Category: southern culture

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, southern culture, southern writing

Seven: Stumbling Through the Dark

by rayclifton6 Comments on Seven: Stumbling Through the Dark

When we last left this story, I had experienced some unusual symptoms six months after hospitalization for “suspected tick-borne illnesses.” The most serious were chronic fatigue, neuropathy in my hands and feet, loss of balance and difficulty walking.

Over the next year I would make multiple visits to my general practitioner (GP), a rheumatologist, a neurologist, a podiatrist, an immunologist, a Lyme Literate Medical Doctor (LLMD), and a “naturopath.”

For the sake of brevity, I will mention some common themes in this exasperating journey.

In my first visit to the GP, I explained my symptoms and asked if they might be related to Lyme Disease. His response was “There aren’t many cases of Lyme in Alabama.”

He ran some blood tests that revealed abnormalities, particularly a high Rheumatoid Factor (RF) which indicated inflammation. He suggested I was experiencing the onset of Rheumatoid arthritis and referred me to a local rheumatologist. I waited six weeks for the appointment.

I met with the rheumatologist and recounted my story about my declining health since my hospitalization for Lyme.

Had I been to Maine or Vermont? If not, it could not be Lyme-related because there was no Lyme Disease in Alabama.

My examination was a quick look at my hands. “You do not have arthritis. You should see a neurologist.”

I went back to the GP (a four-week wait). He took more blood and called the next day. I needed to come back in immediately. My blood protein levels indicated my kidneys might be failing.

The re-test was “normal.”

He referred me to the local neurologist. The first available appointment was in four months.

My son had recently seen a neurologist in another town. She was accepting new patients, so I called the GP and had the referral changed, and in two weeks I was in her office.

I explained the situation once again.

“Your symptoms are typically associated with diabetes, alcoholism, chemotherapy, heavy metal toxicity and some rare autoimmune diseases. Lyme disease is also on the list of potential causes, but there is no Lyme Disease in Alabama.”

She sent me down the hall to get an Electromyography (EMG) test. It would show I had bilateral peripheral neuropathy (carpal tunnel in both hands and tarsal tunnel in both feet). My nerves were not sending or receiving signals.

She suggested wrist splints, orthotics, and physical therapy. I objected. I wanted to know the cause. Carpal and tarsal tunnel syndrome repetitive motion injuries. And why both sides of my body? She ordered more blood tests.

A week later her nurse called. I had an abnormally high RF. She recommended I see a rheumatologist.

I made another appointment with the GP. Armed with The Book, the Redhead asked if there was any significance to consistently low globulin levels in all my blood tests. “Isn’t globulin related to the immune system?” He insisted that it was probably not relevant but that he would refer me to an immunologist.

I waited three weeks for that appointment. He ordered another blood test. He called two days later to ask me to come back for consultation.

My test indicated I had no immunity to respiratory infections. He could give me infusions to raise the levels of Immunoglobulin (Ig), but my insurance would not cover the costs ($5K) since I had no history of respiratory infections. He did not think my immune system problem had anything to do with my neurological symptoms, and even if they did the infusions would not be strong enough to help.

I then made an appointment with a “Lyme Literate Medical Doctor (LLMD).” These doctors fly “under the radar” because Lyme Disease is so controversial in the medical community. They do not advertise nor accept insurance (I will have more to say on this in a future post).

He examined me and told me my hospital treatment was insufficient. I had neurological Lyme and should expect to be on antibiotics for a minimum of six months. He ordered the “Western Blot Test” (which has less than 50% accuracy) and said he would contact me with the results.

He sent an email two weeks later. The test results were negative. He suggested that I see another doctor. He did not respond to further calls or emails.

At the urging of a friend, I went to see a naturopath. He asked about my history and symptoms and had me place my fingertips on a metallic disk. He explained that he could detect microbes and toxins that other doctors could not through electric currents that flowed across the skin. A few minutes later his computer spit out a report indicating I had a host of problems including an unhealthy digestive, Lyme Disease, heavy metal toxicity, and pesticide exposure.

He was also something of a bad fortune-teller. He foresaw me buying $750 worth of supplements to combat these illnesses from his store.

I made one last appeal to the GP. I asked to be referred to a neurologist at a research hospital.

Six weeks later I got a call from Emory University in Atlanta. The first available appointment was in January of 2024. After some groveling and begging my name was placed on a “cancellation list.”

A week later I got a call. “Can you be here tomorrow at 8:00?”

Finally, I was going to get some answers.

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, southern culture, southern writing

Six: The Descent

by rayclifton6 Comments on Six: The Descent

I reluctantly began this story several weeks ago here due to the urging of others. It is difficult because it is personal, and I have always guarded such things. If we met on the street today and you asked me how I was doing I would say “Pretty good” or “Fine, thanks.”

