Take Two Botox and Call Me in the Morning. My claw-arm and my right knee are dead in the water, although WalkAide helps. I had a catastrophic massive stroke 13 years ago. Go figure.

I need Botox. Now.

My claw-arm and my right knee are dead in the water, although WalkAide helps. www.walkaide.com The peroneal nerve lifts the foot electronically. It's a cattle prod, essentially. The left hand does everything from cooking froot loops and deep-friedTwinkies and to open the mail for snarky politicians, one-handed yet. The left appendage goes for wood in the garage. I'm an excellent woodburner-fire-builder, again one-hand. My right-hand sits there, confused.

The right hand and foot has feeling. My fingers work, minimally. My brain knows fore and aft, back and forth; my hand has flexion. Ditto for my leg. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XNr-IKMGS08  Watch the video.  Botox relaxes the muscles. A mini-Baclofen; simplistic I know, but you get the drift.

I'm 65, I had a catastrophic massive stroke 13 years ago. Aphasic and mute, my blood pressure was 68/23, my right arm and leg were non-existent and basically I didn't know my name. Not good. On Christmas Eve, Dec. 24, 1999 in Allegheny General Hospital at Pittsburgh, I lay in supraventricular tachycardia as fast as 220 beats per minute and a stroke to boot. I believe it's mercury fillings, but that's a another story.

The doctors shipped me off to Allegheny General via Frick Hospital (Excela).  At the time of transfer, I took, among others, low-dose Dopamine. Dopamine controls the brain's reward and pleasures center, I took an IV Levaquin to fight bacterial the body and, hey, where's the heparin for thinning the blood? Nary a warfarin. And the blood pressure medications? Where is it? Mighty strange. But I'm no doctor.

In retrospect, Frick's OK. A stroke is a stroke is a stroke. Nothing changes that; it's done. Doom. My son, Jeffrey, transferred to Pittsburgh. He meant well, but I couldn't speak at all in Frick. Nada, nyet, tout. Frightening.

Before the stroke I ran, a non-smoker, I was a drinker (Chivas Regal and Absolut) and I detested medication. After the accident, a myriad of drugs existed from aspirin, Lopressor, Calan, the insidous warfarin (I'm off that), simivastatin (I'm off that) and a host meds.  Simivastatin (Zocor-cholesterol) makes me crazy...funky joint pains in my calf muscles and a general feeling of weakness. Side effects. My cholesterol is 275. No processed food...it's Franken-food. (I'm kidding about loops and Twinkies.)

Today, I take aspirin (81 mg.), metaprolol (Lopressor), 25 mg. in the morning and evening, vitamin D-3 1000 mg, krill oil 300 mg, and Chlorella. It's a micro-algae for mercury.

I'm tired of my left hand and leg. Crib notes at the ready, I'm calling the neurologist. I'm a little bit aphasic, well, a lot aphasic. Crib notes are handy for words, phrases and sentences. After the stroke I was a blank slate, a one-word answers. For example: food, bathroom, mail, TV, etc. Slowly but surely I graduated to sentences. Hence, I have crib notes, a "coach", me, extracting words. Kind of a script. In the evening, when I'm tired, a revert back to the blank slate. Lights on, but nobody's home. Without question, I'm aphasic.

"I'm Mickie Roller. I want Botox."  The crib notes are succinct and effective; a script.

Louis W. Catalano, MD is an neurologist in Greensburg, PA and the three physicians, a man and two women, comprised the Neurological Institute of Western Pennsylvania. I had an appointment for May 29, 2013 at 2:00 PM, my doctor is Marti Haykin, MD.  She's board-certified in Neurology by the American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology.

The manager informed me the package of information, the social security, where I live, and most important, the insurance. I have Keystone Blue and Medicare.  Medicare is murky, Medicare doesn't cover Botox. For example, hypothetically, I'm 30 years old. Keystone Blue covers Botox. Whoopie. End of story.

I'm 65. Medicare serves as an umbrella, a filter, as it were; bed pans, walkers, blood tests, specifically, Botox is not covered. Keystone Blue, in conjunction with Medicare, is not covered. Keystone Blue supersedes Medicare. I told you it's obscure. Ah, Medicare.

I called Botox. The Botox patient assistance program helps financially eligible patients receive the Botox treatment they need.  (1-800-44-BOTOX, Option 4, Mon.-Fri. 9 am to 8 pm ET) I looked on the internet; probably $1500 +/-.

Stay tuned for May 29 I'm ready. I'm excited.

www.botoxmedical.com

Mercury fillings takes over you, little by little. Mad hatter disease. Suddenly, it's here, without warning.

Enter Mad-Hatter disease.

The hallucination becomes real. It's frightening. It's skewed logic.

It's 1999 and strange things are happening. To the Sears card, the IRS, and poor ex-husband Dur and the "faggot" incident, something is brewing. But what? 

I was a reporter for The Daily Courier and the Trib in a former life, before the stroke. Five editorial members trekked upstairs to solve the problems...local editoral pieces; school board, low water pressure and ever-present sewage.

I'm making conversation about a gay guy in Mt. Pleasant, a "faggot".

"What a faggot," I exclaimed. Who said that? Me?

