Alphabet · Soup

The following is a really long, possibly boring account of my recent hospitalization. The names haven't been changed because I didn't remember any of them. I didn't include anything that I might have used the verb "probe" so it is safe for work...

It started with a pain in my side.

I thought for sure it was just a side effect of the homemade lemongrass sitrfry I had that Monday night, or the homemade hamburgers the night before. But in any case I didn't think about it too much until the next day where the pain became a knife wound in my lower belly.

I tried to go to work, there was so much still to do; training up a new back-up, preparing for the implementation of a year-long project... But the pain was slowing me down. I couldn't walk right. I couldn't concentrate.

So I went back home in the afternoon. I considered going to the hospital, but I didn't think I had 3 hours of my life to waste in a waiting room for them to give me a laxative and send me home. I could do that myself. So I got some Gas-ex, took some Motrin, was about to take the ex-lax, when I noticed a line.

Do not take if you have abdominal pain.

I thought you took it because you have abdominal pain. Neither the gas-ex or the motrin did anything, and I spend tuesday night in unbearable pain.

Come Wednesday morning, I was up at 5am. Between Zachary waking me up and the pain, I think I had 2 hours of interrupted sleep. I resolved I would go to the medi-center and see what they thought.

It is common knowledge to Jen and I that if you want to save some time at the Medicenter you need to go before it opens and wait in line. The medicenter opens at 9am, I went at 8:15am and was still 10 person in line, an hour wait. When it was finally my turn, I saw my usual Dr. Of course he wanted to poke right where I told him it hurt, and I nearly hit the ceiling. He looked at me with a stern look I hadn't seen before and said, "I will draft up a letter, you need to go to the Royal Alex ER."

A hospital visit. I hate hospitals, especially the Royal Alex. My previous experiences there were not good, but because my doctor wrote a letter for that particular hospital I went.

The waiting room was busy as it was 10:00am by the time I got there. I figured I had a 3 hour wait ahead of me, but I had a letter and by this time probably didn't look too good from the constant pain so maybe this time I could be admitted early. However unless you have a bone poking out of you or "chest pains" you sit like everyone else.

Jen arrived with Zach to help me wait. As the three hour mark came and went, I had a bad feeling. After the 5th hour came and went, I was pissed. I had not eaten anything all day and I was getting a headache. After the 6th hour I realized my headache was also due to a fever that had started. Jen mentioned it to the triage nurse. After 7 hours, my name was finally called.

In the ER room, I was visited by a Dougie Howser look-a-like. The kid looked like he should be playing on my handball team, not fixing me. He basically said we needed X-rays, lab work, and possibly a CT-Scan. Why is it every time I go to the hospital I get an IV? Can't I just get treated some other way that doesn't involve sharp things? What makes it worse, aside from my open hate for needles, is my veins are hard to find and restrict blood flow very quickly. I told the first nurse who came for my blood that if she was unsure that she should wrap my arm in a warm compress before she tried it. She was confident so she tried my right arm.

Nothing. I must have given her a look of hatred because she immediately stopped looking for another poking site and went to look for a hot compress. Only there wasn't any. What good is a hospital with no hot compresses? The best she could do was soak a cloth in luke warm water and hope that would do the trick. She put it on my right hand and poked again. Out of the 10 different vials she needed to complete, she got 4 out.

Her confidence was visibly shaken, but she went to the other side to the left arm. She would not be denied! Got another 5 but missed the last one by a few ounces. She tried to cheat by using a syringe to suck the rest of the blood out of the tube she was using, but it turns out it wasn't enough. She came back and said she needed to do it again. I said something to the affect of "Fine just f***ing do it already!". She hesitated and left.

Finally I get sent for X-rays. This was indeed the most pleasant part of the trip. No painful tests, the radiologists were in a happy mood, and I marveled at the digital X-ray machine. I didn't care that my "boys" were probably being erradicated because they didn't put a led cover over them, I was just happy the table was warm and moved on it's own so I didn't have to shift around painfully for them to get a picture.

I get back to my ER cubicle, and the nurse tells me that she doesn't want to bother the doctor for a while, he's too busy. She asked me to wait for half an hour before she talks to him. I'm thinking are you kidding me? I had my referee watch on so I let her know EXACTLY 30 minutes, ON THE NOSE!

Some time later after the first nurse went home (her shift was over, being now 11:00pm), another nurse came by to do it again. This time, the nurse used a syringe as the collector so she essentially drew the blood from me instead of using a passive glass collector. Then I overheard her talking to the other nurse at the counter of how easy it was and she couldn't understand how the first nurse couldn't do it right. The gall!

