Daily Archives: March 10, 2016

Patent Foramen Ovale aka hole in the heart

Patent Foramen Ovale

Patent Foramen Ovale (PFO)

Well, here’s the verdict, this morning i got a call from my doctor, I have a Patent Foramen Ovale (PFO) or a hole in my heart. It is a hole between the atria of the heart, everyone is born with this, but it closes entirely for the majority of people. For some of us, it does not, a little opening stays open. And clots can go from one atrium of the heart to the other and can then go to the brain, where they can cause strokes.

Exactly what happened to me! I did have a stroke, although it was so small that I had no symptoms and never knew I had it till the blasted MRI!

So I called my stepdad, he is a cardio-thoracic surgeon, he works  at Columbia Presbyterian in New York City. He said not to worry, it’s an easy fix, he’s done a few himself. The surgery to repair the PFO is done through a catheter. He will talk to the cardiologists at Columbia and call me back tomorrow.

So here we are folks. I’m going to my Zumba class, heck, I’ve had this hole in my heart all my life, so doing Zumba isn’t going to make anything worse! A hole in my heart… hmmmm… how did I know I always had it! No, seriously, I’m deep breathing and waiting for the news from my stepdad.

Never do know what life has in store for you!

http://my.clevelandclinic.org/services/heart/disorders/congenital-heart/patent-foramen-ovale

What is Foramen Ovale?

The foramen ovale is a small hole located in the septum (wall) between the two upper (atrial) chambers of the heart.

The foramen ovale is used during fetal circulation to speed up the travel of blood through the heart. When in the womb, a baby does not use its own lungs for oxygen-rich blood; it relies on the mother to provide oxygen rich blood from the placenta through the umbilical cord to the fetus. Therefore, blood can travel from the veins to the right side of the baby’s heart and cross to the left side of the heart through the foramen ovale and skip the trip to the baby’s lungs.

What is a Patent Foramen Ovale (PFO)?

Normally the foramen ovale closes at birth when increased blood pressure on the left side of the heart forces the opening to close.

If the atrial septum does not close properly, it is called a patent foramen ovale. This type of defect generally works like a flap valve, only opening during certain conditions when there is more pressure inside the chest. This increased pressure occurs when people strain while having a bowel movement, cough, or sneeze.

If the pressure is great enough, blood may travel from the right atrium to the left atrium. If there is a clot or particles in the blood traveling in the right side of the heart, it can cross the PFO, enter the left atrium, and travel out of the heart and to the brain (causing a stroke) or into a coronary artery (causing a heart attack).

Patent Foramen Ovale

Patent Foramen Ovale (PFO)

How Common is Patent Foramen Ovale?

PFO is present is up to 25 percent in the general population. Young adults (less than age 55) who have stroke of unknown cause (cryptogenic stroke), are more likely to have a PFO. In fact young adults who have had a cryptogenic stroke are more likely to have both a PFO and a deep vein thrombosis (DVT).

A PFO can be associated with atrial septal aneurysm, which is characterized by excessive mobility of the atrial septum.


Love or Fear

IMG_0407Yoga, Sufism, Buddhism, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and Christ teach about love. All these great philosophies and teachers say there are only two ways to live our lives. One is in fear of everything, the other is in love of everything. I think everyone understands what living in fear means, but not everyone knows what I mean by living in love of everything. So I’ll explain. It’s not just romantic love, although that’s included of course. But what I am talking about here is “out of love.” Your heart is full of love for all beings, and all things. Even when you encounter something “bad,” you act out of the love in your heart. You never say to a child who is unhappy, perhaps needlessly according to you, “If you don’t stop, I’ll really give you something to cry about.” You act with the love in your heart and try to make things better for this child, for your friends, your neighbors, dare I say the world. Living in fear, in avarice, in lack has brought us to where we are at this stage in the world’s life. Living in fear. Not living in love, or gratitude, or inner peace or the sense of having enough. Living in fear. If this happens, I will die. If this doesn’t happen, I will die, this is fear. I’ll be fine no matter what happens: Love! Love for yourself, love and trust, not fear.

All the negative things come from fear, like greed, violence, hate, unkindness, depression, anxiety, guilt and judgment.

All the positive things come from love, like nurturance, care, generosity, passion, excitement, acceptance, joy, peace, serenity, and acceptance.

Just look at these lists, think of the emotions each of those words connotes and ask yourself what would you be feeling right now.

When we live in fear, we close ourselves up against the world. We are, well, we are afraid. We act as if something is after us, our belongings, so we act out of that fear and we act hatefully or violently or judgmentally.

