What IS an addendum, anyway? Doesn't it sound like a non-functional organ, like the appendix or liver*? I could easily imagine this conversation:

Doctor: Well, your test results are back.
Me: And?
Doctor: The blood work shows that your appendix, duodenum, liver, and spleen are all fine.
Me: But?
Doctor: (Pause.) I'm afraid... it's your addendum. It has Dysfunctional Grammar Syndrome. It will have to come out.

But no, an addendum is "a thing to be added; an addition." It is derived from the Latin addendus, meaning "small useless internal organ that will have to come out."

This is my addendum to the previous three posts. That last blog entry wasn't up five minutes before the International Association of Men Promoting Unabashed Manliness Abroad called. It was Chuck**. He sounded... well, tired.

"Carl. What on earth do you think you're doing?" he asked. I paused. Could I blame this on my addendum? It had been acting up lately.

"Hi Chuck. Is this about the blog?" Of course it was about the blog, but I figured I should stall as long as possible so that I could get a long addendum out of the conversation.

"Of course! What did I tell you about talking about your feelings? You have the entire council flabbergasted." He then stopped short, realizing what he had said.

"Flabbergasted? Chuck, did you just use the word "flabbergasted?" You know that violates Article IV." Article IV states: "Men must speak as basically as possible, particularly while talking with other men, and always in the case of additional men being present. Occasionally, men may use multi-syllabic language when trying to impress women or while obtaining food."

Chuck was a little nervous, and stammered. "Look, Carl, you know I meant to say that the council is bummed. And anyway this isn't about me. A letter of censure has been drafted. You know what that means." A letter of censure is the first step before a revocation of the Official Male Gender Card. (Revocation meaning "take back" of course.)

I sighed. This was inevitable. (Bound to happen.) "Go ahead, Chuck." I heard some paper shuffling, and Chuck began:

"Whereas, Carl formerly Fitzwilliam Schaad has a blog, called Blog Hero the name and content of which we have generally in the past approved;

Whereas Carl has been a male and member of the Male Gender in good standing;

Whereas the International Association of Men Promoting Unabashed Manliness Abroad (heretofore referred to as "IAMPUMA") has as its core mission to safeguard the carefully crafted stereotype of men that has been established, by men, through countless attempts to fix our own plumbing, leaving everything in our pockets when putting clothes in the laundry, experiencing sudden and dramatic deafness to normal conversation while watching anything even mildly sports-related on television including commercials, and other such gender-based successes;

Whereas the IAMPUMA charter spells out in great detail the rules and regulations by which all members must adhere,

Therefore, the following charter violations have been documented and may lead to a summary revocation the Male Gender Card belonging to Carl:

Violation 1: Carl admitted he went to the hospital, a clear violation of the directive to show as little common sense as possible when it comes to his (the male's) own health.

Violation 2: Carl did, while at said hospital, wear a poorly concealing gown made out of crepe paper.

Violation 3: Carl knowingly cried, in front of others, including other men, on at least two occasions.

Violation 4: Carl has demonstrated intimate knowledge of Grey's Anatomy, a television show clearly written for women.

Violation 5: Carl admitted that he drank wine coolers in college, in direct conflict with Article VII which establishes the male drink as being Beer and only Beer, and excludes things like wine coolers, drinks that contain pieces of fruit, and drinks that have little umbrellas or fancy stirrers.

Violation 6: Pursuant to Violation 5, Carl referred to said wine coolers as "delightfully refreshing."

Violation 7: Carl referenced poetry multiple times, going so far as to commit a heinous act - reproducing a poem that includes a talking bosom.

Violation 8: And finally, and most grievously, Carl repeatedly talked about his feelings in a very public forum, that being a publicly accessible website, and while this council understands that he only has eight nine readers, the material will be available for men who could stumble across it while in an impressionable frame of mind. And so, discussion about feelings, depression, transparency, difficulty sleeping, and cute & cuddly forest creatures have all been noted.

Chuck made a munching noise as he read the letter of censure. Of course, eating food while talking to someone on the phone was in keeping with the charter. But it was making me hungry.

