A Balancing Act

When was the last time you fell? You may have tripped on a curb, experienced a loss of balance, or just felt a loss of sturdiness when walking that made you feel like you might lose your balance.

This is scary, because you’ve been safely walking since you were less than two years old. It’s disconcerting that you might just, for no reason, fall.

Being a runner, I have fallen a lot. It has never concerned me, because I could always attribute it to the terrain, or the dog. I don’t show my knees anymore, but that’s the sum total of all my falls. Never really hurt myself.

But at a certain age, at which I’ve arrived, if you are a woman and you fall, you can break something that never heals. And you can end up in a nursing home. Oh, they don’t call them nursing homes anymore; they’re senior facilities, or assisted living, or something like that. But still…

Not my jam.

To avoid landing up in a senior facility after a fall, I do a lot of balance exercises, walk diligently every morning, and watch endless videos on YouTube that promise “If you do these two exercises, you will never fall.” As part of this endless research, I came upon the advice that people who can balance on one leg live longer.

Don’t ask. I can’t.

This piece of advice led me down a very deep dark depressing rabbit hole. it was the scariest event I’ve been through. And I’m not finished being through it yet, but I am beginning to understand what I did to myself and how to escape.

I asked my primary doctor, whom I love and trust, about this deficit, and she said I should maybe see a neurosurgeon, The neurosurgeon looked at my X-rays and told me I would never need surgery, but she couldn’t tell me about balancing on one leg. That’s another specialty--the neurologist. That’s the guy who does everything that ISN’T surgery.

The neurosurgeon referred me to the neurologist and I went to see the neurologist in order for him to do his work up. He is young and enthusiastic, and he likes me. He proposed a cervical scan and a bunch of blood tests. I thought it was safe to start these, because I’ve always had good blood test results. Man, was I wrong.

I’ve had regular blood testing for the last 15 years because I’ve been vegan, and I’ve been vigilant in looking for deficiencies that veganism could cause. But these blood tests were completely different from those, and they showed one radical out of range result that made the neurologist refer me to a hematologist. The out of range result was not slightly off. I had fourteen times the amount of protein in my blood for IgM.

Freaked out at my own imperfection, I consulted Claude.

Meanwhile, the neurologist, familiar with the system, referred me to a hematologist. A hematologist is a specialist in diseases of the blood. And as he referred me on, the neurologist told me not to Google. Are you kidding? I left Google in the dust three years ago for artificial intelligence, which informed me that I might have multiple myeloma.

This threw me into a tailspin. Of all the things I had considered and planned for in a life of hypochondria, I had somehow failed to account for multiple myeloma.

The hematologist, who practices at a Cancer Institute, made it seem all the more frightening.

In one fell swoop this set of tests destroyed my utter faith in exercise, diet, and sleep. Although I had no faith in God, I somehow had faith in wellness. Now that, too, was about to be destroyed.

The hematologist, another lovely man, also told me not to Google. He ordered a ton of other blood tests and urine tests, for the results of which he told me I would have to wait two weeks. These were specialty tests and they had to grow something before they could tell me anything.

During that two weeks, my entire central nervous system went off the rails and I lost my ability to live life. I hunkered in a corner, and I really didn’t even sleep, which for me is remarkable. I felt betrayed. But by whom? Life? Even I understood it was silly to think I’d go through life unscathed. But I almost did! If I had just not asked the question about balancing on one leg, none of this would have happened. Curiosity killed the cat.

At the end of two weeks I went to see the hematologist again, and he told me that I did not have multiple myeloma. But I did, of course, have something wrong with my blood.

The hematologist now thinks I may have Waldenström Macroglobulinemia. I can’t even say it. It’s a slow growing lymphoma that is often not treated. I rejoiced.

However, to confirm the diagnosis, I had to have a bone marrow biopsy. End of rejoicing.

Now. How would you feel if someone told you you had to go have a bone marrow biopsy? Well, that’s how I feel. I’ve actually been thinking “what the hell, I’m 85 and if they don’t have an exact diagnosis for me, what difference does it make? I’m gonna die anyway pretty soon.”

He beats back this thought process by saying “I need the data to make a definitive diagnosis.”

Well, there’s the issue. I don’t need the data, but he does. He’s in a system where making the right diagnosis counts. I’m not. I’m in a system that has seen two of my friends die seeking treatment and another one have a stroke during a diagnostic procedure. I’ve learned that with people my age, often less is more.

Stay tuned.