 A faggot? It's an pejorative. Where did it come from? In my brain? How in God's name? I like gay guys; they're neat, intellectual and empathic. ("Not that there is anything wrong with that...",I love Seinfeld)  I'm a right-wing liberal; a tree-hugging, save the owls and my philosophy is let and let live. My cohorts are amazed and rolling their eyes. I'm throughly confused. My brain is confused. It's the mercury fillings?

It's a late-spring evening and the tomatoes, zucchini and the peppers are doing quite well. The picnic table's octagon and Dur and I are conversing. The ladybugs, crickets and even the mosquitoes seemed to say it's spring. All of sudden, I blew up. (See? No rhyme or reason.)

I proceeded to tell Dur your daughter and husband were infiltrating the Ku Klux Klan; yes, big hoods, crossings ablaze and chic, polyester, robes. Indeed, I was whacked. Paranoid thoughts? He was dumbfounded. They never heard of KKK, last he heard. Durene was a legal secretary and Bob works in the auto industry, both from Michigan. Nice, nice people. It's the mercury fillings.

The bank called with a courtesy call. I'm underfunded. I wrote a check for Sears to the tune of $250. Somehow, I transposed the two-fifty for Sears for $60 dollars. Sad, but true. I called Dad immediately, explained the situation and Dad loaned the money to the bank. Good ol' Dad. How did I miss that?

The same as the Internal Revenue Service. I transposed the numbers for a $100 dollars, to $200 at tax time. The IRS called me. The IRS, by the way, couldn't be nicer. How did I miss that?

I fixed the checkbook.

Dur was gone June 1999. He fixed a tumbler Chivas Regal, packed his guns (Dur was a hunter) and off he went to wilds of Michigan. He fired up the Ram pick-up-truck and he never looked back. Wise man. Of course he died, clutching his chest, in 2007. 

Meanwhile, I had a catastrophic stroke, December 1999, and that's another story.

Thanks to the dentist in 2006, mercury fillings are gone. No Afib and no panic attacks.

The funky flashes of deja' vous, paranoid behavior and "someone's out to get me" are utterly gone. Again, I'm not a psychologist. I'm sane, (sort of). I'm 68 years old and I can breathe again with no remorse.

It's the mercury fillings...or not? You be the judge.

Fear and loathing in my dentist's office. Not really. The dentist extracted mercury fillings in '05. No more Afib!

Ouch.

I was a weird child.

It's 1947. I slept an a crib in a fetal position, with the left ring-finger and the big digit, two fingers sucking away to oblivion. I'm 68, and my gnarled integer, the big digit, lives even today, crooked. I twisted my brown hair, stick-straight, forming a smooth curlycue with my right hand. I was 6. Hey, I'm no psychiatrist...

My Mom was agoraphobic, just a little. Tucked inside were notes, for the butcher, the fruit market and the electric bill for Allison News. I could read quite well. Off I go, bills in my pocket and bags of stuff  would appear on the table. Out of breath, I lived in a second-floor apartment with stairs yet, I counted the change of Mom. I was a skinny tot.

Mom's affliction with agoraphobia, coincidentally, buried Grandpap, my grandpap, in 1962. She was devastated. She never left the house; dark glasses, the blinds pulled down and quasi-died, essentially. I was a teen-ager. I was an only child of Josephine and Charles Yezek.  Jo died of a whopping aneurysm in 1971 and Charlie died of old age in 2001, respectively, 72 and 87. Charlie's a plumber; he is disheveled and looks like an unmade bed. My dad is amiable drunkard and he never missed a day's work...and he's smart.  An odd family, but I loved my parents.

I wear Mom's wedding band. It's platinum and gold, for the symbol of an psychotic union of unbalanced marriage. Jo and Charley spent 50 years, sometimes wonderful and sometimes, well, not. All because of spite. Mom and Dad were cremated.

--------

I never owned a toothbrush.  Mom has no teeth to speak of.  I was four. I remember Mom and I walked to the bank building on Main St., where the dentist's office is.  

"Go to the bank building and sit there," she ordered. "I'll be back."

A half and hour later, bloody and toothless and the dentist pulled out the teeth. She threw the teeth away, in the garbage. Never mind the fittings, swollen gums and the pain, eventually subsided with the smooth-fitting dentures. Quite simply, "They hurt," said Mom. Just like a child. Dad caved, of course.  Mom was gumless to this day. 

--------

"Open wide," the doctor said.

Dr. William Robinson lives across the street from my house College Avenue. I was 12 years old and I have tonsillitis. Mom gives me the note for the doctor for authorization.  Clearly agoraphobic, my Mom is afraid of the doctor's office.

The tonsillitis is inflamed, red and the pus-like abscesses were sore. The plaque and tartar and caries from my teeth were odorous.

"Don't you ever brush?" said the doctor, wincing.  

Blankly, "No."

The doctor prescribes the medication for tonsillitis. He rips the pad of paper and a note.  "Give this to your Mom. You need a dentist."

My Mom looked in the window, she peeked out from the curtains. I explained that the doctor detected a rank odor. "Here," indicating.

She read the note. Mom peered at the caries.  

"It's just baby teeth,''  she said, incredulous. Two incisors, the two front teeth, were in bad repair. The holes were showing in my tongue. 

Mom turned to the Yellow Pages for "Dentist" and scheduled the appointment. I was in the eighth grade and I have soft teeth as a teenager. It's 1960. 