"These are all great points Chuck, and I can't argue them. Well, maybe the hospital trip because I WAS tazed. But that aside, I felt it was important that I share what I wrote. And so..."

I paused. Did I really want to do this? I guess I did.

"And so...I'm invoking Article XXIII section VIII." I winced. I wasn't sure how Chuck was going to take that. I listened, and there was a sound like the phone being dropped, and a crack like it had landed on an unprotected little toe, and then a number of choice words that were each one syllable, and then Chuck was back on the line.

"Twenty-Three Eight? And you sure you want to do that? You know what that means. Is this a formal claim?" I opened a bag of chips. "Yes, Chuck," I said, in between handfuls of Lay's. "It's a formal claim. Twenty-Three Eight."

"So be it," Chuck responded. "As a member of the IAMPUMA, I am required to acknowledge your 23.8 request, and will inform the council. I..." Chuck stopped. He seemed to think about what he was going to say, and change his mind. He simply said, "Good luck Carl," and ended the call.

I sat with my phone and chips and wondered if I had done the right thing. As I finished snacking I wiped my greasy fingers with the last paper towel on the roll, leaving the cardboard tube standing perfectly upright where the paper towels had been.

Twenty-Three Eight, as it is referred to, is one of the last articles in the charter. It is invoked rarely, and never cavalierly. While men have been behaving badly for eons, and doing a darn fine job of it, there are occasionally those men who seem to adopt a different approach. I'm sure you've seen them before. They are often leaders. They make a difference to those around them. They are honest about life, and gentle, and sacrificial, and yet - they possess a real strength that many find they are lacking.

Twenty-Three Eight was written for these men. It provides for a member to ignore the majority of the previous 22 articles and yet still remain a member. Once invoked it's permanent. The member receives a new membership card, this one identifying you as a "28.3" Member of the Male Gender. And the council holds you to a higher standard.

And while you don't conquer the world in a day, you do struggle to conquer each moment that makes up the day. You won't win every battle, but you fight them nonetheless. All sorts of thoughts were running through my head:

"Am I up for this?"
"What does the new card look like, anyway?"
"Who WAS that possum from part 3?"
"Can I really be honest, in a way that matters, or is it all just a fad?"

As I was thinking I almost left the kitchen, but turned around and actually put the potato chips back in the pantry, and then got out a roll of paper towels to replace the empty cardboard tube.

It's a start.

* I'm aware that some people have a functioning liver. At least, I've heard stories of that. I've also heard stories of a large skunk ape that lives in Florida. So, I'm not sure what to believe.

** Chuck isn't the caller's real name, but is instead his Man Name. Every man has to choose a Man Name once they join the Association, so that the Association can eliminate some Clanceys, Marions, Terrys and Robins. My given name is actually Fitzwilliam. But I think we've been over this.

Posted by Carl at 12:15 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

I think that we, as a society, have gone overboard with the drug commercials. You may be able to guess what I'm referring to: Every medication that is advertised on television has to state any risks associated with taking the drug. The side effects are usually presented by an attractive, joyful sounding Side Effect Presenter who starts slow and ends big:

"This medication may cause fatigue, dizziness, sore gums, large uncomfortable pimples inside your nose, dreams about losing all of your teeth right before a final that you didn't study for held in a location you can't find because the map is in your locker whose combination you can't remember, diarrhea, constipation, excessive bloating and gas particularly in embarrassing situations, blindness, heart attack, stroke, and death."

Death! Did the Side Effect Presenter just say Death? Yes, unfortunately. Death. At that point the other potential side effects really don't matter, except possibly the one about the pimple - MAN is that annoying.

Such is the case with medication designed to treat depression and insomnia. Just one drug commonly used in the treatment of depression has 60 – SIXTY – possible side effects listed. Over an 18 month period I tried several drugs to treat both depression and insomnia. Often the doctor would tell me, "This drug may cause drowsiness and upset stomach." I would wait. "And?" I'd finally ask. "And what?" he would reply. "And…what else?" He just stared at me, and I was so happy to find out that I wouldn't get embarrassing bloating, or DEATH, that I just dropped the matter. However, in my quest to treat my depression and insomnia (which I will now refer to as D&I since it's getting kind of old typing all of that out) I experienced a number of side effects.

