Head end.

So this is the concluding chapter of the Concussion Saga, and I don't have too much more to say. Recovery was slow, a little better every day, unless I did too much one day, and then I would feel a little worse the next day. After a couple of weeks I was almost normal. I no longer was getting dizzy spells, not even walking up the stairs -- for some reason the dizziness would hit me going up or down stairs, which is the worst possible place in the house to get dizzy. I was able to resume my usual duties. I am still trying to get more rest than I used to, though, and that hasn't been easy as I've had a lot of work to catch up on.

Concussions, they say, can cause depression. I can see that. For me, I don't think it was the injury to the brain per se, but just the lack of ability to do things. The Saturday afternoon following my fall I was sitting in the house doing nothing -- I could not work in the cellar, the next stage of the Grand Reorganization Project; I could not work on the computer, nor play on it; I could not watch TV. I could not drive anywhere. I couldn't listen to music on earbuds. I couldn't even read. The dogs wanted to do things and I couldn't. I'd even napped out at that point. It's the kind of thing we fear about old age, the inability to do anything useful or pleasurable. Just sit with folded hands and be miserable.

Mostly, though, I am grateful that I didn't get hurt worse. A fellow I know told me his diminutive wife got a bad concussion when her car was hit and the airbag deployed. I met a guy at church who has to walk there because he got a severe concussion and his driver's license was medically suspended for a year. A friend of mine was in a terrible car crash years ago and suffered traumatic brain injury, the kind where you have to learn to walk and talk again, and these simple activities still require a lot of effort from him. So yes, there's always someone worse off than me, and lots of them.

But I am still plagued by minor disappointments from the whole affair. For example, if I had to get a bonk on the coconut, couldn't I have gotten a big cartoon lump to show for it?

And why not some dramatic amnesia? Not that I want to really forget anything; maybe just for a week. Then I could get a cable movie made about me. The Man Who Forgot His Sandwich (And Everything Else).

Even better, I could have temporarily gotten a new and better personality. Like when Gomez Addams got hit on the head and turned into a normal guy, horrified by his morbid family. A second hit would cure him, but with everyone in the family trying to help, John Astin probably got thumped a dozen times in that episode. A similar thing happened to Fred Flintstone, when a blow to the head made him an opera-loving sophisticate. We could use a little sophistication around this joint.

Failing that, maybe I could have started a dance craze. Don't tell me we don't have dance crazes anymore -- look at the Backpack Kid's Floss dance! In the Flintstones episode "Shinrock-a-Go-Go," Fred invents the Flintstone Frantic after a bowling ball lands on his foot. But at the end of the story he accidentally invents the Flintstone Flop when he falls on his head.

Of course, I could become a supervillain. Indeed, noted Egyptologist William Omaha McElroy became the notorious King Tut after taking a brick to the head at a peace rally.

Pharaoh-worthy sneer

Perhaps I could have become a villain themed with something I know a lot about. Syndicated Sitcom Man! Baron von Junkfood!

So that's my thoughts on this whole stupid injury, and I'm glad it's behind me. I'm being very careful out there, though, as winter still has us in its icy grip and there's more nasty weather on the way.

🏥🚑

My wife asked me during this sad affair if I thought getting older makes us feel more fragile. I said yes, but not necessarily because we're weaker or more breakable. After all, kids are generally the most likely victims of concussions. No, I said, it's that once something happens to us, we never think we're immune to it anymore. "I've never had a concussion -- therefore, I'm concussion-proof!" The same goes for car accidents, broken bones, cancer, fires, floods, burglaries, layoffs, assaults, maybe divorces; if it hasn't happened before, then maybe it can't! 

And as we get older, and things from the "can't happen" column move into the "did happen" column, we start to wonder a little more what other items in the "can't happen" column will be shuffling over.

Bonehead Fred.

The saga of Fred's Concussion continues...

When we left off yesterday it was Sunday night -- don't worry, we'll speed things up soon. My wife, having determined that, despite the medical advice of noted surgeon Hawkeye Pierce, you don't need to keep a person with a concussion awake to make sure they don't die, sent me to bed around 10:30. Everything was spinning as I crawled up the stairs and crashed onto the bed. I was hoping for all I was worth that this was just another case of vertigo, which I've had before; it lasts as little as eight hours, so I might be fine by morning.

It was not vertigo; I was not fine by morning. I was a little bit better, and I had a huge deadline Wednesday.

My wife thought it would be a good idea to see the doctor, but I couldn't bear the thought of hanging around his waiting room as I was. Our doctor is brilliant, but he is as slow as a sloth driving a dynamite truck through a molasses-coated school zone.