When we act out of love, we are open to the world and all its experiences, therefore we act kindly, joyously, serenely, and generously.

Living in fear, we live like we have nothing, we want more and more. We are not generous or kind hearted. Our hearts are closed to the suffering of humanity, to the suffering of children, of innocent little animals.

Living out of love, our hearts are wide open, we feel as if we have everything we could possibly need and se we are generous, kind, patient, and yes loving to all people, animals, even plants.

So, if there are only only two emotions in the world, and you can only act out of one of them, which would you choose? And yes, it most certainly is a choice you make. It’s not random, no one else chooses for you, you make the choice. Which would you choose?


BpHope Post #1

Ready. Set. Sail! Good morning my friends!! Hope all is well. Just wanted to let you know that my first bpHope post is up online as we speak!!! http://www.bphope.com/blog/marriage-and-bipolar-hypersexuality/ Feel free to read it (it’s nothing you haven’t read before) and let me know what you think in the comments section . I also have… More BpHope Post #1

Animal Assisted Therapy

Dogs, Dogs, Dogs I have a special announcement before I get started. In the interest of full disclosure, I must make an admission that will send shockwaves around the world – I hate dogs. Please forgive me, but they aren’t my thing. Now don’t get me wrong, I have great fun playing with them. I […]

The post Animal Assisted Therapy appeared first on Insights From A Bipolar Bear.

I Miss Teaching

I have worked with children my entire professional life and even before that. In high school, I volunteered at elementary schools and I taught a Sunday School class for preschoolers at my church. In college, I tutored elementary children as my work-study job. So that's nearly 18 years experience with  K-12 students.

Up until two years ago I taught high school English at a private school. I loved it. I love English and I love that age of kids. I had fun at work. While I don't completely agree with the adage "Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life," I understand the sentiment. Teaching was definitely work but it was meaningful work.

Most recently, I taught middle school English at an urban charter school. I resigned after three months. The school and I weren't a good fit. So now I am substitute teaching in my hometown. It's steady work and stress-free; I don't bring any work home.

This week I was in a 5th grade class. It made me nostalgic for my own teaching days. Deciding to go to graduate school for my MSW wasn't an easy decision. I had a career I loved and thoroughly enjoyed. But I felt called to pursue social work. So I don't regret it.

Even though I'll be a social worker in two years, I still have plans in my future to return to an English classroom. Ideally, I'd love to be a part-time teacher and a part-time therapist. Don't know how feasible that is though. Given both fields can be high stress.

I'll figure it out though. I have time.

I Miss Teaching

I have worked with children my entire professional life and even before that. In high school, I volunteered at elementary schools and I taught a Sunday School class for preschoolers at my church. In college, I tutored elementary children as my work-study job. So that's nearly 18 years experience with  K-12 students.

Up until two years ago I taught high school English at a private school. I loved it. I love English and I love that age of kids. I had fun at work. While I don't completely agree with the adage "Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life," I understand the sentiment. Teaching was definitely work but it was meaningful work.

Most recently, I taught middle school English at an urban charter school. I resigned after three months. The school and I weren't a good fit. So now I am substitute teaching in my hometown. It's steady work and stress-free; I don't bring any work home.

This week I was in a 5th grade class. It made me nostalgic for my own teaching days. Deciding to go to graduate school for my MSW wasn't an easy decision. I had a career I loved and thoroughly enjoyed. But I felt called to pursue social work. So I don't regret it.

Even though I'll be a social worker in two years, I still have plans in my future to return to an English classroom. Ideally, I'd love to be a part-time teacher and a part-time therapist. Don't know how feasible that is though. Given both fields can be high stress.

I'll figure it out though. I have time.

Equilithium

So, I have three days’ Lithium back on board, four more days to go before I have to trek to the hospital lab for the blood draw. I am feeling less hypo manic but still, my mind is racing and I am agitated. The racing brain gets me thinking and the more I think, the more I want to drink. Because I can’t change so many things around myself and it all causes me so much stress, it’s like no matter the effort I put forth…Nothing is gonna get better.

I intellectually know this a depressive distortion. Emotionally…It seems pretty accurate in my current state. Evidenced by the fact I have dreams about solving serial murders or being stalked by a serial killer and I am disappointed when I wake up to my reality. I mean, seriously. And of course, the gratitude traps screams, “Do you really have it that bad? Stop whining and be thankful for what you do have.” But if you have this mental shit going on,you know it’s a real thing, not self pity, not drama. I mean, serial killers are simple. They either kill you or get caught.

