Jake: "I just remembered part of my dream last night."
Me: "Oh yeah? What was that?"
Jake: "I dreamt that Mom got a Facebook."
Me: "Oh, lucky you."
Jake: "Nah. I didn't add her as a 'Friend'."
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Changing With the Seasons
When I was a kid, summer had officially arrived when Dad put the window fan in Mom and Dad's bedroom window. This was not a fan like today's, where you toss one of those "dime-a dozen" box fan units on the window sill. This was a monster that looked like it had been modified using old airplane parts. It was housed in a heavy gauge, white wire steel cage that had to be bolted to the window. Inside this protective cage was a belt driven meat cutter that could slice off your arm like it was a stick of cheese. When this baby was cranked up, you could hear it down the street.
For most of the year, the fan was parked in the back of the attic, past the Christmas decorations and way past the suitcase filled with Halloween costumes. Moving this beast required something just shy of a fork lift. It was made even trickier by having to squeeze around all the stuff tucked away, while dodging the low eaves. More than one skull was cracked on one of those roof joists... and Dad reminded me of this pretty much every year. I have no clue how Dad did it before I was old enough to help (I mean really help), but he did it somehow. Later, it became my job. As I wrestled it out of the attic, Dad would carry the cord like a dog leash, telling me things like, "Watch your head!"... usually right after I whacked it.
I'm reminded of this because the other day, Jake carried the air conditioner up from the basement for me while I gave helpful instructions such as: "Don't hurt your back. Lift with your knees! Watch out for the cord!" and "Set it down gently!".
Good thing I was there.
Dad would have been proud.
I'm reminded of this because the other day, Jake carried the air conditioner up from the basement for me while I gave helpful instructions such as: "Don't hurt your back. Lift with your knees! Watch out for the cord!" and "Set it down gently!".
Good thing I was there.
Dad would have been proud.
Friday, July 15, 2011
A Beautiful Day
Lawnmower Man spent about forty five minutes riding his four wheeler around his little patch of a yard today. I'm assuming this was made more thrilling for him since his license was revoked quite some time ago. Since then, along with the "operating motor vehicles only in the yard" restriction, he's been reduced to sauntering through town on foot (shirtless- for some odd reason).
Later, I saw him with a custom built leaf blower strapped to his back, chasing a leaf across his back yard. This leaf blower looked like it was dreamed up by some 1960's "B" movie effects guy.
I'm pretty sure it might be the Eureka vacuum cleaner I threw out a few years ago.
Later, I saw him with a custom built leaf blower strapped to his back, chasing a leaf across his back yard. This leaf blower looked like it was dreamed up by some 1960's "B" movie effects guy.
I'm pretty sure it might be the Eureka vacuum cleaner I threw out a few years ago.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Another Day in the Life
First, let me apologize in advance for what is likely to be a rambling, semi-coherent post. More so than usual, I mean. For some odd reason I feel obliged to report on my hernia operation. I guess it's because I've whined about it over the last several weeks and I feel I need to wrap it up... not sure why I bother, but here it is.
Unfortunately though, or I guess I should say, "fortunately", there's not a lot to report.
My appointment at the hospital was on Monday. I was told to arrive there at least an hour and a half before surgery, which was scheduled for 1:00. Not wanting to possibly lose my place in the surgery line, I made sure to get there a couple of minutes early. I brought along a book figuring that if this was going to be like most of my other doctor's visits, I was going to have a lot of time to kill. But when I made it to the waiting room, I sat down for all of five minutes before they had me go "out back". Out back is where all of the action takes place. For some reason, I had pictured it to be a longer walk from the Waiting Room. I was expecting a long, darkly lit hall lined with rooms on either side; rooms from which people's boney arms would reach out trying to slip me notes saying things like "Run" or "Help me". But it wasn't like that. It was a large, brightly lit room that was surrounded by small areas that could be curtained off. I found it to be a little disorienting, partly due to the brightness, partly due to the reality of the situation becoming more and more inescapable. I've never liked that.
The nurse led me over to a scale for what seemed like the umpteenth time in the last several weeks. I've been weighed and measured more in the last five weeks than I have in the last five years. I get why they would weigh me so much. Weight changes. But why do they keep measuring me? Do they think that something about the procedure is going to affect my height? I obliged anyway, still trying to get my bearings, still trying to fight off the reality.
After the weigh-in, the nurse then led me over to my little "room". She reviewed and handed me a ream of forms that needed my signature. This included having to sign the standard form that says that if they screw up, it's not their fault. I imagine this form makes them feel a lot better. It didn't do much for me. I signed it anyway. The nurse then gave me a rundown on what was going to happen next: First, I would be undressing and putting on their gown ("and only tie the top one" she kept repeating. I could tell I would be in big trouble if I screwed this up), then they would give me an I.V., shave me, introduce the Doctors, etc, etc. She finished her schpeel and told me to disrobe, reminding me again to only tie it at the top! Then she pulled the curtain "to give me some privacy". This struck me as a little odd since I was only two steps away from being shaved by this very same person. But out she went and I got undressed.