The essential instruments, the whirring of the drill, the copious amounts of Novocain, the canines and molars are decaying and marginal. The drill worked over-time and the dentist studies the cavities. Filling after filling, tooth after tooth, the drill cleaned out the cavities and silver fillings intruded insidiously. Little silver fillings of mercury, amalgam fillings. I didn't know. Nobody knew. Well, the dentists, apparently.

"Here. For you," the assistant said, handing a foreign substance known as a toothbrush.  I had gleaming teeth. The incisors looked fine to me and I have fresh, minty breath.

Conservatively, the fillings in my teeth were 40 to 50 percent. That's a lot of mercury. The silver amalgams are actually half mercury, 50%. Silver fillings contain a mix of zinc, copper and tin. It's deadly. The mercury is second only by plutonium. I called in 2009 for my dental records in 1960, a long time ago, but the old records were gone.  Seven years is the maximum.

---------

Little silver fillings.

I was about 19 or 20 . My dentist-to-be, Jack, was an acquaintance and familiar friend.  Jack's wife and I became riding buddies at California State College (aka California University in Pennsylvania, Cal U). Kathy and I were commuters. Jack finished dental school. 

Meanwhile, I was married to Frank Yankowski (ex-ex-ex-husband), had a baby, Jeff, and the teeth were rank. I called Jack and the copious root canals, amalgams and bridgework were in order. The new bridgework, eight teeth all told, left and right on my two front teeth.  

Over time, my mouth had a whiff of odor, a metallic taste. I overheard the dentist say to the assistant, "God. She has bad breath."

I chewed gum and Tic Tac for my breath. A funky bad metallic taste was there. Your the dentist. Do something. But they never did. 

--------

It was a summer day in June on a Sunday in Latrobe, Pa.  I was drinking, slightly; one or two Rolling Rock's.  My cohort, Marie Bodziak from Volkswagen, threw a party.  I was in alone in the car. I careened up a hill and crashed my Volkswagen Rabbit.  It was a major car-crash.  I fractured my teeth at the jaw-line, and split my lip.  Major stitches, inside and out.  I used a stabilizer and the teeth were hanging on a thread. It was not pretty. I was 35.

I was in Latrobe Hospital (Excela) emergency room and Dr. Ted Lazzaro is a plastic surgeon (Aestique Medical Center & Spa in Greensburg, Pa.). Right time, right circumstance.  My chin healed well and left side, my molar, premolar, canine and incisor were loose. Very loose.

I removed the stabilizer from my other dentist, and sent me to a prosthodontist for missing teeth in Greensburg. I remember yelping alot. Twenty-four hours later, my lymph glands were hurting in the throat. A week passed. I could see the nodules.  I called Dr. Lazzaro, not a prosthodontist, and he diagnosed cellulitis.

I blew up with cellulitis.  My throat closed up and my neck exploded.  I was one sick girl. Dr. Lazzaro ordered Keflex, an antibiotic at 2000 mg. and it subsided, finally.

Consequentially, I am afraid to go to a dentist.  A little bit of "Mad Hatter's" from mercury?

---------

August 14, 1982, Ozzie Schlueter (ex-ex-husband) and I were married. My ever-present teeth were wobbly, at best.  Ozzie and I transferred to Volkswagen Fort Worth, Texas and I searched for a dentist. My next appointment was in Azle, Texas.  Reluctantly, I told the dentist about cellulitis and my neck. I'm terrified to go to a dentist.   Unconcerned, the dentist built a bridge to the left molar on down. Five teeth all told.  The molar had a silver cap on it,  three teeth were silver for stability and the canine and incisor as well.

I still have the bridgework years ago. I saved it. The bridgework came loose. It's heavy and dense and suspicious for mercury or nickel. I emailed four industrial labs, but they only analyze enviromental samples.  I'm still looking. 

---------

Oz and I split up at 1985 and he is at large in Fort Worth. I traveled to Michigan; Troy,  Romeo, New Haven, Washington and Macomb Township. I moved a lot in Michigan. I worked in Chrysler Motors  building cars, among other things.

I visited the dentist office only once in Romeo, probably 1986. Filling out the questionnaire, "yes", I'm afraid and apprehensive, "yes" I had a funky taste in my mouth. A metallic taste. Yuck. The dentist advised mouthwash. Unconcerned, the dentist filled the tooth.

By this time, I have Afib, heart-stopping, a wish-a-was-dead, pounding, hammering on my chest. Yes, I had myriad physicians; the ER doc, family practice and  cardiologists.  The doctors were stumped; no chest pains, hammering palpitations and then, miraculously, it stopped...and then it started again. Diagnosis: Take a pill. Any pill. I was anxious and fearful and chewed Tic Tac non-stop.

To 1990, I never went to the dentist. The novelist Joseph Heller said it's a Catch-22.  I have the fantasy of choice to the dentist's office, but averting any real choice.  What if I died in the dentist chair from Afib? That will not be good.

I have a new symptom in my mouth. It's a inflamed canine, left lower jaw, deep in the root, from my accident. Three times a year, conservatively, I used Keflex to ease the pain.  The medication worked, 3 times a day for 10 days and the doctor (any old doctor) of choice wrote a script. And, repeat the process for 15 years. I used a lot of Keflex.