Go to the hospital instead? No, why do that? I was feeling better! And I was -- in that I could sit up and not throw up. So I got to work.

It was a day I would not wish to repeat. I felt terrible, dizzy, and naps did not stop the sleepiness. I alerted my dear blog readers that I had been hurt; I also sent notes to my most active clients that I would be mostly unavailable. For the big Wednesday deadline, I got an extension to Friday. And spent Monday working on that book. My wife took care of the dogs and everything else. She was an absolute angel.

I knew I was in bad shape, though, when I realized I couldn't eat. I really had no appetite at all, and if you're a regular on this site, you know that's serious. I choked down a couple of Belvita snacks to get through the day, and at night my wife made me a can of Manhattan clam chowder -- and it all might as well have been sawdust. It was the hardest can of soup I ever ate; it could hardly have been harder if I'd had to actually eat the can itself.

I agreed to go to the urgicare center in the morning.

Maybe get some
stylish bandages

I managed to shower on Tuesday, although that too was tricky. My wife drove, of course; she let me out of the car at the door while she went to park, and I checked in, feeling shaky on my pins. I tried to smile and be friendly but I wondered how long I could stand at the counter. Everyone was nice, though, and within half an hour I was being examined by a friendly young doctor who said yessirree, it was a mild concussion. Had I lost consciousness? No. Horrible headaches? A persistent 3 on the pain scale. Ringing in the ears? No. He checked my reflexes, my eyes and ears, even felt around the ol' skulleroo, and was of the opinion that I had no internal bleeding or bone breakage and would not need to have a CAT scan -- yet. If my symptoms got worse, sure. BUT: No driving for two weeks, and no screen time.

WHUH?

Screen time is basically how I make my living; very few jobs come in on paper anymore. Everything is done on my laptop. I could forego watching TV, although I was eager for the next thrilling episode of Antiques Roadshow; I could read a book instead of playing with my phone. I could even put my blog on hiatus and give up reading Lileks's site for two weeks, heartbreaking as it was. But as a freelancer, if I don't work, I don't get paid.

Well, I did work that week, some, enough to get that deadline finished (it required a LOT of screen time, BTW), but I was taking naps. All the same, there was none of that relaxation you think you'll enjoy when you feel well but are overworked ("I just want a mild cold so I can spend a couple days chillin'!"). There was a lot of guilt. If I hadn't been so absentminded, so careless, none of this would have happened. My wife had to do everything, tend the dogs, do the cooking, everything, all while working her demanding job. More than ever, she was winning the bread and keeping the wolf from the door. And I? Well, if you follow the rules, the best treatment for a concussion is to do absolutely nothing and do it in a dark room. No TV, no computer, no physical activities, no driving, no supermarkets, no cooking, no reading -- basically nothing.

Uh-oh! What will this mean? Will I die of boredom? Will I play a video game and stroke out? Will we STARVE? Tune in tomorrow for our final chapter: "Dumb Skull" or "Noggin on Heaven's Door"!

Head of the class.

First, I want to thank everyone here, on the Great Lileks's site, and via email (frederick_key AT yahoo.com for those of you still communicating the stone age way, like me) for the kind thoughts following the injury that kept me out of action for a few weeks. Spoiler alert: It was a mild concussion, and thank God it wasn't worse.

Here's what happened:

It was Super Bowl Sunday, February 3. The weather was a bit warmer than it had been, causing some ice and snow to melt. That morning I was reading an important essay, "Ten Reasons to Have a Gravel Driveway," in the book pictured above by the indefatigable Red Green. Number 8 on the list:

8) Inertness. Gravel is rock in a manageable size, so it tends to be virtually impervious to chemicals, heat or impact. So don't worry about any gasoline spills or the resultant fireball--the driveway will be fine. Same thing when you fall off your roof; even if you land on something hard, like your head, the gravel will remain unscathed.

Ha-ha, I laugh hollowly, knowing what was to come. My driveway was paved years ago, and resurfaced during another medical mess last year. A perfect blacktop surface for nighttime accumulation of black ice.

