Sunday, February 10, 2013

#ROW80 1ST QTR POST 12 – SUNDAY CHECK IN, AFTER THE E.R. CHECK IN




I almost wasn’t going to write a post for today. It was one of those stupid weeks, where, while trying to remain “Optimistic” and “Upbeat,” I was feeling crappier and crappier. Worse yet, I was beginning to develop an “attitude.” Let me explain, when I get an attitude, more often than not, it involves the police and time out for a while. JC hasn’t been well, and I really didn’t want him to be alone, but as the saying goes, Gah-damn! people say and do some stupid shit and as much as I pretty much can overlook it, because I do tons and tons of stupid shit, my “turn the other” whatsis was running seriously off of its rails. So, I've been walking around with a glazed stare and a fixed grin that resembles nothing so much as a rictus associated with rigor mortis. My usually garrulous conversation had devolved to "BUH" and "DUR." My true human interlocutory exchanges reserved for JC. 


Even my online presence has suffered; my usual book-and-a-half of commentary has more closely resembled Barbarian 101: "Gort must die," in agreement with a colleague's seeking of validation of a 3rd party's asshattery, or "Kitty pretty," in response to the Geminites, whom I adore, then left it at that. Probably because I was busy coming down with my own severe case of streptococcus of the bunghole or whatever this shit is. I can’t just get normal stuff at normal times, like normal people. Nope, the flu done flued and left, according to the “Call me Felix*” medical student at the ER last night, only to come back with his bigger and nastier brother, 3 weeks later.
*Name changed to protect the utterly wonderful and going-to-be-great doc-in-training


 I want to be happy and Optimistic! The bugs in my nose and lungs look like this! Pah-ty!

Gee thanks, Felix. Just then, the x-ray lady came with a wheel chair and hauled my carcass off to the chest x-ray place, this dark room and she says, “Stand in front of the light (the fixed light of 4 squares, where they can zero in on your lungs to give you enough roentgens to glow in the dark for a year.) I helpfully stood behind the door, in my confuse-a-what fashion. Finally, the word “light” filtered through all the verbiage, trivia and other garbage in my brain and I sheepishly walked to stand in front of the light. I could hear “tee-hee” from behind the screen.

“I meant to do that; you don’t want a boring job, do you?” She said, “Oh no, it’s never boring around here.” That I can believe. X-ray taken, off we zoom back to my room, where Felix awaits. We talk, where I tell him I once worked at a teaching hospital and loved working there. I also see that one of my favorite ER docs is on staff that night, Dr. Arnold. Felix says, “He’s the man.” I say, “He flat out rocks.” Dr. A has dealt with my Parkinson’s symptoms and talked to me when no one else would; a born healer. Felix’s in good hands.


First do no harm... Then, try and convince your patient they'd make a wonderful petri dish!

Which is good, because after we got the results of my x-rays back and blabbed some more and Dr. A came in and we blabbed some more and I talked about all of the great times I had working at the Teaching Hospital, Felix had this brainstorm of an idea! See what you think. “Well, we can treat this, or we can wait and see what percolates!”

Umm, back in the day, I used to let some of the nurses practice giving me injections. A few bruises, no biggie. I’m really not of the mind to be a test-tube for viruses, or harbor dangerous microbes, which judging by their ability to multiply and change color to hues which exist in no known spectrum, I would prefer they do so elsewhere, so I reluctantly tell Felix, “Gee, I was hoping for a life expectancy longer than a green banana’s.” Felix understood. “Besides, I’m about 90 billion years old. Why tempt fate?”

So, then I have to get home, which is another odyssey. Seriously. I call a cab. It never shows. I end up on the Bus, going back downtown to the Marion Transit Center, where the Sant Y'ago parade is letting out and the town is full of drunk pirates; in other words, like normal. Shit. I can't take the bus the rest of the way home, because there are werewolves after dark in my part of town. 

So, I finally call and get a cab, but the driver is wayyyy more confused than I am. I could have driven us home. This is the world's longest day in the history of forever. I've been up since 1397 and have witnessed the first production of the first Gutenberg Bible, that's how long I've been up. Dinner? Dinner Shminner. How about lunch? Like tomorrow's. That's how long I've been up. 

The cab driver is on the freeway. Why? I don't know, but I'm in that land of make-believe, where I figure he's got some magic Hogwartian way to my house that I don't know about. The next thing I recognize is my grocery store, which is 2 miles north of where we're supposed to be. The cab driver insists we're going south. We're not. We're going north. I have him exit at MLK Blvd. and take a right. He goes left. I tell him we're now west of the Interstate and he insists we're east of it. He makes a few turns and oh happiness and joy! We're in "Suitcase City," where the werewolves are badder and meaner. 



Keep your eyes peeled for some wayward snacks!

Every city in the world has a "Suitcase City." This is where people go who are too bad to live in da 'hood. I tell him, "Drive, and ignore all lights. Follow my directions and pray. Now, floor it."  Bless his heart, he did what I said. I think he could tell from my tone of voice that I was pretty serious. I'm not afraid of much, but I do not want to be there after dard. We zipped through some stop signs, no lights, and hit Floribraska. From there, it was 2 blocks from my house off Nebraska. 

I felt bad for him. When he repeated the address he said "20th St." and I'm on "20th Ave." It all worked out though and he was a good little driver. Damned GPS.

As for the “attitude?” Today, coming home from getting my prescriptions, the Jehovah’s Witness guy in the wheel chair, who proselytizes on the street to the drunks, didn’t want to move when I came down the street, with my cane. He finally did, at the last movement, with some smart ass remark about “Ms. Cane,” to which I replied, “For a man of God, you sure are an Asshole.” I feel better already!


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