--------

Charley Yezek , my  dad, was in Shady Side Hospital in Pittsburgh for myriad surgeries.  Dur Roller and I were married in '95.  In 1997, I talked to doctors about pacemakers, prostrate cancer and Dilantin levels. Dad was fine, but he had dementia in 2001. He eventually died. 

My husband Dur, "Something's is wrong with your mouth. There's pus coming out of it." he announced. I looked in Charley's mirror in the bathroom.

"Eww," I said.

Sure enough, the canine was festering. I tried peroxide, hot salt water rinses and mouthwash. I used the medication, but the Keflex doesn't work any more.

Exit to Shady Side Hospital. Now what?

Charley wanted to kill me Fourth of July, 1999. Not good. It's the Alzheimer's; demented, confused and paranoid, I called Highlands Hospital Mental Health in Connellsville,  Pa. via ambulance. It was agonizing. Charley went to the personal care home in Mt. Pleasant, Pa.

Dur divorced in June, 1999.

-------

Charley Yezek

Come September, the mouth was killing me. My teeth are excruciating. Seventeen years at the dentist is a long time. (Remember Jack?) I called the dentist, and scheduled the appointment, but  I'm skittish.  I cancelled, fearful of the Afib. Besides, something is wrong for the insurance. Pesky divorce.  I rinsed and gargled and, finally, after two weeks it waned.

December 20, 1999 had a stroke.  Frick Hospital (Excela) in Mt. Pleasant and Allegheny General in Pittsburgh are murky at best.  I had violent Afib and my teeth were unbearably painful. I couldn't speak or walk. One-word sentences. Weird.

Enter Heathsouth, a rehab facility in Monroeville, Pa. My right arm and leg were dead. The doctor, every blessed morning with out fail, took vital signs. It was extremely early and the dead of winter. He had a congenial smile, fluffy, fuzzy hair, albeit a receding hair line, and thick horn-rimmed glasses.

He flicked the light switch on my bed. The stethoscope was frigid.

"Good morning.  How are you?  Breathe please?"

"Teeth," I indicating the lower jaw.

"Excuse me?"

Teeth? See? The teeth are inflamed, red and infectious.

"Huh," he inspected the teeth, "you need a dentist."

The nurses and nurse's aide brought mouthwash, floss and Plax. I gargled vigorously and often. The metallic taste was stale and reeking.

The doctors scheduled two appointments, consultants for Aetna, for the dentists in Monroeville, one after the other. Two dentists vied over xray's and general well-being.  The van is warm and toasty in the bleak, frigid January. The nurses bundled me up in this snowbound winter's day.  I'm overjoyed from fresh, brisk, clean air. My nose was happy. Needless to say, I'm wheel-chair bound. The dentist accepted, probably for insurance purposes.

Next door to Forbes Regional Health Center, I had rampant Afib. The Healthsouth was custodial care, Forbes Regional had an emergency room.  The ambulance took me. Numerous times, four times in the ER, I had heart-stopping Afib.  I was admitted for the third time for dental surgery and Healthsouth for Afib..

So, a gloomy Saturday morning, six o'clock yet, I had surgery.  I looked at my window, it's sleeting in Monroeville.  Well, that's just wonderful.

The postoperative diagnosis was an mandibular abscess, septic tooth and supraventricular tachycardia and Coumadin/heparin therapy.  I had intravenous sedation and the silver fillings, at least ten, stayed put.

Heathsouth didn't want me back. The fourth time was the charm. The ambulance took me to the ER, yet again, for erratic beats.  The Forbes Regional said  "the patient will not be accepted back to Healthsouth..." forever, I presume. The discharge summary physician suggested Lopresser; it's beta-blocker and slows the heart. Take a pill; any pill.

I rolled my eyes. I was speechless and aphasic, of course. The beta-blocker doesn't work. Trust me.

--------

Harmon House was a manse in Mt. Pleasant, Pa. a sprawling edifice for geriatrics. It's a nursing home. Me. How did I get here? I'm 52, an indentured by my wheel chair..

Additional to the rest home, there is an Assisted Living Center, 60 suites, for the seniors.  Amber House is top-notch.

The ambulance driver pulled up to the kitchen. The paramedics wheeled me in on a gurney and an ancient soul with vacant eyes, looked at me quizzically. This is not good. She's 90, at least. She and I are roomies.

The nurses' aides and the nurses are wonderful; kind, generous and caring. The housekeepers, with flatus, feces and spewed retching, are constantly on the move, and disinfecting at the ready. The housekeepers are meticulous.

That said, I couldn't wait to get out of here. Five long months.

The array of drugs I have are many; Lopresser, Calan (three times a day), the insidious warfarin, Lanoxin, Zocor, and a stool softener. I'm drugged up, to say the least.

Today, metoprolol (Lopressor), morning and evening, 25 mg., aspirin, krill oil, D-3 (vitamins). Statins were not  for me, terrible joint pains. I look like an little old lady. My cholesterol was 275. Yeah, it's high. I have "benign blood pressure".

-------

My cardiologist was 12 years old, at least, and neckties with Loony Tunes, specifically, the Tasmanian Devil. Actually, quite competent with my heart muscle. The doctor prescribed the patch. The deliberate heart slows down to a standstill.