Sunday night I was out there with older dog Tralfaz. As usual, he headed toward the neighbors' yard, and I knew why -- because of the ice melt there would be a delicious mud puddle between the properties, and he enjoys a little digestif. I was standing on the grass by the walkway as I saw his fuzzy butt go in that direction, and I said, "Hey, get back--"

When people get hit on the head in comic books the sound effect is usually Wham or Thud or maybe Pow. But when my head hit the asphalt it was like a Ponk, like a bowling ball bounced off concrete, and no wonder. I have had a lot of experience falling (more about that in a moment) and can usually fall pretty well, making those lovely balletic gyrations that may not prevent the fall but A) slow the effect of gravity, B) help ensure a soft landing spot, like my tush, and C) provide plenty of entertainment for onlookers. That didn't occur this time. My foot hit the invisible patch of ice and I went down so fast I didn't know what was happening until it had happened. Suddenly I was on my back with a terrible pain in my head.

Clutching the old melon, I rolled onto my front, feeling the world lurch around me. I had no idea what happened to Tralfaz, but I thought I heard barking. As it turned out, it was another dog. At that time on a winter's evening I would expect to see no one walking around our quiet neighborhood -- only people dumb enough to own a dog, maybe. Like the guy a few doors up from us, who was standing by me saying, "You okay? You need help?"

Knocked silly as I was, in pain, on the dirty ground, head spinning, in danger of puking, embarrassed, my first thought was along the lines of This reminds me of college. My second thought was Oh my God if he falls down he'll sue. So I said something like, "Slipped on black ice! Stay on the grass!"

He was kind enough to go fetch my wife; I couldn't see anything at that point and I think the dogs may have been barking at each other. While he was ringing my doorbell my pride took over and I made the effort to get up. If you've ever read a passage in a book where someone staggers to his feet, you can picture how I looked. Wobbling, still clutching the head, the whole world spinning around me. I knew it was a concussion immediately; I'd seen athletes do this enough times on TV. But I was determined that unless I was in agony or puking uncontrollably I was not going to go to the hospital. Not on Super Bowl night. There are seven nights you don't want to go to the hospital in America, and the others are Christmas, New Year's, Thanksgiving, Halloween, July Fourth, and St. Patrick's Day. Because you don't want to be in the ER surrounded by drunks. And that's the most unfair thing about the whole business -- I hadn't been drinking! I wasn't even watching the football game! I'd been watching the freaking Puppy Bowl earlier!

My wife, bless her, answered the neighbor's call and got me and Tralfaz inside. She planted me on the sofa, where I found that as long as I promised not to budge an inch, the world would agree not to spin like a top. I remembered that this once happened to Underdog, only in his case it was caused by an alien mastermind. In mine it was caused by winter and my own non-master mind.

So that's where we'll leave this thrilling medical drama for the moment: me on the sofa, gripped by fear and nausea, wife trying to get the dogs settled, the canines worked up, sensing that something is wrong. Will I be smart enough to go to the hospital on Monday? Will the dogs learn to walk themselves on icy nights? Will I suddenly be able to play the piano? Will I DIE from my injuries? Come back Wednesday for our next episode of As the World Turns and Turns and Turns!

Music of the ice.

People who live in southern climes, as in the sunny everyday perfection of Southern California, Sicily, or Ecuador, probably think we're idiots for living in places where you have to wrap yourself up like a shipment of china to go outside and you still lose the feeling in your fingers in five minutes.

Well, maybe they are right. Say all we want about cold weather making us tougher, challenging us, but sometimes it seems pretty hard, especially around middle to late February. 

But sometimes it's a little magical. 

Icicles are always cool

🐇 tracks!

Grabbed the hedge to steady myself; was like a
fistful of frozen marbles

Chiller

Li'l ice babies swaddled in repurposed leaves

Water behaves in strange and intriguing ways when it hovers around freezing. It can even be musical. Oh, yes; we had an inch or so of snow followed by freezing rain, which left us with a musical magical shell of ice to kick down the backyard slope. Junior dog Nipper loved it. 

I'm saying all these nice things about winter today because I'm not going to have a single nice thing to say about ice, or snow, or winter for the rest of the week. We're just getting started here.

Brainwreck.

So, the doctor says no screen time for two weeks while I get over this concussion. Which, basically, is my whole career and most of my life beside it.

Too bad I'm not in politics, where brain stimulation is never an issue. Har!

I'll be back sometime next week if all goes well. Best wishes in the meanwhile, and keep the dream alive!

(No, I don't know what that means, but I got a brain injury, remember?)

Curse continues?

Looks like I didn’t get rid of that $2 bill quickly enough—fell on the ice yesterday and conked my head. Dizzy and likely concussed but otherwise unbroken. Will update.

Cursed as a $2 bill?

I was passing the ol' basket at church the other day when I saw someone had slipped a two-dollar bill. I immediately bought it with a couple of singles. I haven't had one of these in decades. 