Bipolar is a lifelong stalker that never puts you out of your misery but keeps causing you even more.

Throw in all the other shit life throws at you, relishing even bizarre or scary dreams makes sense.

So this morning…My kid was channeling Satan, as usual, cos apparently she is only a morning person when she wakes me up early on weekends. I mean, she screamed at me, over and over and had her crying fit and…I’ve pretty much grounded her from everything but reading and breathing because there is zero excuse for the way she treated me this morning.

When I cranked up Motley Crue’s “Shout At The Devil” to drown out her screeching, “You are  a terrible mother!”..It hit me just how differently life was when I was sixteen.

As a teenage metalhead, when the term “screamin’ demon” was tossed out, I saw this page from my Metal  Edge magazine.

SCREAMINDEMO(George Lynch’s hair was so fucking hot.)

Now…screamin’ demon is this. Don’t let the cute face fool you.

boop and santa 15

Do I have any regrets having her? Hell, no. It’s just the contrast and the fact I still remember that George Lynch ad all these years later…My life did not turn out as I thought it would but on the plus side…Least I haven’t “grown up” so much I forgot my metalhead roots.

Those are deep thoughts at 7:30 a.m. amidst my child berating me.

Geesh, it’s 9 a.m., and I wish I could have a drink cos the Xanax isn’t slowing my brain down. No, I don’t have an alcohol problem. (Said every person ever who had a problem with alcohol, except I was rejected from a rehab program fifteen years ago for not being enough of a drunk.) I didn’t think the Focalin was doing anything but now that it’s out of the cocktail…Tornado brain is kicking my ass. I am posting more because I have so many thoughts bouncing around and even if they are asinine, it’s better to get them out of my brain and onto this page than let them continue playing ping pong ball in my head.

Fucking insurance companies and pharma. If the meds were more affordable I could buy them myself. I don’t miss the Restoril (I have a stash, it’s just useless.) The Focalin apparently helped more than I thought.

Hopefully once the lithium is balanced my equilibrium will return thus being equilithium.

Until then…Crazy is on the menu. And the mundanes don’t get to call me crazy. Only my tribe gets to use that word cos you know.

I prefer sanity challenged but with my current attention span…

Oh, look a pegacorn…And a giraffe…And stupid cockweasels biting my ankles…

Um…Yeah.

 


Mixed Bag

mixed bag

I thought I’d send you guys my typical middle of the week blog, even though I wrote on Sunday.

The good news is: I AM NOT DEPRESSED. I am not dancing around admiring flowers, or singing with my Easter music box, but I am even. I think I told you in the last blog I wasn’t depressed and it is holding. I am still on 1.0 on the Rexulti. I see the doctor next Tuesday. Am not sure if he will raise it or not.

The real problem is anxiety. I feel a minor amount in the mornings, but serious anxiety riding in or driving a car. Once I get to where I am going, I do well, but the getting there is hell. I actually had to turn around this week and go back home.

Last blog I talked about dipping my feet into the social waters. Well, I have made some inroads. I drove to a restaurant and had breakfast with a friend. I am planning on a movie today with another friend (she is driving). I talked to a friend out of town and we agreed on a week in June when I can go see her. I texted another couple of people and we have plans in the next week or two. I am catching up with everybody. It feels good.

I have a friend whose daughter (26) had a psychotic break. They got her in the same hospital I was in. She is going through all of the stages I went through…not sleeping, desperately wanting to go home, etc. There is a rumor that goes around the hospital that your private insurance will not pay if you leave against medical advice. I don’t know if that’s true, but it made my husband and I sure think about it. The hospital is not cheap.

This friend is one of those friends who stood by me through thick and thin many times. I am very sorry her daughter is sick, but it feels nice to be able to give her some support.

I am still baking bread and cleaning the kitchen and cooking a couple times a week. The kids and my husband are doing the other days. It’s amazing how the kids are getting into cooking. We’ve had a good meal on the table every night. We are mostly even accommodating my vegetarian son. Last night I made pasta with fresh broccoli, mushrooms, green onions, and stewed tomatoes. Everybody ate it with no complaints.

I was messing around with the blog the other day and was reading some old stuff. This is NOT to brag, but some of it is pretty interesting. We’ve had some new joiners to the blog so I wanted to encourage you to go back and do some reading. If you do and see something you like, please let me know in the comments. I’ll link it in the next blog for some extra reading.

Here’s a little day to day activity:

Tuesday:

Woke up with a bad migraine. Tried Imitrex, massage, heat, caffeine, etc. Fell back asleep, woke up and it was bad again. It felt like a med headache. Rexulti does have headache as a side effect, but am not sure that caused it.