I would have to say the most entertaining side effect – entertaining for the reader, not the author – happened while I took Ambien®. Ambien is a medication for insomnia. It's a little complicated, but in laymen's terms it is a "short-acting nonbenzodiazepine hypnotic that potentiates gamma-aminobutyric acid, an inhibitory neurotransmitter, by binding to gamma-aminobutyric acid receptors at the same location as benzodiazepines." In other words, well…okay I don't have any other words. (Who am I to argue with Wikipedia?) But one day my doctor sat me down and said, "I have bad news Carl. I'm pretty sure your GABA needs potentiated." Of course, I was devastated. I asked if I could cry in the office, or if that might get me reported to The International Association of Men Promoting Unabashed Manliness Abroad. He just handed me a box of Kleenex® (which, incidentally, was decorated with camouflage patterns and guns and knives and the tissues were a bold, manly green color.)

You may have heard about Ambien. Ambien was in the news a while ago because people took it, went to bed, and then suddenly developed a hankering for a cheeseburger, got in their cars and drove to McDonalds at 2am only to swerve to miss a smartly-dressed possum on the way and crash into a tree. (This happened at least half-a-dozen times, and each time it was oddly the same possum.) When the police showed up they found the driver sitting by the car, in their pajamas, unable to recall how they got there, why they hit a tree (witnesses later claimed it was a smartly-dressed possum) or why they felt a strange hankering for a cheeseburger.

Apparently Ambien can cause memory loss. Actually, Ambien can cause: Amnesia, Hallucinations, Delusions, Altered thought patterns, Poor motor coordination, difficulty maintaining balance, Euphoria and/or dysphoria, Increased appetite, Decreased libido, Amnesia, Impaired judgment and reasoning, Uninhibited extroversion in social or interpersonal settings, Increased impulsivity, Headaches and DEATH.

Well, okay not DEATH. But the others are spot on. I experienced some of that first hand. One morning I got up and checked my email before work. I noticed some messages in my outbox were stamped 3:05am. And I thought, "3:05? I wasn't awake then. Wait…now that I think about it, I vaguely remember getting out of bed. What did I do? I can't…oh no. I got on the computer."

Of course, in a panic I checked Skype to see if I had made any crank video calls. Thankfully not. With a sense of dread I opened the first email. I was crushed. It was a work email about a design project of mine that needed review. The 'To: field' read, "Everyone, Everyone's brother." It included vice presidents, directors, and people who were peers and would never let me hear the end of it. The message itself was fine; I didn't say anything embarrassing (nothing like what Carl with too many wine coolers might have said.) But my typing skills…not so much. There were words in that email I couldn't identify. Not even with context. There were words that had no vowels. There were words that looked like exclamations of pain. ("Ahhrrrggggfff.") It was a disaster. The other emails weren't much better, but thankfully they weren't sent to everyone and their brother. I issued a quick, contrite email of apology and promised I would stop drinking at 3am. I mean, what do you say when you do something like that? My sleep medication made me do it? (I briefly thought about blaming it on a smartly-dressed possum but wasn't sure how that would have been received.)

And that was the most difficult part of what I went through, the issue of being transparent. When I was depressed I didn't want to talk about it. It felt like a personal failure of the first order. I assumed people would think poorly of me. I didn’t talk about the insomnia that often because it was connected to the depression, at least in part, and I didn't want to bring that up. And so I did what most people do – I suffered in silence.

A year and a half and many medications and side effects later I began to feel better. And as my mood improved I've been able to think more clearly about what happened. I've been struck by how isolating depression is. It caused me to pull inward and retreat from the world. And I think the world sensed that, and felt it was doing me a favor when it let me hide. And while it might seem counter-intuitive, as I retreated and was left to myself I felt it a confirmation that I wasn't worth helping, causing me to retreat further. And that became a cycle which proved difficult to break.