I can kind of see why she was so focused on only tying the top tie. The temptation to tie the others is overwhelming. When I put on this so called gown, I felt like I had just stuck my head through the sail of a boat. My front was well covered, everything else was pretty much flapping in the breeze. I think they do this to ensure that you won't get off the gurney. In my case, it did the trick.
From there, things went pretty much as the nurse had said: I got my I.V. (right into my wrist bone, but I guess that was ok because as the nurse said, the needle is only plastic??), got shaved, which was a real treat, met the Doctors, met some more Doctors, etc. Everything was moving right along. I looked at the clock and it looked like we were ahead of schedule. It wasn't even 1:00 yet.
At about this time, there was some minor commotion across the room. It seems that a patient who was crossed off of the surgery list wasn't supposed to have been crossed off. "Well, what about this patient?" one of them asked. And they all looked over at me. I have no idea what this meant. That's when the nurse injected some drug into the I.V. to "get me to relax". That was the excuse anyway. Whatever they had given me was turning everything into Silly Putty. People would talk and turn their heads in slow motion and their mouths would stop moving but their voices would continue. They wheeled me down the short hall toward the operating room. I vaguely remember the large lights. I vaguely remember hearing something about having to wait. And then...nothing.
Next thing I knew, I was back where I started from, in the side room. Slowly I became aware of voices fading in. Someone took off my oxygen mask, as they said they would do if they felt they had to wake me up. I remember wondering why they wanted me to wake up when I had just fallen asleep. Then I realized how bad I was hurting and that it must have already happened. Standing in front of me was the surgeon. He was saying something about the hernia being big. I couldn't follow him. Things were still foggy. For some reason, I felt suspicious that he was who he said he was, even though I've met him before. I studied him and remember thinking that this guy only looked like my doctor. What were they trying to pull?
The doctor went off to inform my next of kin and they had me "rest" for a little bit longer. I got the distinct "here's your hat, what's your hurry" impression from the nurse who stated many times that once I pee, I could go home. When I was finally able to "cough it up" so to speak, I felt like it was the biggest accomplishment I've had in quite some time. I was almost as happy as the nurse. From there, I was plunked in a wheel chair and on my way. They sent me home with prescriptions for pain killers and stool softeners, both of which I've been using regularly. As a matter of fact, I've been popping stool softeners like they were M&M's. I'm not sure which worries me more, that they won't work or that they will. I think the real reason they tell you not to drive has nothing to do with the pain killers.
What's next? Well, I could write about my adventures at home of trying to walk or sleep or do anything without it killing me. I'm sure that would be exciting. Maybe a post about getting in and out of bed. Or trying to walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Maybe some other time. At least it's over and done with.Time to move on.
I don't know why, but it bothers me to be taking time off for something like this. Part of it is, I think, not being able to do whatever I want to do (even thought I don't do anything). Part of it is feeling useless. And part of it is knowing that it could be a lot worse, so I shouldn't be complaining as much as I do. But here I am anyway, on my way to being all better.
Unfortunately though, or I guess I should say, "fortunately", there's not a lot to report.
My appointment at the hospital was on Monday. I was told to arrive there at least an hour and a half before surgery, which was scheduled for 1:00. Not wanting to possibly lose my place in the surgery line, I made sure to get there a couple of minutes early. I brought along a book figuring that if this was going to be like most of my other doctor's visits, I was going to have a lot of time to kill. But when I made it to the waiting room, I sat down for all of five minutes before they had me go "out back". Out back is where all of the action takes place. For some reason, I had pictured it to be a longer walk from the Waiting Room. I was expecting a long, darkly lit hall lined with rooms on either side; rooms from which people's boney arms would reach out trying to slip me notes saying things like "Run" or "Help me". But it wasn't like that. It was a large, brightly lit room that was surrounded by small areas that could be curtained off. I found it to be a little disorienting, partly due to the brightness, partly due to the reality of the situation becoming more and more inescapable. I've never liked that.
The nurse led me over to a scale for what seemed like the umpteenth time in the last several weeks. I've been weighed and measured more in the last five weeks than I have in the last five years. I get why they would weigh me so much. Weight changes. But why do they keep measuring me? Do they think that something about the procedure is going to affect my height? I obliged anyway, still trying to get my bearings, still trying to fight off the reality.
After the weigh-in, the nurse then led me over to my little "room". She reviewed and handed me a ream of forms that needed my signature. This included having to sign the standard form that says that if they screw up, it's not their fault. I imagine this form makes them feel a lot better. It didn't do much for me. I signed it anyway. The nurse then gave me a rundown on what was going to happen next: First, I would be undressing and putting on their gown ("and only tie the top one" she kept repeating. I could tell I would be in big trouble if I screwed this up), then they would give me an I.V., shave me, introduce the Doctors, etc, etc. She finished her schpeel and told me to disrobe, reminding me again to only tie it at the top! Then she pulled the curtain "to give me some privacy". This struck me as a little odd since I was only two steps away from being shaved by this very same person. But out she went and I got undressed.