Dougie makes another appearance and lets me know that a CT scan is required, then promptly disappears. Good thing too, because the second nurse comes back in and tells me that my current IV is not enough. They need a bigger, larger one put in so that the contrast dye they inject hits my system quicker otherwise the test doesn't work. As I'm swearing under my breath I realize that I am way too nice to people.

While I'm waiting for the CT Scan I hear over the PA system "Code Red, Main Building". Not sure what code red meant, maybe someone collapsed in the food court considering the food they were serving. Then I hear "Code Red, Diagnostic Imaging". This catches the nurses attention and she tries to find out what is happening.

Turns out a fire broke out... in one of the CT scanners. Smoke was filling the hallways. They needed to clear out the intensive care section of the main building. This went on for an hour or so and after the all clear sounded I was taken to their "other" CT scanner.

Did you know, side effects of the contrast dye they use for this test may include allergic shock, bad taste in your mouth, bad oder in your nose, burning sensations, icy sensations, and make you feel like you peed yourself? You don't hear that on House. Apparently the CT techs don't like House, because "The doctors never run the machines themselves like on the show."

So after the CT the doctor gives me the news. Diverticulitis Not only that, a bunch of people from the surgery ward want to talk to me. He started me on some powerful antibiotic and disappeared.

So I didn't sleep well for the rest of that morning. A new doctor told me the same thing and said that surgery might be needed. Then the nurse told me I was to be moved out of the ER to one of the main hospital beds.

Let me say this. Beds in the ER are actually quite comfy except for the fact there was an inch of space left on either side of me. Beds in the main rooms? Wider but certainly not more comfy.

My bunk mates are one guy who just learned he has lung cancer (I was there when they told him), one guy who has been in the ICU and is about to be operated on again that will put him back in the ICU, and one guy who looked like death already took him who kept horking up loogies and sucking them up with a dentist like suction thing by his bed.

At about 8am wednesday four doctors in their green uniforms surround my bed and tell me that they still haven't decided on surgery and that a colonoscopy is required after a few days in the hospital. I don't know any better, these are doctors, I think... Anyway the idea of surgery was bad enough without having to think I also needed a camera up my butt.

I'm still sleep deprived so I drift in and out between pages of a book. I'm just in a good deep sleep when I hear a low "JASON". Another doctor, right in my face, apparently trying to give me a heart attack too. This one has a white coat on, so I assume he's important. He asks me how I feel, I said I feel better, and he tells me he is sending me home. I swear I was just about to say what the other doctors told me when I realized I might not need the sun-don't-shine photo-op and simply say "OK." He's a doctor, what do I know?

While I was waiting another new nurse repeated that I was going home, but said I needed to finish the antibiotics I was on now. Not only that, one more jab with the needle for blood thinner so my blood wouldn't clot. Apparently it was required, I figured the hospital wanted to poke me one last time before I went.

Jen arrived and I told her the good news. The nurse told me to start getting ready, he couldn't discharge me yet because the doctor didn't fill out the prescription for the drugs I needed to take home. While we were waiting, a lab tech with a whole bunch of needles and vials came right up to me and said they needed more lab work. But I'm being discharged! I swear this hospital just wants to stab me! As soon as I got the prescription I slowly walked out of there as fast as I could.

Which brings me to now, and the unfortunate realization that I never did get instructions on when I could eat normally again or what I should be eating. There's conflicting information on the web and from friends and family. I would call the doctor that discharged me, but it's friday night before mothers day weekend. Think he would return my call?

Some fun facts...
7 hours in the waiting room.
5 different nurses. (6 if you count the triage nurse)
5.3 different doctors.
6 needle marks.
35 square inches of hair lost to tape/adhesive.
100.6 degrees F was the max my body temperature was.
5 full bottles of IV fluid which went right through me.
8 times I was asked if I wanted morphine. Declined all 8 times.
1.8 books I read while waiting for something to happen.
41 hours where I didn't eat anything.

Inigo stood in front of the huge monstrosity, and sighed. The tattered rags on his weakened body fluttered like a flag. It caressed his blistered skin. How very serene this place turned out to be.

He knew where he was. The waves crashing onto the shores gave him subtle hints, as did the whispers of the salty air. He no longer had eyes to see the old outpost, but he knew what it looked like. Before, as a dark monster creeping into the sea with burning eyes and many mouths spewing fire, and after, as a burning beacon in the night lighting the way to all souls who were freed that night.