I continue the tale with the hope that it might be helpful to someone.

The next part of the story may seem incredulous. Let me frame it this way:

Have you ever gone for a time, say six months, and one day tried to put on a pair of jeans only to discover that they are too tight? You ask yourself, “Have I put on some weight?” You step on the scales and find that you have gained ten pounds. Your first thought is “How did that happen?”

The answer is gradually. My progression into chronic illness was the same.

In the weeks following hospitalization, I experienced some tingling and numbness in my feet. I began to stumble a little, and my gait became unsteady. Walking up or down stairs and on uneven surfaces became challenging. I would lose my balance but “catch” myself on a wall or a chair. It was not a matter of vertigo or “light headedness.”  It was strictly mechanical. It was hard to walk a straight line.

I also lost a lot of weight. Most of it was muscle. The clothes in my closet (my sizes had not changed since my twenties) were now way too large. Clown clothes.

I rationalized that these two conditions were linked. I was simply “out-of-shape.” Muscle atrophy from inactivity had affected my mobility, and I could get back to normal with disciplined exercise. I started lifting weights and felt better immediately, but after a few workouts I experienced complete fatigue. Though it was difficult to get out of bed, I had responsibilities — my family, my church, and my employer. I stopped and re-started the workouts several times, but the results were always the same.

Sometime later the Redhead and I were watching television one evening. She asked, “Why do you keep rubbing your hands?” I realized they too were numb. I really had not noticed before that moment because of the issues with my feet.

The numbness gradually worsened. Both hands and feet were numb during the day and throbbed at night. The Redhead told me I was “moaning” in my sleep.

Still, I let some time go by. Surely all this was simply connected to the Specialist’s “post viral syndrome” diagnosis.

Then I began to experience something the medical community calls “brain fog.” I lost track of things. Wallet. Phone. Keys. Forgot the names of people I had known for a long time. Stopped in mid-sentence because I could not remember a word.

I finally started to worry. I had waited long enough, and I had to find another doctor soon.

Thus began my search for answers in the modern medical system. It would drag on for over a year.

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, southern culture

Five: Diagnosis

by rayclifton5 Comments on Five: Diagnosis

This is part five of a series. If you are a new reader, you may want to start here and read from the beginning.

Two weeks can be a long time when you are waiting for test results.

I spent a lot of that time on the internet, researching Lyme Disease. I began with studies and recommended treatments from research institutions like Mayo Clinic, then worked my way through page after page of personal stories.

Lyme was controversial. Most medical sources maintained that it could be successfully treated and cured if diagnosed early, but there were huge differences in the meaning of the word “early.” There was even debate about the accuracy of the test (some said less than 50%) as well as the efficacy of various antibiotics and the length of time they should be administered. All the medical researchers agreed on one thing: 14 to 21 days was the minimum length of treatment. Some believed 30 days was best.

I had received eleven days of Doxycycline — four intravenous and seven orally. I had questions about that if the results were positive.

The day arrived and I met with the Infectious Disease expert. A surprise — I was positive for five illnesses: Lyme (Borrelia sp.), Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever (Rickettsia), HGE (Anaplasma phagocytophilum), HME (Ehrlichia chaffeensis) and Micro Pneumonia (M. pneumoniae).

The doctor said that he suspected Lyme all along, but that the high fever and brain swelling I had experienced was more consistent with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.

“That one is potentially fatal. Glad we caught it early.”

My thoughts, kept to myself:

Glad we caught it early? I lay ignored in your hospital for 24 hours with a high fever and did not get so much as Tylenol. If my son had not found me, I might have been dead.

You gave me a broad-spectrum antibiotic and ran some inconclusive tests. If the Redhead had not told you that about the tick, we would not be having this conversation. I would be just a patient you treated for a “fever of unknown origin.” 

I told him what I had read. I was concerned that my antibiotic treatment had not been long enough to kill the Lyme bacteria.

“Oh no. You had the standard treatment. I am quite sure we got it. I have treated Lyme before.”

I reminded him that I was a forester with a history of tick bites. Was it possible that I already had Lyme and the Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever only brought it to our attention?

“No, I do not think so. No worries. You should have no more issues.”

I would, however, experience a condition called “post viral fatigue syndrome.” I should expect to feel tired and just generally lousy for up to six months before I felt “normal” again. No cause for concern. I had been terribly ill, and my immune system had taken quite a shock. I should gradually begin to feel better if I rested and took care of myself.

Six months passed. I did not feel better. Some days I just wanted to stay in bed, but I waited.

After all, he was the expert.

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, southern culture

An Independence Day

by rayclifton13 Comments on An Independence Day

July 1, 2023.

My personal “Independence Day,” in a sense.

