also desperate, I really needed a car. As I stood there fuming in the parking lot of the restaurant, Tim was quietly doing a search on Craig’s List on his smart phone, only this time he did not filter out dealers.

“Look, Amy, here is one, not too far away.” I reluctantly agreed to go. Parked on the lawn in front of the building was a shiny, silver, 2003, CRV, with a sun roof. I was in smitten. The dealer was a smooth talking good ol’ boy who really turned on the charm. Of course, I had to reciprocate. The car was clean and purred softly as I drove it around the block. Then it was time to dicker. The sticker price was alright but when I found out about all the other incidentals, I was shocked. $400 for a Florida license plate, taxes, dealer fees, etc, etc!

Eventually, Casey and I came to an agreement and I was no longer without wheels! I had my car and I loved it!

Welcome to Hootervile (No Pun Intended)

So, I arrive in Orlando on July 2^nd and Tim is there to meet me at the airport, thank goodness! We left the airport to begin the hour long drive to Daytona, or “Hooterville”, as Tim likes to call it. We stopped to pick Eddie along the way who was at the Mercedes Dealer, getting the Smartcar serviced. Clutched in my possession was two week’s worth of anti-anxiety medication which was all the psychiatrist at Overlake would give me.

Tim has a beautiful vintage home, built in 1922, the same age as my mom. He and Eddie have poured thousands of dollars into renovations and furnished it Mission Style furniture. They completely redid the yard and it is an abundance of exotic, tropical plants with a thick, lush green lawn. But the piece de resistance is the garage, the roof of which had collapsed at one time. They gutted it and built a loft which Tim had very generously given me as a work space. I was most happy when I was in the loft. 

Daytona is a seedy, weedy, run-down, depressed and depressing, past-it’s-prime little nowhereville, tourist town. Other than tourism, it has no industry. (There are some schools there, Daytona State College, and Embry-Riddle University). Its main claim to fame is the Daytona Beach Raceway for all those NASCAR fans. The rest of the town consists of strip malls, run-down hotels, boarded up motels, tattoo shops, tacky souvenir shops, empty, weedy lots.

The beach itself is the only redeeming factor about the whole place. But beware, if you want to take a walk/jog on the beach you’d better get up EARLY! Do not even bother to start your run after 7 AM. From that point on, it just gets hotter, and stickier, and stickier and hotter. You will arrive home after 45 minutes, with your face so sweaty your sunglasses slide off your nose. And that is the way it remains for the rest of the day, unbearable hot, stuffy and muggy. You don’t dare go out!

The place is populated by a mash-up of homeless hippies, aging baby-boomers, toothless meth heads, ugly people who walk around wearing practically NOTHING! Now this might be interesting if the people were good looking, but they are not! Most of the inhabitants are old, and baggy with sagging tattoos on leather like skin. The men go around shirtless on bicycles or motorcycles, their long, stringy, grey ponytails hanging down their burnt backs. Everyone is obese, young and old alike. The women, who bleach their hair to the color and texture of straw, sport several inches of black roots. They wear too small tank tops that expose bellies flowing over the top of super low rider, cut off jeans. If you come here, don’t bother to bring shoes. I really questioned whether I was still in the United States of America. It felt that foreign.

I began cutting back on my medication, trying to make it last. I told myself that I was OK, that I didn’t really need it. But the panic attacks continued. I called the 1-800# for 24/7 peer counseling for breast cancer victims. I had called them before. There was nothing they could do, but one counselor told me in no uncertain terms that I had to take my meds! She spoke very sternly to me. Where was I going to find a doctor in Hooterville?

Then, one night, after Eddie had returned to New York, I had one of the most severe panic attacks I had ever had. I left the house to run an errand in my new car. I did not know my way around Daytona. I did not know which way was East and which was West. I did not know North from South (The ocean was in the wrong place.)

As I came out of the store parking lot I turned in the wrong direction. I was forced onto a freeway on ramp, I-4, headed toward Orlando. It was dark and I could not see any landmarks. I reached for my new iphone and called Tim. I asked him for help. He said I had to stay on that road until the next exit and then turn around and come back. I drove, and drove and drove for what seemed like forever. I became more and more panicked. I was screaming and crying at the top of my lungs and clutching the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white. Rufio jumped in the back seat and hid.

