OK, let me start by saying that despite all the excuses and disclaimers, it was all my doing and is entirely my fault that I ended up in the situation. I recognize that. I accept that.
The difference is, I’m willing to talk about it and all of the rest of the people who have done EXACTLY THE SAME THING just sit there in silence.
It wasn’t especially early, and I’d had enough coffee that my brain was mostly functioning. After taking a friend out for our annual birthday breakfast, I had to visit the SuperMega Hardware to get a new space heater.
The old ones, aside from dimming the lights in the entire neighborhood when they kicked on, tended to make the circuit breakers blow.
Even the oversized ones that I put in to prevent just that occurrence.
I’d shopped them up both online and in the stores and found the one that would hopefully work to warm us a bit without making the electric meter spin out of control. They didn’t have it at the SuperMega Hardware by our house, so I had to go to the one across town on the highway.
I was actually very pleased with myself. Breakfast finished at 8:00, I popped down the street to SuperMega Hardware and was in and out by 8:30 having resisted the lure of all the cheap tools and other sparkly things that go in a shop that are already set out for the Christmas sales. Indeed, having gone in for one item, I was leaving with only 4 (including my originally intended purchase).
For someone in recovery, this isn’t falling off the wagon. This is a wonderful accomplishment.
Baby steps.
Anyhow, I had a 9:00 appointment so I couldn’t really troll the aisles for bargains as I have so many times before. There was plenty of time to load my meager purchase in the car and get back to the office, but no time to waste, either, so I headed out to the parking lot toward my truck, which was conveniently outside the exit door.
I circled around to the passenger door and opened it to put the stuff in.
It’s hard to say who was more surprised, me or the ancient beagle that was asleep on the seat.
Fortunately, the dog was so old that his reaction wasn’t one of protecting his turf. It was more, “Could you close the door? There’s a draft in here and I was napping in the sun.”
My own immediate thought was, "We don’t have a beagle. Why would someone decide to dump this poor dog out and leave him in my truck? Why didn't I lock the doors?"
The Beagle's true daddy, however, happened to be coming out not far behind me and wondered --aloud, no less, and in a tone of voice that would brook no baloney -- what I was doing getting into HIS truck. A truck which, coincidentally, was the same year and color as mine.
As we all stood there kind of surprised, my jaw agape as I tried to focus my brain on some type of rational explanation, the truck’s true owner realized I wasn’t stealing his beloved hound, but was about as shocked as the dog was.
Explanations and apologies were offered as I shamefacedly saw my truck parked a couple of rows away and headed off toward it.
You can always tell mine, because since I got it there’s been a red-tailed hawk’s claw with native American beadwork around the ankle hanging from the rear view mirror. Because the talons are sharp, there’s also always been some type of stuffed creature in it – Santa, a leprechaun, the Easter Bunny – usually something sacred and seasonal, but most recently a lamb that’s better at staying in the claw as we ride along than some of the other things.
I could see it shining across the parking lot as I hurried to leave.
When I got there, though, my new clicker wouldn’t open the door. Neither would my key, but I noticed that some idiot way on the other side of the parking lot had set off his car alarm.
Then I realized that maybe I didn’t have enough coffee on board yet. That, or my vision has gone beyond simply needing reading glasses to function, because that wasn’t my claw on the mirror, it was someone else’s fuzzy dice.
Oh, and the idiot with the car alarm was me.
So now I had to go back past the man and the dog – both of whom were laughing and shaking their heads, having first watched my retreat and then hearing the alarm in front of them – to get to my own truck which was flashing it’s lights in an attempt to further draw attention and humiliate me.
So I slunk across the parking lot as quickly as I could with a cart which has one wheel that refuses to track properly and flung my stuff in MY truck, realizing that I can’t possibly go back to SuperMega Hardware for a while.
At least until I’m sure that the dog has gone on to his reward and I can have a custom paint job done on my truck so that it no longer looks like every other burgundy Ford in the parking lot.
DISCLAIMER -- I am not under oath when writing this. I am also not telling which parts are slanted a bit, or what I left out. Some truths we take to the grave, that's just the way it is.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
A Peanut Butter Exam
It was probably somewhat inevitable. The first indignity usually comes about puberty, when the doctor says something along the lines of, “. . . turn your head and cough.”
This, of course, is nothing compared to the indignity that comes a few years later, when he says, “. . . . roll over on your side and pull your knee to your chest.” At that point, he will proceed to first to wash his hands in ice water, after which he will dry them in a secret manner taught in medical school designed to make the fingers swell to four times their normal size.
Finally, as you’re trying to “just relax” while he goes for your tonsils from the back side, the doctor invariably decides this is the perfect time to start to chat about sports, or the weather, or the yard, or just about anything under the sun, again under the guise of distracting you.
Here’s a hint. Most of us don’t want to chat. We want you to get in there, do your business and then get the hell out. Then tell us clearly when you’re done (there is NOTHING more surprising or unpleasant than a second opinion at that particular time, especially if you’re not expecting it) and let us put our pants on while we regain some sense of dignity so you can talk to our front side instead of our back side as we finish up.