I am officially unemployed.

The Redhead is calling it “semi-retirement.”  A good phrase, but not entirely accurate. I am too young to draw my pennies and not well-off enough to quit work for a life of leisure.  My career in forestry has paid the bills, but I did not get rich from it by any stretch of the imagination.

I prefer the term “self-employed,” although I am not entirely sure what that will look like in the days ahead.

There is a story here beyond employment. One I am going to tell only because someone urged me to do so. It will be difficult writing for me because it is about me, and quite frankly there are more interesting things to write about.

It is not a tale to solicit either pity or advice, because I have had plenty of both over these last two years.

Think of it as a cautionary tale, especially if you spend time in the woods and fields of Alabama.  It is a story about chronic illness.

I will write this story as a serial, because it is much too long to hold your attention in one sitting.

It starts like this: “Once upon a time, a forester was bitten by a tick.”

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, southern culture, southern writing

Haircuts and Memories

by rayclifton10 Comments on Haircuts and Memories

The weather is hot here in central Alabama, and lately the Redhead has been hinting (well, nagging really) that it’s time to get my “summer” haircut. The summer haircut is an old southern tradition in which men get their hair cut a little shorter than usual for the summer months. In my case, it’s not going to make a lot of difference, because every passing summer leaves me with a little less hair to worry about.

The summer haircut brings back old memories. I hated haircuts as a child. Funny how the passing of the years turns such memories into soft-edged nostalgia.

My dad always took me to a downtown barbershop in Sylacauga back in the late 1960’s, which I believe was located on one of the side streets between Broadway and Norton. This shop was a real man’s haven: three big leather-clad barber chairs, black and white checkered tile floors, and mirrors on the back wall. Other walls adorned with mounted deer heads and a largemouth bass or two, along with an auto parts store calendar featuring a pin-up girl (scantily clad in the latest one-piece bathing suit). In one corner, an old glass-front cabinet filled with creams and tonics that every man needed to keep his coiffure under control. Metal chairs with vinyl cushions lined the waiting area. One or more conversations taking place at all times, usually about football, problems at the mill, or the latest frustrations rebuilding a small block 350 engine. Plenty to read while you waited: Field and Stream, Popular Mechanics, and the current edition of the local newspaper, The Daily Home. An old AM radio on the counter, playing good country or gospel music. Depending on the time of day, you might even hear old L.R. Ross tell you what great merchandise was available for sale or trade on the “Shop and Swap” segment on W.F.E.B.:

“Neighbors, we have a man who’d like to trade a real nice goat for a single-shot 12 gauge shotgun. If you have a gun you’d like to trade, please call…”

I can still smell the witch hazel and talcum powder.

Although there were three chairs, I only remember one being used. The barber was old Mr. Mallory. As a little boy, it seemed quite possible to me that he had probably given Moses his first hair cut. Mr. Mallory wore glasses that had lenses as thick as the bottom of an old green glass coke bottle, and the end of his nose was always about an inch from your head while he worked his magic.

Mr. Mallory always asked “How you want it?” The answer never mattered. You might “want it” like Elvis, but you “got it” in a style called “flat top.” I believe it was the cut he liked best. But it was the haircut for the small town southern gentleman at that time. I was always just relieved to leave the chair with both ears still attached. If I didn’t squirm too much during the whole ordeal, I’d get a piece of Bazooka bubble gum as a reward.

Times sure have changed.

The place I go these days for a haircut is a “style shop.” The customers are both men and women, although the barbers are all now called stylist and are exclusively female. The walls are pastel and there are flower arrangements. Something soothing and “New Age” plays on the sound system. The place smells of bleaching chemicals and potpourri. There is no Field and Stream, though if you look hard enough you might find a copy of Time or National Review. The last time I went, the receptionist asked me if I wanted a warm cookie.

My stylist is blond and attractive. She tries to engage me with conversation about American Idol or Dancing with the Stars, but it is to no avail. I have never watched either. Confident that my ears will survive intact, I usually have to fight the urge not to doze off while she works. She always asks if I would like a little mousse or styling gel before I leave. I always decline. As Eastwood said, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

She and her coworkers are trained psychologists. They tell me how good I look–how my gray hair makes me looked “distinguished.” I am aware that I am being worked for return visits, like a young, pretty waitress works a middle-aged man for a bigger tip.

I’ll admit she does a good job with the little bit of hair she has to work with. But for her skills, she charges a fee that would have probably made Mr. Mallory decide to close up early and take the rest of the day off.

Manhood still barely intact, I leave knowing I’ll have to return in a month or so. I feel a strange urge to go rebuild a small block 350 engine or shoot an animal.

Maybe times haven’t changed all that much over the years.

I still hate haircuts.

This post originally appeared here in 2010.