But over time I searched for solutions. I confided in friends who were understanding and supportive. I tried medication, weathered the side effects and found something that helped. I've managed to restore a semi-normal sleep pattern by – believe it or not – getting off of the Ambien I was taking. I found a counselor who is brilliant, and has helped me to understand the cycle of depression I was in and how it could be broken. And I ate loads and loads of chocolate while watching "Whose Line is it Anyway?" on YouTube.

And now, being on the "other side" of things, I've spent a lot of time thinking about the meaning of it. Why do things like that happen? Is it all random chemistry, or is there some design or meaning in it? People who know me well understand that I have to find the meaning in everything, even things that don't have meaning, like smartly-dressed possums. But sometimes, the only meaning we can find for something is what we give it. I plan to encourage people to take a step out of the darkness and find someone they can confide in. Family, friends, clergy, convenience store clerks, that pimply-faced kid at the drive-thru who keeps screwing up your order because you just want a HAMBUGER! I SAID HAMBUGER, NO CHEESE!! Because keeping what you struggle with a secret only causes more pain and suffering.

I know. I tried it – it doesn't work very well.

Most of the people who read this likely know me, or know of me since I'm all infamous and whatnot, and likely won't find anything here of use (beyond wondering where a possum can get smart clothes.) But since this will be on the Internet, and because I've listed actual medications and actual side effects that Google will no doubt index, you – the reader – may be in a different position. You may be struggling. Please, from someone who has been there and understands - reach out. And if that is too hard, consider talking to a friend-to-be like me. I would love to hear your story. I promise I'll even clear up the possum thing.

And for everyone who has supported me, in ways big and small, thank you. Every kindness, every thoughtful word and silent moment of understanding has been a great blessing.

"A ruddy drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs;
The world uncertain comes and goes,
The lover rooted stays.
I fancied he was fled,
And, after many a year,
Glowed unexhausted kindliness
Like daily sunrise there.
My careful heart was free again-
O friend, my bosom said,
Through thee alone the sky is arched,
Through thee the rose is red,
All things through thee takes nobler form
And look beyond the earth,
The mill-round of our fate appears
A sun-path in thy worth.
Me too thy nobleness has taught
To master my despair;
The fountains of my hidden life
Are through thy friendship fair."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Posted by Carl at 11:57 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

The International Association of Men Promoting Unabashed Manliness Abroad just called. Apparently someone sent them a link to this blog and they wanted to express some concerns about my last post.

"Hello Mr. Schaad. This is Chuck* from the International Association of Men Promoting Unabashed Manliness Abroad. We want to express some concerns about your last post." Then Chuck* just paused and waited.

"Yes?" I asked. I knew where this was headed though.

"Well. This is difficult Mr. Schaad, but certain things have been brought to our attention that, frankly, violate the terms of your Manliness Contract. I'm afraid that we may have to ask for your Official Male Gender Card back."

My heart sank. "I understand Chuck*. But, really, I have been working extra hard. Last week I forgot to take the trash out, and my wife had to run outside with it at the last minute." There was a small sigh on the other end. "She was in her slippers and robe?" I offered hopefully.

"Look Mr. Schaad. The best I can do at this point is put you on probation. We expect you to put a little more effort into things. Leave the toilet seat up. Try to belch at awkward moments. Loudly. Watch more sports. And please, whatever you do, for heaven's sake don't talk about your feelings."

I exhaled, not even realizing I had been holding my breath. A second chance! I could turn this around yet. "You bet Chuck*. Hey, Chuck*? I didn't replace the toilet paper roll yesterday." Chuck* murmured his approval and said goodbye.

*Chuck isn't the caller's real name, but is instead his Man Name. Every man has to choose a Man Name once they join the Association, so that the Association can eliminate some Clanceys, Marions, Terrys and Robins. My given name is actually Fitzwilliam.

(This is the second part of my Sleep Isn't as Easy as it Looks story, which so far appears to have absolutely nothing to do with sleep.)