Yoko, the puppy, has learned that he, too, must suffer a similar indignity. It seems that Pugs and many small dogs are prone to some genetic problems from their shape.
They tend to breathe and snore loudly because their faces are so flat. When he looks up to get a cookie, it sounds like he’s purring as he breathes. They get eye boogers and have to have the little folds on their facial wrinkles cleaned out and they’re ALWAYS hungry and are prone to obesity.
The most unfortunate of their problems, though, is that they get obstructed anal glands, which causes them to scoot their butts along on the carpet in a way that most of us find distasteful.
It's not that I blame him. After all, who hasn't suffered through a batch of prickly heat that has caused you to want to rake the skin off your bottom? It's painful and will drive a person -- or a dog -- to distraction.
But there are some things that you do alone, in your room, with the door locked and not in the living room with an audience.
With a resident nurse, though, we have all the necessary accoutrement to avoid an office call and a $23.00 charge to “express” his anal glands. Sort of our version of cutting unnecessary healthcare costs, which is especially good since he’s uninsured.
It’s not a difficult process from the provider’s point of view. Rubber gloves, paper towels and a bath towel are really all that is necessary. The problem is he’s not any more thrilled over the procedure than any other guy is. Unlike most adult humans, he also doesn’t have any interest in exercising self restraint and lying peacefully on the table.
It is therefore at least a 2 person process, made more palatable from the dog's perspective by the presence of a toy filled with peanut butter placed strategically to distract his attention. We got the idea from the vet, who squirts spray cheese on the examining table and smears it around to keep him occupied while she’s working.
Face it, appeals to everyone’s baser instincts usually help a bit. Gluttony is a strong motivator.
Maybe next time I have to go in for a physical, I’ll take some cheese-like food in a can or peanut butter stuffed into a rubber toy for a distraction.
It certainly can’t make thinks any more unpleasant.
This, of course, is nothing compared to the indignity that comes a few years later, when he says, “. . . . roll over on your side and pull your knee to your chest.” At that point, he will proceed to first to wash his hands in ice water, after which he will dry them in a secret manner taught in medical school designed to make the fingers swell to four times their normal size.
Finally, as you’re trying to “just relax” while he goes for your tonsils from the back side, the doctor invariably decides this is the perfect time to start to chat about sports, or the weather, or the yard, or just about anything under the sun, again under the guise of distracting you.
Here’s a hint. Most of us don’t want to chat. We want you to get in there, do your business and then get the hell out. Then tell us clearly when you’re done (there is NOTHING more surprising or unpleasant than a second opinion at that particular time, especially if you’re not expecting it) and let us put our pants on while we regain some sense of dignity so you can talk to our front side instead of our back side as we finish up.
Yoko, the puppy, has learned that he, too, must suffer a similar indignity. It seems that Pugs and many small dogs are prone to some genetic problems from their shape.
They tend to breathe and snore loudly because their faces are so flat. When he looks up to get a cookie, it sounds like he’s purring as he breathes. They get eye boogers and have to have the little folds on their facial wrinkles cleaned out and they’re ALWAYS hungry and are prone to obesity.
The most unfortunate of their problems, though, is that they get obstructed anal glands, which causes them to scoot their butts along on the carpet in a way that most of us find distasteful.
It's not that I blame him. After all, who hasn't suffered through a batch of prickly heat that has caused you to want to rake the skin off your bottom? It's painful and will drive a person -- or a dog -- to distraction.
But there are some things that you do alone, in your room, with the door locked and not in the living room with an audience.
With a resident nurse, though, we have all the necessary accoutrement to avoid an office call and a $23.00 charge to “express” his anal glands. Sort of our version of cutting unnecessary healthcare costs, which is especially good since he’s uninsured.
It’s not a difficult process from the provider’s point of view. Rubber gloves, paper towels and a bath towel are really all that is necessary. The problem is he’s not any more thrilled over the procedure than any other guy is. Unlike most adult humans, he also doesn’t have any interest in exercising self restraint and lying peacefully on the table.
It is therefore at least a 2 person process, made more palatable from the dog's perspective by the presence of a toy filled with peanut butter placed strategically to distract his attention. We got the idea from the vet, who squirts spray cheese on the examining table and smears it around to keep him occupied while she’s working.
Face it, appeals to everyone’s baser instincts usually help a bit. Gluttony is a strong motivator.
Maybe next time I have to go in for a physical, I’ll take some cheese-like food in a can or peanut butter stuffed into a rubber toy for a distraction.
It certainly can’t make thinks any more unpleasant.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Sleepover
I went to a sleepover Tuesday night.
Not the fun kind, where you eat junk food and make prank phone calls and stay up all night watching scary movies.
That’s probably good, because it was a school night and if I stay up too late I can be really grouchy the next day.
Instead, it was the kind where I packed only my necessities for the night.
Which in this case involved something that could pass as pajamas, my reading glasses, computer, iPod, headphones, cell phone, a book, 3 magazines, pens and notepad among the other stuff that normally lives in my overnight bag.