In the morning, there's something wrong.  

"Heart? No!" I vehemently indicating the patch from the heart. The slow-paced heart, the halting heart, was crawling.

I ripped the patch off. The nurses understood and cardiologist knew. The heart guy discontinued the patch.

Meanwhile, my teeth hurt.

One month after the septic tooth from Forbes Health, the teeth are painful and hurting. The social worker called, a completely new dentists by now, out of Greensburg and Mt. Pleasant.  In Mt. Pleasant, the dentist was booked solid. They catered to children anyway. The dentist in Greensburg took a full set of x-rays and diagnosed the problem.

"You have an infection, a rampant infection, in your gums and teeth," the dentist concluded. Do you think?

My social worker and I scheduled an appointment for next week. Full of apprehension, I'm worried about Afib. Next week came and went, I fretted about violent throbbing.  My appointment is today in the afternoon. 

Out of the blue, Linda Urban Soltis, Pat DiPadova Hall (now deceased) and Lois Ford came for a visit. They're Volkswagen buddies and company closed it's doors in the eighties.  Jeffrey came as well, and discussed my infected teeth. I nodded and smiled with vigor, and I was an absolute wordless mute. Once a upon a time, I was sarcastic, witty and scathing. Not any more.

"Maybe the stroke caused this," said Linda to Jeff.

Bingo.  Maybe it is. 

The girls left and Jeffrey had to work. It's mid-afternoon. Where's the dentist?  I putted down to the nurses' stations in my wheel chair.

"Dentist? Van? What?" I explained.

There's a mix-up with the insurance paperwork, the nurse said.

I was enormously relieved, sort of. No palpitations with the chair. Of course, I  was hurting. Palpitations versus rampant infections. Hmm. No contest. The drugs stuporous and benign at the same time; the hypertensive medication were groggy and kind to me. I felt calm and irritated. I was a wreck. I'm drugged up and infectious. God is laughing.

No mention of the dentist's office. I moved to Amber House in June and July, custodial care, and Jeff finally got a care-giver for AccessAbilties from Westmoreland County. December till July;  I'm, at long last, going home.

-------

I missed the psychotic Johann, the German shepherd. Jeff had a coworker who got the dog.  My next-door neighbor, Dorothy Lloyd, fed the cats. She's 80+ and she's the Energizer Bunny. I loved Dorothy. (She died at 93, Feb. 13, 2010) Jeff helped also, with fresh water, Friskies food and cleaning the feline litter box. Seven months is a long time. The cats are overjoyed.

I have a caregiver and no more wheel chair. I'm walking with a quad-cane. It's 2000.

Aunt Mary Ann (she is my Mom's sister) and uncle Knip Knipple saw me many times at Harmon House. My caregiver Carla is stable, smart and 40 years old. I have halting sentences and aphasia. Carla and Mary Ann coordinated the trip to the dentist's office. Carla called the dentist, a new dentist Dr. Thomas Gretz (Senior and Junior), in Scottdale, Pa. and scheduled the next appointment.

Knip is agitator, a kidder and stirs up trouble. He is demented, in a good way.  The early fog mist, over the mountain, was thick.  Mary Ann and Knip turned into the driveway in my house.

"Are you nervous about the dentist? said Mary Ann.

Are you kidding me? I have gulped down Lopressor, Calan and Lanoxin, in the morning and the evening, thank you very much.  I was nonplus, slow-witted and silly.  I'm in the zone. The populous is over-medicated, in my opinion.

"Yes," I lied. The verdict is the same; an infection, the dentist said. Could be mercury fillings?

Carla Ware is my caregiver for five years and she's a good friend and chum. Carla's Dad had leukemia for two years. No family history to speak of and dad was failing.  Dad died, of course. She and I perused the internet for leukemia, toxic waste, polluted arsenic, mercury and onerous bad stuff.  Could it be mercury?

-------

And then the light came on.

Of course. Mercury fillings, silver amalgams in my teeth. I remember, thank God. My Mom used to say, "polluted".  Somewhere, something the recesses of my little brain were humming. Years ago, 60 Minutes had a segment about mercury and the repercussions of mercury. Mercury can interfere with dental and periodontal disease, allergies, GI disorders, palpitations, high and low blood pressure and central nervous system. Mercury is lethal and poisonous to all cells.

Dentist's know this.  I'm not a physician, or a dentist, or a science guy.  I obtained medical records for the hospital. Additionally, the Food and Drug Administration in December 14-15, 2010, discussed mercury fillings in pregnant women, young children and alternative methods for tooth decay. 

My son Jeff is 46 now. Every spring and fall the dreaded eczema appears.  Every so often the obsessive-compulsive disorder rears it's grave head. The actions repetitive, ritualistic and compulsive. Mercury fillings passed to the pregnant women, to the placenta, to the baby. Yes, me and Jeffrey. Jeff never had eczema and OCD.  Ever.  

My granddaughter Jordan is a reed thin sweetie, with angular features and long lines.  She's 14. She eats like a truck driver, craves sugar and she loves fruit.  She inherited eczema;  wisps of eczema from elbows and knees, ever so faint, in the springtime.

Jordan and Jeff

Fayette Transportation carted me, actually a bus, back and forth to the dentist in Scottdale, four long years worth. 