It only took one day of anti-viral drugs to completely clog up my kidneys. So now I had bonus pox, brain-lining swelling and kidney failure. My headache was better, but I was about to develop nausea like no one's business.

The anti-viral drug I was given was called Zanamivir. I'll try to give you the Technical Kidney Talk without sounding too much like an episode of Grey's Anatomy:

Derek: So we're kissing, but we're not dating?
Meredith: I knew that was going to come up.
Derek: Don't get me wrong: I like the kissing. I'm all for the kissing. More kissing, I say.
Meredith: I have no idea what that was about.
Derek: Is it going to happen again? 'Cause if it is, I need to bring breath mints.

Wait, wrong tape. Sorry about that. I think that actually was an episode of Grey's Anatomy. I have no idea how that got mixed in there; I am, after all, a card-carrying member of the male gender and only Alert Romantic Tammy watches things like Grey's Anatomy. Honestly.

Back to my kidneys. You can think of the kidneys as filters that protect you from all of the nasty things that are found in your blood. These two bean-shaped organs are vital for ridding the body of things like urea and uric acid, unneeded nutrients, really small rocks, sea salt, broccoli stems and Grey's Anatomy. Without your kidneys, these things would back up in the system and after four or five days of Grey's Anatomy Backup-age, for example, the patient usually experiences fatigue, random quoting of season cliffhangers, hopelessness, despair, and endless re-watching in syndication. The drug Zanamivir - not to be confused with Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute - can sometimes clog up these filters with a growth of crystals. Once clogged toxins start backing up the patient becomes sicker and sicker, eventually experiencing a grim senseless death - kind of like George O'Malley. Doctors measure kidney function by checking for a substance called creatinine. Normally the kidneys filter this, so if your blood test shows a high level of creatinine, then you are in trouble. After one day my creatinine was above 2, which is in the abnormal range. So the Zamfir was stopped (thank goodness!) and I was given fluids to try and flush the kidneys clear.

And so began a 10-day ordeal. Every day my creatinine was checked and it went up and up, eventually peaking just above 10. The nausea was horrible. I've had nausea before, for example while in college after being subjected to intense peer pressure to have one too many wine coolers. That was pretty bad. (The nausea, not the wine coolers which were actually delightfully refreshing.) But this nausea was unrelenting. Multiple trips to the bathroom with "George" (my IV, not the Grey's character) resulted in constant vomiting that never produced anything and never provided any relief. At the time I felt very lost and hopeless, because I didn't understand about the kidneys and filtering and broccoli stems, and I felt so miserable.

Toward the end of my stay, as the creatinine went up and up, the doctor started talking about dialysis. Dialysis is a process where they hook you up to a machine with tubes that suck out all of your blood, filter it, and then put it back in. I looked at the doctor and said, "What's plan B?" There wasn't a plan B, of course, and that's when then icy grip of fear reached out and gave me a noogie. But then, on the last morning before I would have to get set up for dialysis, my creatinine crested and began to fall. (George the IV came through.)

Although I was released from the hospital soon after, I really struggled for the next 15 months. I had severe back pain from the shingles (bonus pox) that lasted a year. The pain was difficult to treat - I couldn't seem to talk anyone into giving me morphine (incidentally, if you have any lying around that you're not using let me know) but eventually found one thing that worked: vicodin. Vicodin is great, because it's cheap and effective, but my fear of addiction after watching one too many episodes of "House" had me taking it for a spell, getting off of it, being worn down by the pain again and resuming. (I have a new found respect for people who suffer with chronic pain.)

In addition to the physical pain, I fell into a dark depression. Depression is fascinating and terrible. Despite so many people dealing with it (it's estimated that 9.5 percent of the U.S. population age 18 and older have a mood disorder) there is still a stigma attached to it. No one wants to talk about it. After this past year I've reached the conclusion that - I just don't understand it. We're hiding from each other and it makes no sense.

Finally, I developed an insomnia problem at approximately the same time as the depression. Doctors will tell you that insomnia and depression are comorbid (often appearing together) and one often causes the other. In my case it's not clear what brought on the insomnia. There are a host of possibilities, not the least of which were depression, back pain, poor sleeping habits, and worry over Meredith and Derek's future.