When I got there about 8:00 in the evening I was shown to my room by a very nice young lady who said she would be “attending” to me for the night.
Before you think, “Boy, is SHE barkin’ up the wrong tree there!”, you ought to know that she was in purple scrubs and is a nurse.
She wired me up like Frankenstein’s monster (pre-lightning bolt), told me that she’d be watching me sleep all night on the video monitor (a bit of news that’s destined to make you think REALLY hard about where you scratch during the night, among other things!) and then brought out an assortment of plastic hoses and stuff that look like the fake scuba gear that little kids play with at the beach.
I was going to undergo a sleep study, about the same as I did a year and a half ago, except this time I’d be hooked to a machine that was going to blow air into my head all night, filling me like a balloon whether I liked it or not. The model I chose just has two plugs that go into your nostrils, which still would make a sneeze exciting, but much less the experience that the full face masks that were offered.
Other than having to sleep on your back – which isn’t my norm – and the grief of trying to get that gooey stuff that holds the electrodes on out of your chest and leg hair, it really wasn’t that big a deal. After a few minutes, you learn to kind of relax into the airflow and breath with the machine. It was already past my bedtime, and the room had a nice television, although there was no internet available. Email and the myriad of sites I check regularly would have to wait until the next day.
The next morning, I woke up at my regular time – about 5 – but instead of dragging myself downstairs to look for coffee I had a realization.
I felt better than I had in a while. Rested. Rejuvenated. Like I used to feel when I was in my 20’s.
I felt good for a couple of days, even. Of course, I still had coffee, but I felt better even before the coffee.
Eventually, I got a call from the doc’s office. Surprise, surprise – I have sleep apnea, just like my dad, his dad and my two brothers. We could be a case study if there were federal funding available for such a study.
So one day in the near future, the Home Health people will drop by with something medical. Somehow, I didn’t think we’d be facing that for several more years, but for some reason you can’t just go to their store and pick it up. They have to come out to show me how to plug the electrical cord into the outlet in the wall, and to fit the little rubber hose into their machine. The cynical part of me suspects that billing is more profitable than that of simply going into the store and picking things up.
But maybe not. In any event, I hope that I’ll start sleeping a bit better in the near future.
And if not, well, next year’s Halloween costume will be easy enough to figure out with all the scuba gear I’ll have.
Not the fun kind, where you eat junk food and make prank phone calls and stay up all night watching scary movies.
That’s probably good, because it was a school night and if I stay up too late I can be really grouchy the next day.
Instead, it was the kind where I packed only my necessities for the night.
Which in this case involved something that could pass as pajamas, my reading glasses, computer, iPod, headphones, cell phone, a book, 3 magazines, pens and notepad among the other stuff that normally lives in my overnight bag.
When I got there about 8:00 in the evening I was shown to my room by a very nice young lady who said she would be “attending” to me for the night.
Before you think, “Boy, is SHE barkin’ up the wrong tree there!”, you ought to know that she was in purple scrubs and is a nurse.
She wired me up like Frankenstein’s monster (pre-lightning bolt), told me that she’d be watching me sleep all night on the video monitor (a bit of news that’s destined to make you think REALLY hard about where you scratch during the night, among other things!) and then brought out an assortment of plastic hoses and stuff that look like the fake scuba gear that little kids play with at the beach.
I was going to undergo a sleep study, about the same as I did a year and a half ago, except this time I’d be hooked to a machine that was going to blow air into my head all night, filling me like a balloon whether I liked it or not. The model I chose just has two plugs that go into your nostrils, which still would make a sneeze exciting, but much less the experience that the full face masks that were offered.
Other than having to sleep on your back – which isn’t my norm – and the grief of trying to get that gooey stuff that holds the electrodes on out of your chest and leg hair, it really wasn’t that big a deal. After a few minutes, you learn to kind of relax into the airflow and breath with the machine. It was already past my bedtime, and the room had a nice television, although there was no internet available. Email and the myriad of sites I check regularly would have to wait until the next day.
The next morning, I woke up at my regular time – about 5 – but instead of dragging myself downstairs to look for coffee I had a realization.
I felt better than I had in a while. Rested. Rejuvenated. Like I used to feel when I was in my 20’s.
I felt good for a couple of days, even. Of course, I still had coffee, but I felt better even before the coffee.
Eventually, I got a call from the doc’s office. Surprise, surprise – I have sleep apnea, just like my dad, his dad and my two brothers. We could be a case study if there were federal funding available for such a study.
So one day in the near future, the Home Health people will drop by with something medical. Somehow, I didn’t think we’d be facing that for several more years, but for some reason you can’t just go to their store and pick it up. They have to come out to show me how to plug the electrical cord into the outlet in the wall, and to fit the little rubber hose into their machine. The cynical part of me suspects that billing is more profitable than that of simply going into the store and picking things up.
But maybe not. In any event, I hope that I’ll start sleeping a bit better in the near future.
And if not, well, next year’s Halloween costume will be easy enough to figure out with all the scuba gear I’ll have.
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