I couldn't speak at all with the stroke. Well, awkward sentences in 2005.  

But I was deep cleaned from the hygienist and had four apicoectomies (an infected tooth).  Yes, palpitations, violent palpitations in the dentist chair, no rhyme or reason.  I had two, numerous teeth from the mandible to the jaw and a dead tooth.

"Pull them," I said, emphatically. "Hurts."

"Pull them out?," said the dentist, disbelieving, "all the way out?  The teeth are fine."

"Pull them.  Mercury?" I said.  "Metallic?"

Of course, I couldn't speak a lick, but in my mind I thought:  Do you know it hurts? The teeth are infected, to be sure, poisonous, toxic, noxious teeth are damaged.  The teeth are the problem. The metallic taste is the problem. Mercury fillings is the problem.  Get them out.

I waited for authorization from the insurance group.

A crazy lady with a stroke. The dentist complied. Gently.

The dentist pulled the teeth '05. The stench in my mouth was unbearable. One by one, the dental forceps extracted the teeth. Forty years is a long time. Cell by cell, organ by organ, took it's toll. The long, slow, process is over and I was overjoyed. The blood coagulated and dentist placed the dentures in my mouth.

Every month for six-months, the swollen dentures were better and better. No swollen gums, hot-spots and tumescent facial features. The metallic taste was gone instantly and the dentures were healing.  No pain to speak of. 

Two years, more or less, the Afib and the panic attacks gone. (Mercury stay's for a long, long time.) After the stroke, I had at least once-a-week for Afib; pounding, heart-stopping, life-or-death Afib for at least 20 years. I took the metoprolol (Lopressor); and it doesn't help. Yeah, it's a beta-blocker. Yeah, it reduces the heart-rate. I get that.

Everybody's looking for a quick-fix. Let the body heal itself.

About the Author - I had a catastrophic stroke 16 years ago. I couldn't talk. For seven years, I pieced-out words.

That's an old picture.

I'm Michaline Yezek Yankowski Schlueter-Schlueter (it's a long story) Roller, thrice divorced and my son is Jeffrey Yankowski. No alimony, thank you very much.  All three guys are the "black sheep", for what it's worth; all three guys were strong and exceedingly powerful mothers. Chercher la mere, it seems.  Frank Yankowski and Dur Roller died of a heart attack, respectively at 57 and 69. Ozzie Schlueter is at large in Beaver Falls, Pa. 

I dropped out at 19 from Maryland Medical Secretary School at Hagerstown. Md. in 1965. I dropped a lot of things, actually, for California State Teacher's College from Pennsylvania, a stint at University of Pittsburgh of Greensburg, Chrysler Institute from  Mount Pleasant, Michigan, Tarrant Junior College at Volkswagen-Fort Worth, Westmoreland County Community College ---a host of colleges. I never finished.

I worked as a medical secretary for two physicians, respectively, one and the other.  I was fired; too long lunch-breaks and never showing up. Doctors hate that. I was a transcriber for medical records in Frick Hospital and Latrobe Hospital in Pennsylvania.  February 1976, Volkswagen Manufacturing came, in New Stanton, Pa. I worked as secretary in personnel, moved up to personnel services-salaried, benefits analyst, and benefits coordinator.

VW-Ft. Worth, Texas, is a teeny hamlet of the plant.  I worked a secretary of personnel and it  was a colorless job. I graduated to Quality Control as a clerk, but it didn't work out.

I worked Chrysler Motors in Sterling Heights, Michigan, as a secretary, and a production foreman, body-in-white.  I built cars, the Sundance and Shadow; little silver cars in the body shop. I was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time.  I loved the body shop. The plant is a swiss watch, something is always going on, somewhere.

I foundered over job after job, always looking around the next corner.  I had a short attention span.  Scotch and vodka is my libation, the good kind---Chivas and Absolute.  The alcoholism numbed me. And Afib, heart-stopping, hammering-in-my-chest, no rhyme or reason for 20 years. Yes, I had myriad physicians.

My stint of jobs were all over the map; Production Control - Queen of E&O (excess and obsolete), Communications - a half-bad pretty-good speechwriter, (pithy was a good thing), Dealer Liaison for the Plant - Eight people traveled nationwide, concerned about the dealer and the plant. It was a Public Relations job. Chrysler cut back with budget cuts and disbanded the dealer liaison. I was Safety and Security, a trio of people dealing with, well, safety and security. It was a silly job and with nothing to do.

I took a buy-out for Chrysler and never looked back.

I shoveled excrement for a living, specifically, horse manure. Dur owns standard bred racing horses. Florida is muggy, sweltering and white-hot, even in the winter time.  However, I love the ocean. 

Oh, I almost forgot.  I worked as cub reporter, notwithstanding 40 years old.  I was terrible, although what, who, where, how and when came easily. I had good editor.  The Village Voice was the newspaper, a throw-a-way, in Richmond, MI. and The Advisor and Source was a throw-a-way in Shelby Township, MI.  I was a personal column and editorial writer for the Source.

Fast forward in 1997, I worked as a reporter for The Daily Courier, in Pennsylvania.  I won an Associated Press (Penna.) for editorial writing in 1999, six-months before the stroke. On Christmas Eve, Dec. 24, 1999 in Allegheny General Hospital I lay in Afib tachycardia as fast as 220 beats per minute and a stroke to boot. Twenty-twenty insight; I believe it's mercury fillings.