Recently I've finally begun to feel normal again, whatever normal means. My depression has lifted, my back pain is essentially gone, my insomnia is resolving and I've begun to take my life back. If you're reading this odds are that you know a lot of this already. Or at a minimum you have seen me come and go from the blog, or Facebook, or Twitter. Interacting with people, whatever the medium, and the creativity that writing requires, are both difficult when you are exhausted, depressed and hopeless.

But as difficult as things have been in the last year and a half, it has been a tremendous time of personal growth. I know what you're thinking. "Oh here we go. A personal growth story!" And I've shared that sentiment. I didn't put much stock in personal growth. I thought I knew everything I needed to about the generalities of life and the specifics of my own personality and heart. My thoughts on suffering, pain, depression and fear were all settled subjects. I had figured those things out, long ago, and could use that time for more important tasks, like spending endless hours on Google searching for Grey's Anatomy quotes. What I really discovered a year and a half ago is that there is no surer, faster way to find out what you don't know than to mistakenly think you have nothing to learn.

I was going to finish my thoughts here, and tell you about insomnia, tips on addressing it and what "sleep hygiene" is all about. But it's late, and this was much longer than I thought, and I really should go to bed. (That's one of the things I've learned, though I am slow to practice it.) The next part, aka the last part, will cover all of that, as well as a little bit on hobbies, dreams, transparency - and what I'm going to do when the International Association of Men Promoting Unabashed Manliness Abroad calls me again. (I don't think they're big Grey's Anatomy fans...)

(And so here ends the second part of a story about sleep that has nothing in it about sleep. Yet.)

Posted by Carl at 6:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

On the great continuum that is life I imagine at one end you might find Steven Wright, the American comic with the terminally deadpan delivery and ironic wit. At the other end would then be someone like C.S. Lewis, Christian apologist and author. And though I'm not exactly sure why, I'm nonetheless convinced that I fall much closer to the Steven Wright end of things. For those of you who might argue, and suggest that I'm actually much closer to C.S. Lewis - well, God Bless You and yes your check is in the mail.

As both of you reading probably know, in December 2008 I had a difficult time. In a desperate bid to avoid the annual torture that is writing the family Christmas Letter I did my best to collect a myriad of complex, somewhat uncomfortable, whine-inducing physical symptoms. As my whininess approached a critical mass one night, Alert Spouse Tammy decided it was time for me to go the hospital.

"Okay, you're even whinier tonight than normal. We're going to the emergency room."

Before I answered that unspoken question (the unspoken question being "Are you coming willingly or am I going to taze you and call 911?") I checked my wallet, found what I was looking for and pulled it out, showing Tammy in between moans of Great Anguish.

"See? Here it is. It's my male card. I'm a card-carrying member of the male gender. We don't go to hospitals. We all take an oath at secret male meetings we have." *GROAN of PAIN* "So I appreciate that but I'm just going to..." *SLIGHTLY LOUDER GROAN of PAIN* "...just take some more tylenol and sit right here."

What happened next is still a blur. I remember being hit in the chest by these wires, and then there was a shock of some sort, and I lost control of most of my bodily functions. I found myself at the emergency room in an emergency gown made of something slightly more tear-resistant than wet tissue paper and at least as concealing and opaque as saran wrap. I mumbled, "Did you at least bring my card? I'm not supposed to be dressed like this. If the guys find out..."

The next ten days were pretty horrible. I was diagnosed with shingles. Shingles sounds like something that would make a good reality show on HGTV, like "On today's show - Carl tries to spray WD40 into squeaky door hinges without getting it everywhere, learns what "insulation" is and what it is used for, and while alone in the attic discovers he has a horrible case of...SHINGLES." But no, shingles is actually just the chicken pox all over again. I was poxed twice, which is no small feat.

