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Saturday, February 11, 2017

Infected Parotid Gland Duct Obstruction: Day Two of Treatment

My sleep last night was the best I have had in many days ─ I never felt that need to sit up in bed in a reclining posture while lying against a heavy blanket and my pillow. I was actually perfectly comfortable lying there ─ it was blessedly rare.

But I am clearly feverish, and my covers are clammy from perspiration.

There was one point in the night when I became awake and then soon aware that I was actually lying on the side of my face with the enormous swelling that is apparently inspired by a blockage of my left parotid gland.

This was almost unbelievable, yet I was perfectly comfortable. How? The damned thing is throbbing with pain when I don't have Advil kicking in, and it also sends shooting pains throughout my outer ear and the surrounding skull area that are severe enough to make me physically cringe.

I was still half-asleep, but I believe that I recall feeling out the swelling, and it seemed to me to be reduced ─ practically flattened out, in fact. But was that some feverish dream?

Later in the night when I was again awake, I tried lying on the affected side of my face, but even though I could eventually work into resting the full weight of my head upon it, this was never comfortable, and there was no indication that the increased pain was going to abate.

Also, the flattening of the swelling I had earlier thought had taken place was now just a memory ─ as I said, maybe a false one? I will mention it to ENT specialist Dr. Mark Miller when I see him on Tuesday.

As well, I want to report something that I suspect is the result of his attempt to express material from the swelling when he saw me on Friday. He warned me that I would not like the experience, and with that he began pressing with force against the mass, while I expostulated with outbursts of "Curse word!" over and over, and tried not to close my outstretched arms and open hands that instinctively wanted to grapple with him.

He actually did this twice.

Nothing seemed to happen, and one of his pieces of advice was to try and eat very tart foods ─ even a lemon ─ to try and stimulate that salivary gland to kick into operation and push out the blockage. I take it that I probably have what is medically referred to as a parotid duct obstruction, and an associated infection.  

What I want to report to him is that I discovered after trying to eat something Friday evening, all flavours from food are so excruciatingly intense now if any of them reach that area of my mouth, the reaction is paralyzing ─ I have to stop eating and do my best to rinse away any of the juices from the food I was attempting.

In the case of that evening, I had just essayed one piece of pineapple that I had pushed with a finger between my two rows of teeth (I cannot open my mouth wide enough to easily insert a finger). Once the juices from that fresh fruit reached the salivary gland's receptors, the gland went ballistic.

I could not eat again that evening.

First thing for me on my Saturday was a 9:00 a.m. appointment at the Jim Pattison Outpatient Care and Surgery Centre for an antibiotic IV drip. When I checked the time with an eye to rising that morning, I was shocked to see that it was 8:10 a.m.

My youngest step-son Poté had told me that he would drive me, for he had the day off work. But I saw ─ when I went downstairs to make myself an instant coffee to wash down an Advil ─ that he was still in bed.

I made my coffee and came back upstairs, wondering if I was going to have to walk the distance ─ it is well over a mile. Fortunately, Poté was to present himself just after 8:30 a.m., and I got my ride. He said to call him when I was done and he would return for me.

I had noticed when I got a first infusion around 3:30 p.m. on Friday at the Surrey Memorial Hospital that the antibiotic being dripped into me is clindamycin, but I never could see what is written on the small bag of fluid being injected into me at Jim Pattison. Reasoning suggests it is probably the same product.

The section of Jim Pattison where this process is performed does not open until 9:00 a.m. And they are not open at all in the evening, so the second antibiotic feed of the day was to be done back at the Surrey Memorial.

As he said he would, Poté came for me when I texted that I was done with the procedure.

Once I was back home, it was not long ere I sought a nap in my clammy bed. I am feeling feverish nonstop, but it is not exactly unpleasant. There is no headache ─ only what pain manages to arise from the large orange-sized swelling when the three Advils I have been taking each day start to wear out.

I have no idea when I will be starting any work again on the post I began on February 3 at my Latin Impressions website. At Jim Pattison, I was given a printout of my next appointments ─ two more 9:00 a.m.s the next two days, and then a 10:30 a.m. on Tuesday.

Each, I am expecting, will have to be matched with a session in the evening at the Surrey Memorial.

After that first nap, I needed to try for another in the latter afternoon to shore me up for the evening visit to the Surrey Memorial. Unfortunately, after I had managed to get to sleep, around 4:30 p.m. my wife Jack chose to call me from Vancouver. She was all concerned that I go downstairs to the kitchen and put two raw Thai or Lao sausages into the fridge icebox that she had forgotten about and left in the fridge when she was last here on Thursday.