In 1995, I summarized depositions for lawyers from Interim Services in Fort Lauderdale and worked as a transcriptionist for a doctor and hospital for radiology. I worked at home for the doctor and hospital. I continued to Pennsylvania, worked as a depo writer and transcriptionist, completely free-lance.

I love the spoken word; the nuances, the inflection, and the connotations.  It's ironic, God's little joke. I couldn't talk, in 1999.  For seven years, I peaced out words. One word answers; food, haircut, water, Doritos, bed, thanks, please, etc. My mind was totally black, a blank slate.

The dentist extracted the in '05, fifty years of mercury fillings is a god-awful thing. And the Afib is completely gone, nyet, vamoose, nada. Twenty years of Afib. Yikes. Slowly but surely, I'm better.  Mercury fillings is beyond belief. I know.

I can talk again. I can converse again. I have a website. Who knew? Probably, it's fate. 

Spooky, huh?

I'm not a physician, or a dentist, or a science guy.  A stroke survivor? Yes. I know what I know.

A Very Scaly Baby - Eczema. Jeff had golf-ball eyes crusted with ooze, profound itching and scaly skin with strips of baby feet peeled away with dermis.

I had a stroke in 1999 and I believe it's mercury fillings.

By now, Frank and I were married, and Jeffrey is in the womb. It was 1969, and I was exceedingly pregnant, with Neil Armstrong orbiting on the moon in July 20 and a gallon of gas was $.35 cents.

I was ten days late, cranky and the feet is a distant  memory protruding over my immense belly.  Jeffrey was 8 lb. 1 oz., he howled all the time, and the nurses said he never closed his eyes. He was an alert baby, born August 12. 

I had a strange taste in my mouth, probably the anesthetic.  No big deal.  That's not good for baby, I reasoned. Bad breath is not good.  I gargled and rinsed and brushed my teeth. But the odor was there; kind of a metallic funky taste.

Mercury was there, lurking. I didn't know it at the time. I was 21 years old and I never heard of mercury. The mercury passes to the fetus and the placenta; hence eczema.  It's toxic, every organ, for example, the brain, kidneys, heart and skin, it stays there. My mouth is a vessel, teeming with mercury and approximately, 60% amalgam fillings.  That's a lot of mercury.

At two weeks, Jeff was a skinny baby. He was a bottle baby and regurgitated half as much milk.  The mouth, eyes and ears were crusted and he cried all the time. I called Dr. Pascal Spino, Greensburg, Pa.  Waiting is a chore, sometimes hours on end in the waiting room. The children were colicky, croupy, cranky and mom's were exhausted.  Dr. Spino is the best pediatrician in southwestern Pennsylvania. He worked tirelessly.

"The baby has eczema," Dr. Spino said, "see the elbow's and knees?," indicating.

Sure enough, the eczema is everywhere.

"But I don't understand. My husband and I never had eczema," I said.

Frank was illegitimate, so he never had a dad. The family history was sketchy, but the oozing, scaling  and weeping of eczema was nil.

Jeffrey had a milk allergy, Dr. Spino said.  Jeff's eyes, ears and mouth were crusted, and the knees and elbows are inflamed.  I mixed some Prosobee, is a soy-base product, and waited.  Nothing.  I called Dr. Spino yet again.

"It's been two weeks. The eczema is worse," I explained to the nurse.

Dr. Spino called Dr. Martin Murcek, an allergist in Greensburg, Pa., and he explained the situation; namely, a very scaly baby.

Jeff had golf-ball eyes crusted with ooze, profound itching and scaly skin with strips of baby feet peeled away with dermis. Not pretty.  He was two.  The itching was so bad, he wore mittens I gave him to ease the pain.  Kenalog cream helped, but it was a corticosteroid. He had a gamete of allergies, from trees, grasses, dust mites and milk.

 

Jeff is 49 now.  He graduated from Penn State University at State College and he is in Operations Management.  He works for McDonald's Corporation for 20 years and every spring and fall the dreaded eczema appears.  Every so often the obsessive-compulsive disorder rears it's grave head. The actions repetitive, ritualistic and compulsive.

Frank (recently deceased) and I never had eczema. The family history indicates no eczema. Genetic? I don't know.

A Side Note: On October 3, 2014, Jeff went to the doctors in Morgantown, W.Va. for an allergy shot. It's routine. Jeffrey blew up like balloon. Anaphylactic shock. The nurses were amazing; three EpiPens, Jeff's blood pressure was nonexistent and, finally, was stable. The doctor said "No shots."

It's all connected.

http://mercury-fillings-and-the-odd-stroke.blogspot.com/2012/08/palpitations.html

Moosehead Gingerbread

I had a stroke in 1999 and I worked at Chrysler Motors in Michigan in 1985. I built cars for a living and I was a supervisor in the body shop. Sparks flew, no less. The little silver cars I assembled were the Sundance and Shadow.