But while shingles might explain a number of symptoms I was experiencing, like the terrible back pain, the ginormous rash that just appeared one day, and the leaky roof, it didn't explain the headache I had. I've had my share of headaches but this was on a whole new level. I know my card said that males don't cry, but I did anyway. (No one was watching guys. Honest.) If past bad headaches were like my credit card debt, this headache was national debt size.

(I should pause and say that the time that will elapse between when I write this and when anyone reads it will probably result in the debt increasing the size of the total GDP of Bhutan, Nepal, Oman, Australia and all the pieces of what was once Yugoslavia. But that works too, because it will seem like an even WORSE headache which of course it was.)

It was at that point that I got morphine, and I can see how people could become addicted to something like that. (Incidentally, if you have any lying around that you're not using let me know.) So the doctor was Quite Concerned, as only doctors can get, and told me that there could be something wrong with my brain and that's Not a Good Thing. Alert Sympathetic Spouse Tammy nodded and said, "Yes, he's brain-damaged doctor. It says so on this card he has."

It was at that point that the doctor suggested sticking a needle the length of a golf club into my spinal column, the column of spinal things in your back. This is the area that God put the most sensitive, finely-tuned, pain-sensing parts of the human body. I had to think about it. Spinal tap. Brain damage. Spinal tap...brain damage? Brain damage...bad. Spinal tap...also pretty bad. During this internal deliberation the doctor looked at Alert Caregiver Tammy who just nodded.

It turned out that the spinal tap was a good idea. It showed that I had viral meningitis. That's the thing that makes the lining of your brain swell up. It's much preferable to encephalitis, which is when the brain itself swells up. Apparently you are much more likely to survive with a naked brain than with an abnormally swollen freakish mutant brain. So I was admitted to the hospital and given anti-viral drugs to wipe out the viruses that were trying to undress my brain.

It only took one day of anti-viral drugs to completely clog up my kidneys. So now I had bonus pox, brain-lining swelling and kidney failure. My headache was better, but I was about to develop nausea like no one's business.

(Here ends the first part of a story that has more than one part. I'm tired and it's getting late, and so I will try to get to the actual point in the next part. Or the one after that. Definitely, the one after that.)

Posted by Carl at 8:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I hate hospitals.

I suppose hate is a pretty strong word. Immensely dislike? Regard with significant antipathy? I know I am looking for an expression that doesn't sound as harsh as hate, but there are some seriously good words for hate: despise, loathe, abhor. When was the last time you got to use abhor in a sentence, and really mean it? And loathe...it may sound like something you would find at Bath & Body Works (I'll take the Warm Vanilla Sugar shower gel and two of the loathe sponges...) but it's the kind of word you only pull out once or twice a quarter. Generally accepted uses might include:

1. I loathe this ham loaf. Why are we having ham loaf for dinner again?
2. After showering I loathe smelling like a flavor of oatmeal.
3. I would say I hate the hospital, but really I just loathe it.

(Feel free to let me know what you loathe, unless it's bloggers, or writing, or bloggers who write while smelling like oatmeal.)

I find myself hating loathing the hospital again because I'm writing this from the auxiliary emergency room at our local hospital. The auxiliary waiting room at our hospital is sort of the un-emergency room. It is actually called "basic care" and is right next to the emergency room. My understanding is that this is the room that they send the people to who come into the emergency room for care, but who are not spraying blood from an artery, not on fire, not missing a limb, or not carrying one of their vital organs in a little plastic baggie that they got from the grocery store earlier in the day because they never use those reusable grocery bags their husband shelled out good money for because he was assured that they would be used all of the time.

We're sitting in the "basic care" room waiting for someone to come in and administer basic care. I'm not terribly hopeful that we will be done anytime soon. Your typical visit to the emergency room takes at least six hours. I can only imagine how long a visit to the "basic care" room must take. No doubt there are people running around in the room next door (the emergency room, where all of the seriously injured people go) hustling back and forth with organs and limbs and plastic bags. I can imagine a scene straight out of Grey's Anatomy: Meredith sees one of those reusable grocery bags sitting next to a patient, and says, "That's a great bag! Derek bought me some of those bags, but they're in my trunk and I never remember them." The patient groans a little. "I'm sorry, why are you in today?" The patient just pushes the bag towards Meredith. Inside is some lettuce, celery, carrots, beets, two bottles of salad dressing, and a liver. "STAT!"