It was a night of metal, and of wood, and of cold calculations. Aye, that was his purpose that night. With stylus and compass and other instruments at his disposal, he had managed the impossible and found the sentinel in the greedy darkness. He edged the "Ship of Fate" upon the sleeping giant. Was it a matter of simply killing with blade, slitting the throat, he could have done the deed and passed back into the night without such as a whimper. But this, this required violence.

With corals and dunes flagged to avoid and a solution found in the left bosom of the bay, the attack began. Like a dog barking a challenge across an empty town street, the guns fired, one by one, verifying distance. The fourth and fifth stuck true, and their masters shouted out their knicks for the last five. The guns belched fire and powder.

Moderate damage was the report. Inigo remembered how stubbornly he repressed the feeling to execute the new tack, to bring the right hand of justice to bear. But he waited, there was too much at stake. This was a science, not only of the mechanical, but of the mind as well. He waited, and his crew waited along with him.

At last, the lights in the distance burned as the evilness on shore became outraged, being attacked on it's own soil. It retaliated, balls of death reached out to a large portion of sea where Inigo imagined his vessel would have been had he given into his urges. A science of mechanics and mind, he thought. With whispered breath, then and even now as he stood in broad daylight, he whispered "Tack!"

The bow turned in sinister posture, it's own fingers poised in readiness to deal what Inigo hoped would be the death blow. Masters at arms notched their guns once, as were his instructions, and readied their fire on their scepters. The monster loomed closer gathering itself for another spat. He whispered, "Ready", and one gun fired, its voice harsh in contrast. The distance was verified and Inigo shouted "Fire!" The "Ship of Fate" unleashed its fury.

The stone was no match for the metal, as the rain of cannon shot rained down. Fires sourced at the target momentarily illuminated the oncoming metal, making them ghostly red specters coming to take away the souls of those who would see them. Destruction, violence, despair and elation, silence. The waters, Inigo mused, mirrored more then just vision. It mirrored his heart.

In two volleys, the port was destroyed beyond repair, and the way open for his crew to take what they needed, take what was now theirs, take it all. It was perfect.

A perfect trap. Such a waste, and yet a holy humbling experience.

"Captain Santiago," a voice called to him, echoing off the remaining walls around him, "you have been found guilty of piracy, heracy, and high treason. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?"

Inigo did not care for these words; they were not as soft as a woman’s caress, nor as hard as guns at night. It was a whimper. However, he did speak, his last stab at the evil, his last calculation.

"Tack..."

Balls of death, Inigo thought. He dealt with balls of death. It was fitting he would be done in by them. It was fitting that his commands would be finished for him.

"Ready!"

"Fire!"

A flood of emotion was released when the bar door opened to reveil the man of my nightmares. Of course the war was long over, and men were free to come and go as they please. But it was men like him that wanted to limit that freedom, to kill democracy. This was a chance encounter I did not need in my last years. My nemesis, after all this time, just when I began to let the memories of that terrible war fade to dust. He could have gone to any bar in Belgium, hell the entire world, but instead here he is.

As if to deal me another sour turn, fate saw it fit to have the only empty bar stool seat to be next to me. I watch his expression as he sternly shook the rain off his umbrella and long black overcoat. He doesn't seem to recognize me, or he is too stubborn to let his face show it. That's the thing about Germans, no emotions. Robots, I thought, every one of them.

I'll be damned if I'm going to let this man move me to my feet again. I refuse to move because of him.

I finished my drink as he sat down, and suddenly had the urge for another. It was as if I was in the middle of enemy territory, without a weapon, and about to be discovered. I caught the attention of the barkeep, "Whiskey," I croaked.

"Bourbon," the enemy interjected. Was he trying to compromise my order? This man would not have the last word! I looked around for something else to order, peanuts, another drink, anything!

"...and a pickle!" We said it in unison.

A pickle, we both ordered a pickle. It made sense I suppose. During the war, the US diverted over 40 percent of its pickles to be rations for its soldiers. Chances are, no matter what you were eating and behind which line you were eating; the ration had a pickle in it, on it, or around it. The Germans had their exposure to American pickles when they raided supplies or confiscated them off prisoners.

He looked at me, with a faint smile I found so alien to be on any German's face, let alone his. "I find," he began "that pickles and bourbon are the only things left in this world that I can taste."

"American pickles are better, more bite" I gritted through my teeth.

His smile faded. "I agree, it must be the warts that make the difference. There are no warts on these European pickles."

"We like ‘em that way," I said pointedly.

The German shrugged and turned back to his drink. We sat there for a long moment, sipping booze and crunching our pickles, a silent cold war raging in the foot of smoky air between us.