Found out that my best friend from high school’s sister’s husband was killed while riding a bike. The driver was impaired. I am sympathetic, but the bike riders around here drive me nuts. There are plenty of bike lanes, but they still insist on riding in the street. You have to swerve around them and usually get in the next lane. Except sometimes that lane isn’t open.  However, this driver was impaired so no sympathy there. But especially at night it’s so hard to see them.

Saw my psychologist both Tuesday and Friday. Am working some stuff out. As I said in my last blog, it’s weird to see her when I am not depressed. It is a whole new relationship. She commented on how much better I look. She is one of those people who are thin and always dressed perfectly and in fashion. It’s a little intimidating, but she really gets me and has a sympathetic attitude. I appreciate that. Lots of people tell me to be thankful for this or that. I am thankful for things…I really am. But this doesn’t mean that I am not depressed often. Depression doesn’t have anything to do with being thankful or ungrateful. IT IS A CHEMICAL IMBALANCE IN THE BRAIN! You think people would get that by now.

Back to Tuesday, my son made homemade macaroni and cheese and he even went out and bought a sympathy card so I could send it to the above friend.

After that migraine, I had what I call “fragile egg-head syndrome”. This is where you don’t want to hear noise, smell perfume, or move your head around too fast.

I got down on the couch and tried running my life from there again. It was okay for a day.

It IS weird to feel no depression, but I do feel frustration. This driving thing is bizarre and a pain in the ass.

Still no movement on the quilt or on the book. I need more fabric for the quilt and I haven’t gotten it. The store is on the way home from the psychologist and I often have puffy eyes from crying in there. Of course, I could always go BEFORE I see her. Duh.

I am seeing an author friend in a couple of weeks. She is very supportive and I hope she gets me going again. She is the one who wrote the bipolar book that I hope to read and recommend to you guys very soon.

I feel more “needed” in my life. This is a step up from how I felt in my last blog. Good news.

Wanted to take a minute to thank all of you who are making comments. I read a lot of blogs and try to make a short comment but so many of you write eloquent things and share what is going on in your lives. I know it takes time to comment and I so appreciate it. I also appreciate those of you who take a second to “like” the blog. All of this is very motivating and I am grateful.

thankfully,

lily

 

 

Divorce and the Ex-Husband Tattoo


In the year since my divorce, I’ve been visiting a plastic surgeon every month.  Not for Botox, though maybe that would help the mid-forties creases across my forehead, nor for Latisse, which might assist me in batting longer eyelashes at potential romantic partners, but for tattoo removal.  I sit in the cushioned lounger, wearing enormous orange-tinted goggles, the kind you might use for downhill skiing, and the doctor sits across from me on a stool, also goggled, wielding the light-beam laser. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but this is going to hurt.”  He turns on the machine, and the light sparks against my skin in sharp pricks of pain.  The laser moves slowly across the tattoo, raising an immediate, red, blistering welt.  This hurts, more than getting the tattoo in the first place, but I am well-practiced in swallowing pain.  Really, it’s just a matter of breathing through it, telling myself that it will pass.  When you’re Bipolar, when you’ve been decimated by an eating disorder and alcoholism, when your arms are crisscrossed with scars from when you used to cut yourself, a little transitory pain is nothing at all.

Which is not to say that removing the tattoo is any less painful than all of that.  On my first visit, the doctor inspected my arm; my wrist to be precise.  The old shame rose up because I was certain he was narrowing in on the scars.

“Not the whole tattoo,” I said.  “Just my ex-husband’s name.  I want to keep my kids’ names and the swallows.”

“You know,” he said, and ran his thumb across my wrist, across my ex’s name in Greek letters, a band of stylized black ink, “I have two rules for tattoos.  One: no tattoos on the neck.  Stupid idea.  And two: only tattoo blood relatives, or children, on your body.  The rest you’ll regret.”

That first time, on the drive home, I cried.  My ex-husband’s name was indecipherable, a red throbbing flame across my wrist.  It looked as if I had cut myself again, something I hadn’t done in years.  The wound whispered to me in that old way: Hurt yourself.  You deserve it.  Even he stopped loving you. 

But what I really cried over was what I had already lost.  I got the tattoo five years earlier, after my last residential treatment for my eating disorder and bipolar disorder.  I’d been staring at my forearms, counting scars, ruminating on the years of impulsive damage, on the shiny straight-edge razors and the rusty ones filched from tool boxes, on broken glass pocketed from gutters, on kitchen scissors, sewing scissors, nail scissors, serrated knives, chef’s knives, and at my most stupidly desperate?  When I was in the ICU after a manic suicidal overdose, a nurse gave me a can of Diet Coke—metal flip-top intact.  With every shower, every application of body cream, every decision to wear short sleeves or a bathing suit, I had to face what I’d done.