Nothing quite so exciting is happening in "basic care." Someone in the hallway was just administered an eye exam - they were told to read some letters on a wall at a distance. "V - A - N - I - L -L -A..." I don't think he passed, but now I'm have a craving for breakfast for some reason.

Tammy decided we had to go to the emergency room. On Friday she had an altercation with an ATM machine. The machine insisted on charging her $2.50 for the transaction and Tammy got a little irate. She pushes the machine, the machine pushed her...the next thing you know she has it in a headlock. She must have overdone it, because it passed out and fell on her, injuring her arm. (I should pause here and explain that this story may have been embellished just a little bit, but Tammy thought this sounded better than what actually happened.)

So she came home $2.50 lighter and with an injured arm. She asked me to look at it. I got all serious, with a somber look on my face, and studied the arm for a long time, at least 30 seconds. I occasionally said, "Hmm" and "Urm" and "Huh." She watched me intently, waiting for my thoughts. I stopped looking and waited for my next instruction.

"Well?" she asked. I immediately thought, "Well what?" but something deep inside my brain told me that I shouldn't say that. But there really was no other thought available.

"Yes?" I said, which I figured was better than "Well what?"

"Is it broken?" she asked. I was at a loss. I could say yes, which would buy me a trip to the emergency room because the fight with the ATM machine occurred on a friday before a holiday weekend after 4pm. I could say no, in which case somehow, someway, I would end up being wrong and years hence would be treated to the "My arm was broken and Carl told me it wasn't story" which would be shared with great flourish and enthusiasm and everyone hearing it would look at me and frown and shake their heads sadly. So I did the only thing I could.

"I don't know."

And really, I didn't know. How many broken bones have YOU seen? Exactly. If there isn't a piece of bone jutting right out of the skin I'm pretty much at the end of my diagnostic rope. I did offer, much to my credit, that if it continued to hurt we could go to the ER (I didn't know at the time that there was a "basic care" room, or I would have surely suggested that.)

So the next day came and Tammy's arm still hurt. She decided it had to be looked at, and we ended up at the hospital.

Which reminds me: I loathe hospitals.

Have you ever stopped to think about your typical hospital? The entire concept is horrible, EXCEPT for the part where they give you morphine. Outside of that I'm not really sold on the idea. It's a large gathering of sick, diseased, limbless, liverless people who are (rightfully) miserable. The physical buildings are generally run-down, worn out, pockmarked, bruised and beaten. They are colorless, feel (forgive the pun) lifeless, sanitized of anything approaching happiness or joy. The staff are overworked, under appreciated and shell-shocked, and no one even remotely resembles Meredith or Derek.

I'd like to think we could come up with a better solution than the typical hospital. l have some suggestions, but oddly enough no one will return my phone calls. First, and most obviously, all of the staff should be given complimentary Warm Vanilla Sugar shower gel because what else would you want your nurse or doctor to smell like? All of the rooms should have HD TVs playing the greatest hits from Grey's Anatomy and ER. (There's no quicker way to help you feel better than to see someone who needs a new liver, or who is actually using those reusable grocery bags.) They need to use paint colors that are found in nature, not created by taking normal colors and subjecting them to intense radiation to create new colors that don't exist anywhere except in hospitals and on the darkest recesses of Neptune. They need to have some music playing. How about some Jenga? Everyone loves Jenga.

But for some reason no one has ever gone there. At least, not effectively because I don't see hospitals being transformed across the country. How about some laughter? Some humor? Let people wait in their "basic care" rooms with a DVD collection of "Whose Line is it Anyway?"

Soon, I hope, someone will come in to administer basic care, and we will find out if Tammy has a fracture or if I will have to beat her senseless with her liver. I hope soon, but as of right now it's looking like it may be a while.

Which reminds me. I abhor hospitals.

Posted by Carl at 8:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)