I dutifully complied ─ except that I could not find the sausages. When I checked the icebox...there they already were.

And that was essentially it for my nap. I tried, but I could not find sleep again.

Normally I would spend Saturday evening watching some T.V. by myself, while enjoying maybe as many as three cans of strong (8% alcohol) beer. I saw no T.V. at all this evening.

When the time drew near, Poté dutifully drove me to the Surrey Memorial that is maybe five blocks away at very most. I was to let him know when he was to come and pick me up.

Well, I got past admittance, and was seated in a waiting antechamber, when it occurred to me to wonder on the time. And that was all it took for me to realize that I had not packed my cellphone into my coat. I would be walking home.

And that I did. Poté had even texted me twice to learn if I was soon requiring his pick-up services, so he was certainly surprised to see me come walking into the house.

It was after 11:00 p.m. before I finally went to bed ─ maybe even after 11:30 p.m. I had eaten a little ─ very little ─ over the day, for I always have to stop once that salivary gland gets driven amock by the flavours of anything I am trying to eat.

I chew at the far right of my mouth to delay the seepage of juices to the left side of my mouth, but it is impossible to prevent it happening. The best path is to eat quickly with as little mastication as possible.  

Thus far since starting Advil on Thursday, I have been restricting myself to three a day. I try to take the final one as near to bedtime as I can. So on this late evening, I washed it down with a fast can of beer ─ not exactly how I like to drink my beer. They are intended as accompaniment while I am watching my favourite T.V. shows via our Android TV Box.

But I was looking forward to the bit of kick atop the pain-numbing of the Advil.

As yesterday, I never bothered to photograph my face. Thus far, I just have the images I already posted in this blog on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.

Since that is the case, I will post three photos my wife Jack took, quite likely early in the day on November 5, 2016. I can only guess that the location is the Nong Soong area ─ it is a very large village perhaps a 15-minute drive from Udon Thani.

Nong Soong is where my wife's family home is located.




Those two dogs who appeared identical to one another got carried away with their roughhousing, and the fight became vicious.

While Jack filmed, the woman Jack has always referred to as her "sister-cousin" intervened with a big basin of water, and then chased the animals up the street with a broom.

You can hear "sister-cousin" shouting in Thai, while Jack is having a laughing fit as she films:


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It has been a sunny day, and our inches of snow are markedly reducing..

Here to close today's post is an entry from my journal of 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster

I was renting my little shelter in a house located on Ninth Street, and maybe one or two houses up from Third Avenue.

The evening prior to this journal entry, I had gone to bed at 8:30 p.m.
WEDNESDAY, February 11, 1976

I had to get up last night about 11:30 p.m. and change after realizing I'd had a WD. I was in some huge department store and looking through one of the most arousing pornographic magazines I'd ever come across; the lead girl seemed alive as I poured over the lewd poses she was striking, feeling the pressure mount until I exploded one of the most prolific releases I can recall.

I haven't experienced manual assistance since November 27.  

I got up just short of 5:00 a.m.

That throat symptom noticed yesterday is about absent today.

I typed up Ron a letter.

Around 11:00 a.m. this place became distinctly cold.

Around 11:30 a.m. Art came knocking; I probably would have responded if my complexion were up to par.

It's been raining furiously all day, I guess, with wind.

I had my first evacuation after a 2 day hiatus.

At nearly 5:20 p.m.someone came knocking, extremely vigorously ─ to no avail, of course.

I braved the downpour, but failed at 6:30 p.m. in my bid to catch Bill home so I could watch the Western Lottery draw; at least I got Ron's letter mailed.

Boy, my place here when I returned was warm by comparison to the outdoors!

Anyway, I managed to jot down all of the lottery numbers, and I won nothing.

Bed at 8:30 p.m. 

All I ate today was one pancake.
The things I recorded back then! I obviously never expected that my older self over four decades later would be blabbing away all of those secrets of my younger self.

The previous day, I had noticed what I thought was the beginnings of a sore throat.

The letter I typed was for Ron Bain, an American pen-pal I had back then.

Art Smith was an older friend of mine who was in his early 40s. He usually would come over just to drag me off back to his New Westminster home to drink with him. So knowing that, I usually just didn't answer the door if I believed it to be him.

But I rarely answered anyone's knocking if I did not know who was there. Those close to me knew it, and a couple of people even had a special knock. Otherwise, they would just speak out and identify themselves.

My old friend William Alan Gill was renting a bachelor suite that was maybe four or so blocks from my room. The lottery draw would have been nice to have watched on his colour T.V.
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