What could I do that would change the way I saw those scars?  What could I do that might give me pause in the next impulsive flash?  What could I do that would remind me of what ties me to this world of love and joy and redemption, namely my husband and children?

A tattoo.  On my wrist, superimposed on the tangle of scars.  Greek themed, since so much of our lives were tied to that county—engagement, pregnancy, infancies, depressions, recoveries, our four-square made one.  Two swallows swooping at each other, an ancient archaeological painting from a site in Santorini. Swallows: the birds of spring, of new life, of hope.  Surrounding the birds, the names of my family in Greek:  The intended result?  I could look at my arm and see meaning and purpose.

Mad Mike, the tattoo artist, buzzed at my wrist with his needle. At one point, he stopped, and said, “You’re awfully quiet.  My clients tend to make a little more noise.  They find it painful.”

I shrugged.  “I do a lot of yoga.”

He laughed.  “But you seem serene.  But I guess I can see you are maybe used to pain in this area?”

“That’s what the tattoo is for.  Hope.  A reason to live.”

“I’m glad I can create that for you.  Not my usual barbed wire or Celtic Knot.”

I surprised for my family.  My (ex-)husband loved it, and my daughter wanted to get a tattoo of her stuffed dragon. 

“You know what else that’s cool about it?” she said.  “It’s beautiful and it covers up all those scars!”

Divorce revises our understanding of the shared dream, the shared future, that four-square made one.  What keeps me here has necessarily shifted.  My children are still part of how I see myself unfolding.  But what I have discovered, is that while I was inscribing my family on my body, it was simultaneously breaking apart.  My ex-husband told me he loved what I had done to myself (finally something that I’d done to myself that didn’t inch me closer to death but towards life), but he what he didn’t tell me was that he was having an affair, and not invested at all in our shared future.  I often wonder what he must have been feeling when he saw his name on my wrist, and knew that he was lying, or leading me to believe in a lie.  And how maybe he couldn’t tell me because my recovery indelibly depended on us. 


His name, after a year of treatments, is almost gone.  The light beam breaks down the ink and scatters the black particles throughout my body.  They will always be there--floating microscopic memories of love and pain, of what can and can’t, in the end, be erased.  

“Fracture risk from psychotropic medications: a population-based analysis.” Aka Lithium cuts your risk of fractures by almost half!

Whereas other psychoactive drugs and even SSRI’s may increase the risk of fractures, “Lithium was associated with lower fracture risk (OR = 0.63; 95% CI, 0.43-0.93)”

This is great news, and another reason, besides controlling my bipolar disorder, that I am so very  glad I’m on Lithium.

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/18626264

Abstract

BACKGROUND:

Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs), benzodiazepines, and antipsychotics have each been associated with an increased risk of fracture in older individuals. The aim of this study was to better define the magnitude of fracture risk with psychotropic medications and to determine whether a dose-effect relationship exists.

METHODS:

Population-based administrative databases were used to examine psychotropic medication exposure and fractures in persons aged 50 years and older in Manitoba between 1996 and 2004. Persons with osteoporotic fractures (vertebral, wrist, or hip [n = 15,792]) were compared with controls (3 controls for each case matched for age, sex, ethnicity, and comorbidity [n = 47,289]). Medications examined included antidepressants (SSRIs vs other monoamines), antipsychotics, lithium, and benzodiazepines.

RESULTS:

Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors were associated with the highest adjusted odds of osteoporotic fractures (odds ratio [OR] = 1.45; 95% confidence interval [CI], 1.32-1.59). Other monoamine antidepressants (OR = 1.15; 95% CI, 1.07-1.24) and benzodiazepines (OR = 1.10; 95% CI, 1.04-1.16) were also associated with greater fracture risk, although the relationship was weaker. Lithium was associated with lower fracture risk (OR = 0.63; 95% CI, 0.43-0.93), whereas the relationship with antipsychotics was not significant in the models that adjusted for diagnoses. A dose-effect relationship was seen with SSRIs and benzodiazepines.

CONCLUSIONS:

This study provides novel insight into the relationship between fractures and psychotropic medications in the elderly. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors seem to have a greater risk than other psychotropic classes, and higher doses may further increase that risk. Lithium seems to be protective against fractures.