Then he chuckled. With wild eyes I looked at him, waiting for him to make some smart remark. He looked at me with a grin and paused a moment. How I wanted to kill him here, in front of all these people, like he did to my fellow soldiers. "What are you laughing about," I hissed.

He again molded his face to a serious look, if only to be cracked again by a grin. "The deadly pickle."

It took a while after he said it, but a memory came rushing into my head I had not known I had. The deadly pickle, it was a joke in the middle of a long standoff between my section and his. We were no more then 20 yards away in trenches. Night had fallen, and so had the sounds of gunfire. Only the sound of artillery remained. We had no grenades, no mortars, and neither did our enemies. So we waited, and watched, and listened.

Private Taggert, a young blond haired kid from New York, was eating his rations when he bit into a rock hard pickle. Swearing, he hurled the pickle towards the Germans. The thud of the pickle made them think it was a grenade and they dove for cover.

After the pickle failed to go off, they investigated. Then in a short moment, the pickle landed back in our laps, along with a rotten potato. A short food fight commenced, and along with the food we couldn’t stand, bottles, rocks, and even a picture in a frame of an unfaithful wife joined the fray. We were laughing.

I was heavy hearted. Good war memories were as rare as diamonds, and this was one that I thought was buried forever. How could I not smile?

With that, the German stood up, paid for his drink and walked to the door. Without looking back, he walked through the door and out into the rain.

I hated the German, but each bite of the pickle now reminded me of that oasis from destruction. That moment of grown men, acting like the children they were there to protect. Wither I liked it or not, my enemy gave me something precious I could take with me after my death.

A memory.

"The end of time is here!" people screamed as they ran past the old man. "We're all doomed!"

As he chuckled to himself and stoked his old, grizzled beard, the old man watched the droves of the city's inhabitants run to and fro in total chaos. Some, he knew, would run to their loved ones. Others would run to their bomb shelters, their space ships, their submarines, things that somehow give them comfort over the comfort of others.

Some might consider the second group of people flawed, morally inept. The old man knew different, he knew they simply did not understand the concept of time ending. They believed it was something they could survive, if only they had the right shielding, weaponry, these "things" that would keep them safe.

The next moment a young boy glanced at the old man as he ran by. He kept eye contact the rest of the city block. His shoulder grazed a signpost which spun him full around and he landed on his backside. The old man couldn't help himself and let out a huge guffaw.

The boy was confused, in the midst of all the confusion around him. He was confused that this one man, in the tattered clothing and worn shoes and pointy grey beard, was not running like the rest of them.

He got up from the sidewalk and ran against the current of humanity, back to where the old man was standing. Out of breath he asked, "Are you just going to stand there?"

"Yes, I am," The old man replied.

The boy cocked his head to the side, "Don't you have family to go to?"

The old man smiled. "Oh, I do, and I will be with them shortly. But I feel like watching just a bit longer. Go on home boy; spend your last moments with the ones you love."

The boy turned as if to flee, but as is with children his curiosity would not allow him to leave without one last question. "Aren’t you afraid of the end of time?"

"This?" the old man laughed, "This is nothing!" He gazed into the eyes of the young boy and leaned closer to whisper...

"You should have seen the beginning!"

So I'll admit, I'm new to this whole blogging thing. I didn't see much value in it, and the interface is not exactly intuitive. But that could be just me, I'm a software programmer and used to making things ID10T-proof. But tonight I was trying to decide if I should continue blogging or not.

I started to do random searches (as you have to have a different account then mine to search properly). A lot of kids online saying "oh my god he broke up with me the world is going explode" complete with missing punctuation and the like. A lot of ukrainians (go ukrainians!), swearing, journals that haven't been updated in forever, just a lot of internet noise. Then I decide to check out the latest posts. A lot of the same things, some nice pictures, people talking about their day.

I came across constantcloud's entry:
"It took me by surprise when I found out the bad news. However, my parents are confusing the Hell out of me lately. I know that they are going to separate, but I wish they wouldn't keep acting like a couple."

If he sees this journal entry I hope he doesn't mind me pointing out his name and entry. But this was one small voice in the "noise" of everyone's heartbreaks, breakfasts, and fast-ones that really speaks to why blogging is so popular.

Blogging = Life, Communicated

Perhaps it rang true to me because my parents are divorced, been that way since I was eight. And I still remember the day my father left us, as though the years never passed. I still don't know why for a kid my age I was so alert and cognizant of the implications of my father leaving, but I was and the effect was simply devastating.

