LITTLE PIECES

Well, we did it! We got the name of a hypertension specialist! And not just any specialist -- we got the name of the guy who heads up the whole hypertension program at Baylor College of Medicine in Houston. The trick now is getting him to see us.

I had to google his name when we got home from the cardiologist's office, just to track him down. On my second stab at calling the multiple offices that were listed for him, I got a receptionist who told me that, yes, he does actually accept patients, but that she personally was unable to schedule appointments for "potential" new patients. Instead, she would be giving John's name to the woman who manages the clinic for this doctor, and that she would be calling to chat with John later.

A couple of hours later he got the call. After quizzing  him about his medical history for a few minutes, she told him that she would discuss everything with the doctor and get back to us. She wasn't sure whether John fit their profile, as this doctor usually works with patients who have "consistent" hypertension, while John's is all over the map. However, she said that if her doctor doesn't accept him as a patient, he will probably refer him to the specialist over at the UT medical school. Woohoo! Looks like we'll be makin' some trips to Houston!

So why are we going to all this trouble, when John has a wonderful cardiologist right here, who was handpicked for him by one of the best in the Houston Medical Center? Well, one day when John finally opened up to me about how he'd been feeling and what he'd been thinking since his stroke in December, I realized we both needed a little more hope in our lives. We needed something positive to  focus on, instead of just sitting here, waiting for the next shoe to drop. You see, we are well aware of just how lucky we were this last time. Why, the casual observer would never even know that there was anything wrong with John. But we know. We know that several little pieces of John went missing on Christmas Eve. His taste buds aren't completely gone, but they are out of whack. This guy, who has never been able to get his food hot enough for his own liking, actually refused to eat something the other day because it was "too spicy." He told me I might as well quit asking him if he likes something I cooked for him, because he just can't tell anymore. Same thing with his sense of smell. The guy who's always adored shopping for perfumes and scented soaps and candles more than any male I've ever met, can hardly smell them now. He doesn't actually have a limp or anything, but there's a certain unsteadiness when he gets up from bed or out of a chair, which makes him appear much older than he is, and the guy who had the most beautiful handwriting ever, now has to write slowly, and focus very hard, to make it legible -- like a kid who is just learning cursive. Little pieces have gone missing from this puzzle, and one can't help but wonder, which ones will go next? It's a lot like playing that game Jenga. One can only remove so many pieces from the tower. Sooner or later, someone is going to pull something critical -- one that will cause the whole tower to cave in on itself.

Anyhoo, as I've said before, I prefer being proactive to reactive, which is why i put on my big girl panties yesterday, and stepped waaaay outside of my comfort zone. I did what I almost never do. I actually questioned a doctor, implying, in the nicest way possible, that what he was doing just wasn't enough. We needed something more -- we needed more hope. And, like Momma always said, God helps those who help themselves!