Two hours later, I finally got back to Tim’s, but I had to call him several times to find his house. I could not read the maps on my iphone.

When I got out of the car, I was paralyzed with fear and could barely speak above a whisper. My muscles were so tight, I was almost catatonic. I begged Tim to wait for me, to not go in the house, to help me, but he would not. When eventually I got inside he very sternly told me to sit down. I was sobbing and crying. “I don’t know how Ali puts up with this, but I’m not going to put up with this!” he scolded me. I couldn’t help it. It was out of my control. “I’m not a mental health professional! I am going to call 911.” I begged him no; I knew they would put me back in the psych ward. I promised him I would take my medication (which I did not have with me in the car) and go to bed.

The next day was Sunday. I drove myself to the ER. They put me in a room and made me wait 45 minutes. Then they told me they would not give me a refill on Ativan. I was furious.

I called my insurance company 24 hour nurse hotline to get help. The nurse repeated that it was very important that I find a doctor and stay on my meds. Did I need a family practice physician or a psychiatrist? I did not know.

I spent every free moment the following day, Monday, trying to find a doctor who was taking new patients. How hard could that be? Welcome to Hooterville.

I made dozens of phone calls until I got one to say yes. It was July 16, I was down to my last two pills. Probably I could have gotten what I needed at the run down, seedy, old apartment building on the corner. I know I could have walked into a gun store and bought a gun with no problem.

All of the doctors I called were not taking new patients at this time, or they would “review” my records and let me know in a couple of weeks. I never had so much trouble finding a doctor. I finally called Dr. Fermin Ano and they said they would squeeze me in. I drove down into a scary, unsavory part of town, clutching my plastic bag of meds like some despicable, desperate addict. So, it’s come to this!

I finally found the place next to check cashing places, liquor stores and convenience stores. It looked like a trailer that had been converted into a permanent building. It was dark inside, smelled musty, with a torn carpet and metal folding chairs in the waiting room.

Rebecca, his assistant, who smelled like cigarettes, handed me a cup for a urine sample. I don’t know why because I wasn’t there for a urinary tract infection, but I was in no position to argue.

When I saw Dr. Ano, I was shocked and almost started laughing. He is a tiny, old, Pilipino gentleman, about 5 feet tall, 80 years old with wisps of grey hair across his bald head. He looked exactly like Yoda from Star Wars only wearing a Hawaiian shirt. He spoke in a high pitched, squeaky voice with a heavy Pilipino accent.

When I told him why I was there, he looked at my list of meds and proclaimed, “You are severely depressed! This is not strong enough for a flea! I am going to change everything!”  I tried to protest, “No, this is what the psychiatrist in Seattle gave me; and it works as long as I take it. All I need is a refill” “Who is the doctor here?” the tiny man raised his tiny voice at me, “Stop trying to play doctor.” So, I shut my mouth, took the new prescriptions to the pharmacy and followed his instructions to the letter.

The following day, I was sick as a dog, nauseous, no appetite, vomiting, hunched over, unable to straighten up. I immediately called his office and told them I wanted my old prescriptions back. Tim was kind enough to go to the pharmacy to pick them up for me. Welcome to Hooterville.

At the same time as all this was happening I was playing 20 faxes with Bank of America, trying to get a loan. They wanted tax returns and W-2’s from 2010, all of which were in storage in the state of Washington. Tim suggested I go to the local IRS office. Yes, they have one in Daytona. The only problem is that they close for lunch between 12 and 1 and so does the Post Office. I guess Sally from the IRS and Daphne from the Post Office have to close up in order to get a break. Everything I needed to supply to the bank I had to obtain through other means. But I did it. I was determined. Welcome to Hooterville!

I found this on the internet:

Symptoms of Culture Shock

• ·        a feeling of sadness and loneliness,
• ·        an over-concern about your health,
• ·        headaches, pains, and allergies
• ·        insomnia or sleeping too much
• ·        feelings of anger, depression, vulnerability
• ·        idealizing your own culture
• ·        trying too hard to adapt by becoming obsessed with the new culture
• ·        the smallest problems seem overwhelming
• ·        feeling shy or insecure
• ·        become obsessed with cleanliness
• ·        overwhelming sense of homesickness
• ·        feeling lost or confused
• ·        questioning your decision to move to this place