What really frustrates me these days are the parents that separate/divorce. I understand now as I'm older why my father left, but what really irks me is that these parents don't seem to realize the path to separation isn't a sudden stop. It's a very long road with many exits that could be taken had the people involved only look up from their own problems.

I still have a lot of things to say to these parents, and indeed my own:
1) Having kids is not a guarantee that you love each other more. Neither is having MORE kids.
2) Avoiding conflict will only store the energy for a much more devastating argument.
3) Don't say "It has nothing to do with you" because not only does that make the kid feel like he's no longer a part of the whole thing, it demolishes their feeling of self-worth, which is sinking anyway.
4) Don't for a moment think your kids will forgive you. "Time heals all wounds" is a cliche. If time did heal, then I wouldn't be able to remember the day my parents separated then would I? I wouldn't still harbor hatred for my fathers new wife. I wouldn't fear that I would do the same to my kids.
5) For God sakes talk to each other. Not "at" each other, "to" each other. At moments when you are thinking of separating, don't hold anything back, but don't give up either. Get it out, air your laundry, put your cards on the table and tell each other what you've been bottling up for the past 10 years and never had the backbone to say it to their faces. What have you got to lose, you're already losing it anyway. And do not leave each other until everything has been said. Lock yourselves in your garage, basement, whatever. Hopefully you will find that your frustrations and fears can be summed up in simple terms and even better, simple solutions. If not, seek help. You owe it to your kids.
6) You will affect your children, and unless you're a divorce counselor or a psychologist, you will never know how badly.

Now, as I approach my 30s, I still look back on that day. When I read constantcloud's entry I remember the emotions and confusion that rocked my under aged brain for a long time. Good or bad, I have to accept that it has shaped me into the person I am today. Without a father for guidance I am perhaps not the strongest willed person I could be, I get walked over from time to time. I can't escape the fact that my life may have been "retarded" because my father and mother decided to turtle instead of working out their issues.

So I say to constantcloud, my condolences. You will be going on a very confusing path that will affect you the rest of your life. You can't sugar-coat it, you can't avoid it, hell you probably can't accept it. But you can learn from it. Learn how it happened, why it happened, be involved, and vow never to make the same mistakes. Your future kids may not thank you, but I will on their behalf.

Perhaps I will keep blogging after all...

Something recently came up in conversation I felt I had to share it with the women out there. The scenario? Your male S.O. decides to start poking you, or some other physical annoyance that just seems childish. You know what I'm talking about, seemingly for no real reason, just starts bugging you and smiling all the while... usually when you are pissed off about something.

While it might not seem much, the fact that you decide to snap at him to stop because you've had a bad day is actually a devastating blow to the male ego.

Lemme s'plain:
In most cases, both of you had crappy days. He's probably got something on his mind, so when he comes home he wants to put it at ease. The problem is men do not know how to properly express what they are feeling or what their needs are. They don't want to seem weak. They do however need to feel the security that everything is going to be alright. So they poke you, hoping you will laugh and giggle. Laughter means everything will be ok. Good feeling means there's nothing to worry about.

So you don't laugh or giggle, you instead snap at him. And on top of that, you begin your rant of how bad your day was or how bad your current financial situation is or how sometimes he just really pisses you off.

So now, not only did you put a dark cloud over the room, you've also shattered his hope for feeling secure, indeed made his insecurity double. You start fighting, and the man realizes this is the complete opposite direction he wanted to go so he stops talking. Now the "silent treatment" begins. It's not that men want to punish women by doing the silent treatment, its simply men do not want to say anything because there doesn't seem to be anything to say that will turn the boat away from heading toward the rocks.

And that is a correct assumption. Even if the man came out and said what was bothering him in the first place, at this point the bad vibes have already permeated the conversation and it can only get worse, because now the women will perceive the man as being weak, something else to be angry about.

What gets me is that in a world that is supposed to be moving to "equality" about the sexes, there is still the ideology that the man needs to be the ROCK every time something goes wrong.

Now don't get me wrong, I know it is not all the woman's fault. As I said before men do not know how (or are unable) to show their emotions in this situation, it is their problem as well. Of course, when the inevitable argument ensues, men can sure show anger because it comes naturally to them. After all, we are full of testosterone, the building block of passion and anger.

So the solution to this situation? When he starts poking you, give him a hug, tell him you love him, and ask him about his day. He might tell you what's bothering him, he might not, but he will reciprocate the hug, the love, and ask you about your day. And lo-and-behold you have both shared your troubles with each other without it turning into a shouting match. You both have gotten the troubles of the world off your chests, and you end up in each others arms. I think that's much more enjoyable then receiving the silent treatment for the next week or so.