I can kind of see why she was so focused on only tying the top tie. The temptation to tie the others is overwhelming. When I put on this so called gown, I felt like I had just stuck my head through the sail of a boat. My front was well covered, everything else was pretty much flapping in the breeze. I think they do this to ensure that you won't get off the gurney. In my case, it did the trick.
From there, things went pretty much as the nurse had said: I got my I.V. (right into my wrist bone, but I guess that was ok because as the nurse said, the needle is only plastic??), got shaved, which was a real treat, met the Doctors, met some more Doctors, etc. Everything was moving right along. I looked at the clock and it looked like we were ahead of schedule. It wasn't even 1:00 yet.
At about this time, there was some minor commotion across the room. It seems that a patient who was crossed off of the surgery list wasn't supposed to have been crossed off. "Well, what about this patient?" one of them asked. And they all looked over at me. I have no idea what this meant. That's when the nurse injected some drug into the I.V. to "get me to relax". That was the excuse anyway. Whatever they had given me was turning everything into Silly Putty. People would talk and turn their heads in slow motion and their mouths would stop moving but their voices would continue. They wheeled me down the short hall toward the operating room. I vaguely remember the large lights. I vaguely remember hearing something about having to wait. And then...nothing.
Next thing I knew, I was back where I started from, in the side room. Slowly I became aware of voices fading in. Someone took off my oxygen mask, as they said they would do if they felt they had to wake me up. I remember wondering why they wanted me to wake up when I had just fallen asleep. Then I realized how bad I was hurting and that it must have already happened. Standing in front of me was the surgeon. He was saying something about the hernia being big. I couldn't follow him. Things were still foggy. For some reason, I felt suspicious that he was who he said he was, even though I've met him before. I studied him and remember thinking that this guy only looked like my doctor. What were they trying to pull?
The doctor went off to inform my next of kin and they had me "rest" for a little bit longer. I got the distinct "here's your hat, what's your hurry" impression from the nurse who stated many times that once I pee, I could go home. When I was finally able to "cough it up" so to speak, I felt like it was the biggest accomplishment I've had in quite some time. I was almost as happy as the nurse. From there, I was plunked in a wheel chair and on my way. They sent me home with prescriptions for pain killers and stool softeners, both of which I've been using regularly. As a matter of fact, I've been popping stool softeners like they were M&M's. I'm not sure which worries me more, that they won't work or that they will. I think the real reason they tell you not to drive has nothing to do with the pain killers.
What's next? Well, I could write about my adventures at home of trying to walk or sleep or do anything without it killing me. I'm sure that would be exciting. Maybe a post about getting in and out of bed. Or trying to walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Maybe some other time. At least it's over and done with.Time to move on.
I don't know why, but it bothers me to be taking time off for something like this. Part of it is, I think, not being able to do whatever I want to do (even thought I don't do anything). Part of it is feeling useless. And part of it is knowing that it could be a lot worse, so I shouldn't be complaining as much as I do. But here I am anyway, on my way to being all better.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
P.S. From My Previous Post
I had embedded an entertaining and educational Youtube video in the post below that follows the lifecycle of the common hernia, starting at birth and following it to it's untimely death. What I neglected to notice is that before the video even starts, there is a stamp across the window that says: "Sample Use Only". Scroll down. See for yourself.
What the heck is that there for? Do the artisans that created that little gem think that maybe someone watching it is going to want a hernia of their very own? Granted, they do make it look appealing. But it doesn't really show you how to make a hernia. At least, not that I remember. I'm not about to watch it again to find out.
Maybe it's geared as a warning to the people that have always wanted to practice a little home surgery. I have no idea who this might be. It certainly wasn't my first thought when I watched it, and of anyone out there, it seems like I might fit that demographic. After all: A) I'd love to get rid of the thing, and B) If I did it myself, it might save me a couple of bucks. Still, even with these incentives, I'm pretty sure I don't have what it would take to do it.
The only thing that even remotely makes any sense to me is that maybe this is a disclaimer. Maybe in this day and age when people will look for any excuse to sue, the producers felt obliged to put this in there to protect themselves from people who "hurt themselves" when they tried the procedure at home. A pathetic idea. Probably true, but pathetic.
What the heck is that there for? Do the artisans that created that little gem think that maybe someone watching it is going to want a hernia of their very own? Granted, they do make it look appealing. But it doesn't really show you how to make a hernia. At least, not that I remember. I'm not about to watch it again to find out.
Maybe it's geared as a warning to the people that have always wanted to practice a little home surgery. I have no idea who this might be. It certainly wasn't my first thought when I watched it, and of anyone out there, it seems like I might fit that demographic. After all: A) I'd love to get rid of the thing, and B) If I did it myself, it might save me a couple of bucks. Still, even with these incentives, I'm pretty sure I don't have what it would take to do it.
The only thing that even remotely makes any sense to me is that maybe this is a disclaimer. Maybe in this day and age when people will look for any excuse to sue, the producers felt obliged to put this in there to protect themselves from people who "hurt themselves" when they tried the procedure at home. A pathetic idea. Probably true, but pathetic.
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