Immovable objects meet unstoppable force

As I stood up from the MRI this morning and disturbed everyone else in the room with a fine display of disorientation, a new post formed in my mind. 

MRI’s disturb my body. The resonance in the tube, in my body, and today in my head, for it was a brain MRI, confuse my body, sometimes for days.

I told the new neurologist I would not have another. He offered a sedative. I’m not anxious; it’s the magnetic waves bouncing off my heart, my lungs, my brain, my muscles, confusing them. I couldn’t drive after a sedative, I said. He shrugged and handed me the order to schedule the MRI.

I had to find a new neurologist, as mine threw up his hands at the current state of medicine and went to Ohio State to teach and do research. I understand his frustration, and sympathize completely. But I still need a neurologist to follow the effing brain injury.

The neurologist recommended to me has no openings until February, and I still need (or not) anti-seizure meds filled by a neurologist. You don't just quit those things. So, I settled for another member of the practice, and will play the immovable object/unstoppable force game until I am satisfied or ask to go to the top of the practice.

Every brain doctor since George Washington Medical Center in DC was convinced I have seizures. Except Dr. DeRen, but he threw up his hands and quit patients. So, I’ve had innumerable cat scans, an EEG, two MRI’s, three neurosurgeons and one neurologist signing off on the lack of seizures, but here’s a new neurologist, who has to have his own pristine set of findings. He and I have now met the impasse.

He said, to end the visit, “Well, I still haven’t cleared you to drive.” Ask google. Look in a text book. Apparently this brain injury precludes driving. No matter every authority has ticked the “drive” box. The new man on the scene must have an opinion weighed, too.

I told his back, as he left the room, “I parked my car in your lot this morning.”

There is a more lighthearted immovable object in the kitchen; my granddaughter, the cookerer. A while back she tried biscuits. I watched her plop butter from the butter dish to the flour in the bowl. In passing I remarked she should try to use cold butter. The biscuits were a little chewy, but OK.

Several weeks later she made biscuits to die for, and I remarked to that effect with every one I ate. “Yes,” she said, “google recommends using cold butter and I put a note to do that in my ‘cooking notes.’”

Don’tcha love it.

Last week I tackled the kale question. Kale has its place, but an exclusive two year run is long. I suggested chard. Putting away groceries Saturday, I stowed kale in the fridge, but no chard. “They didn’t have any,” Laura rejoined.

Yesterday we stopped at Kreiger’s for a small item. On the way out I took a good look at the greens. I poked Laura in the ribs and pointed. She looked, shrugged and headed out the door. A couple of years ago I made a rule: there will be a vegetable with every meal. Time to make a “less kale, more chard” rule, too.