At 5 AM, full of coffee and manic from the caffeine, I deposited $.50 cents for The Daily News for Detroit. I fired up the car and flung the newspaper. Romeo, MI to Sterling Heights Assembly Plant is a 1/2 hour trek, and the supervisors walk the plant for innocuous reasons for a half-an-hour, major breakdowns, the almighty gloves and no-shows from assembly workers. It's an unspoken rule from general supervisors. I'm ready to work at 6 AM.

At 5:55 AM, I hurried the newspaper; the horoscope is paramount (I'm a Leo) and the I love food section, specifically, Robin Mather. Two-minutes till six. Female supervisors wore neckties, an insane practice, and knotted the tie. One-minute. I loved the plant. I was exhilarated and exhausted at the same time. I spied Moosehead Gingerbread from the food section. It's 6 o'clock.

Baking is fun on the week-end, and the rigid time schedule for the plant leaves me tuckered. Just breathe. Moosehead gingerbread (as known as Robin Mather, from The Fannie Farmer Baking Book by Marion Cunningham, Knopf, 1984) with molasses, cinnamon and dark brown sugar; the warm feeling of fall, or anytime.

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1 1/2 teaspoon powdered ginger

1/4 teaspoon cloves

1/2 teaspoon dry mustard

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

8 tablespoons Smart Balance Light Buttery Spread

1/2 dark brown sugar

1/2 cup of Egg Beaters (2 eggs) 

1 cup molasses 

1 cup boiling water

I substituted butter for Smart Balance and Egg Beaters (1/2 cup).

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Land 'o Lakes 50% butter, every nook and cranny, and flour an 8-inch square pan.

Combine the flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mustard and ground black pepper, and sift on waxed paper. Set aside.

Put the Smart Balance Light Buttery Spread and dark brown sugar in a mixing bowl and beat until smooth. Add Egg Beaters and beat well, then beat in the molasses.

Add the boiling water and the combined dry ingredients and beat until the batter is smooth.

Pour into the prepared pan and bake for 35 to 45 minutes (use your microwave timer), or until a toothpick (or a knife) inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove from the oven and let cool in the pan for 5 minutes, then onto a rack (or, a clean tea towel).

Serve toasty-warm with applesauce, soy vanilla ice cream and decadent whipped cream.

Yum.

Yummy Paczki-Lite

Yummo.

Fifty years ago, I was a tot, poking around Mom's kitchen. With yeast, sugar and lukewarm milk, the rising dough covered the bowl. It's warm, tasty and delicious and I couldn't wait. Scrawled on the back of the invoice pad (Dad was a plumber), Mom had a paczki recipe.

It was Fat Tuesday, just before Lent and no sweets of any kind, not even Juicy Fruit gum. The sweet dough packed full of fruit filling, powdered sugar glaze and fried lard lipids; I was a happy little kid. Fast-forward fifty years? I learned.

The old-time paczki is a heart-stopping, artery-clogging and begging-for-an-angioplasty. Who knew? Before you count your lipids, consider this.  Paczki-light.

3 packets (x1/4 oz. ) active dry yeast granules

1 cup fat-free milk, lukewarm

1 cup flour

Let it rest for 1/2 hour

1 1/4 cup Egg Beaters

1/2 cup sugar

1 stick margarine, melted

2 teaspoons of vanilla

1 teaspoon of salt

2 1/2 cups of flour

Let it rest for 1 hour

Jelly, (strawberry, apple, apricot)

Peanut or vegetable oil

Step 1:  I use three packets x 1/4 oz. active dry yeast granules,1 cup fat-free milk (Calories: 80), lukewarm.  Mix well and the yeast is frothy.  Use 1 cup of flour.  Mix well. Let it rest for 1/2 an hour.

Step 2:  Punch out the yeast mixture.

Step 3:  Add 1 1/4 cup Egg Beaters. (Note:  Shell eggs, 210 mg. of cholesterol, 75 calories per egg.)  Egg Beaters:  0 mg. cholesterol, 35 calories.

Step 4:  Use a 1/2 cup of sugar.  (Sugar: 385 calories.)

Step 5:  2 teaspoon of vanilla.  1 teaspoon of salt.

Step 6:  1 stick of Blue Bonnet (Calories 720, cholesterol 0%) margarine (any oleomargarine), melted. (Note:  1 stick butter, salted, calories 810, cholesterol 243 mg.). 

Step 7:  2 1/2 cups flour.  Mix well.

Step 8:  Let it rise again, double the size, 45 minutes. 

Step 9:  Punch it down, yet again.

Step 10:  Transfer the mixture to a floured board, use a rolling pin 1/2 inch thick.  Use a biscuit cutter or water glass.  Sprinkle flour.

Step 11:  Place a dollop of jelly: strawberry, black raspberry or apple. Whatever. One spoonful is plenty.  Pinch edges over the filling and be sure it's sealed. Use tennis-ball paczki, please.

Step 12:  Let it rest for 20 minutes.

Step 13:  Use peanut oil or veggie oil, medium-high, (48 fl. oz., about 10 minutes), screaming hot.  It's a rolling boil when a piece of dough rises up and floats.  Use a big slotted spoon and be careful. Two or three minutes, (use your judgement), turn over. Use an absorbent paper towels.

Step 14:  Sprinkle a sugar or confection's sugar.

Step 15:  Yields 15-20 paczki.

Useless fact:  "Plant bud" or "pak";  it comes from a derivative of the Polish language, hence, paczki.