In my college years I had a job for a while that involved handling bills, and on Fridays I would get my paycheck cashed and buy any $2 bills, silver dollars, and other odd denominations that I or the others had in the drawers from that day's take. When I went out with my friends after work I would use them to surprise bartenders. That's what I considered funny in those days.

These are still legal tender, of course; the Treasury Department says the last one was printed in 2003. The one I got was a pristine 1978 issue, Tommy Jefferson on the front, the signing of the Declaration of Independence on the back. I don't know who put it in the basket, but I suspect someone held on to it for a long time, expecting it to appreciate in value, only to discover that it's now worth $2.

So it's a nice bill and I was glad to get it. Except for, you know, THE CURSE.

I'd heard from my mom that the two was considered bad luck back in the day, and considering how things would go for me on Friday nights when I was in college, there's reason to think it was true. Snopes did a nice summary of the supposed reasons for the curse (generally not family friendly reading), and debunks them pretty well. I always figured the problem was that people would confuse them with ones and overpay, or with twenties and get gypped. Snopes tried to find the origin of the legend, but it's hard to track these things down. Anyway, it's all nonsense.

OR IS IT?

It was Thursday when I came home with the bill, and came home to find things had gone to heck. Naughty dogs, grouchy clients, a drive to Pennsylvania necessitated on Friday, and a big job due on Wednesday that suddenly looked impossible -- felt like the walls were closing in quickly. Darn you, $2 bill!

I didn't take the bill with me to Pennsylvania. It was too cold to deal with flat tires or busted axles. Saturday morning I spent it. Phew!

Actually, I realize the whole thing was silly. I'm generally not superstitious, believe it or not. And the ironic thing is, Jefferson was probably the least superstitious president in history, a Deist at best who refused to believe in the miracles of the Bible. I'm not conflating faith with superstition, but a man like T.J. would have.

Maybe that's why they put him on the bill -- to vanquish the curse! 😵

Reality show pilots.

January is over, and that means that the pilot season for sitcoms, dramas, and other scripted TV shows has come to an end. Deals are made, scripts are flying around southern California like dandelion seeds, and pretty soon programs will be ordered and cast and shot and approved and sponsored and aired. It's a grinding process, so rigorous that you can't help but wonder: How did something like Everything Sucks! or Homeboys in Outer Space survive it?

Be that as it may, I'm sure we're all looking forward to the new supposedly non-scripted reality shows that will be coming our way later this year as well. Here are a few that I've been alerted to by my spies out west.

Dr. Poop Digger (TLC) -- Fresh on the heels of Dr. Pimple Popper, TLC's breakout (har!) hit about the title dermatologist, comes a new show about a proctologist and his wacky staff, facing horrible medical issues with intestinal fortitude. Don't watch this with your TV dinner!

Wonders (VH1) -- The former music channel returns to its roots with this competition program wherein one-hit wonders compete to see who can appear as an act in an upcoming direct-to-video movie to be named later. The launch features members of Soft Cell ("Tainted Love") and Afroman ("Because I Got High") running obstacle courses and trying their hand at stand-up comedy.

Will It Eat? (Animal Planet) -- Rhett and Link, the hosts of the Web series Good Mythical Morning, go around finding animals that can swallow you whole. Educational and tasty!

Yurtin' for Certain (HGTV) -- The "tiny house" fad may be fading... so bring on the yurts! Brothers Serikbek and Phil Beibitzhani build custom yurts for eager Millennials who want to hang a “round” the house.

Punch Bobby Flay Repeatedly in the Head (Food Network) -- The channel's Beat Bobby Flay has been a hit, but many Food Network watchers think Bobby's stupid smug face needs more direct action. Hosts Debra Ponzek, Kate Connelly, and Stephanie March will try to help competing chefs inflict physical damage on their stuck-up preppy ex-husband. (Reportedly this was a step down from the original series idea, Flay Bobby Flay.)

White People Suck! (ESPN) -- ESPN tries to right the sinking ship by devoting an entire hour a day to a show about how white people ruin everything. Risky move for the sports channel; will it be a home run or a fumble?

The Mother-in-Law (ABC) -- Had enough of The Bachelor? Meet his mom! On The Mother-in-Law, hot babes will compete to get the approval of the eligible bachelor's mother -- and she's no pushover.

Trump and His Supporters Suck! (Comedy Central) -- In keeping with the net's traditional hatred of great swaths of America, the hosts prove that Love Trumps Hate by explaining why they hate all those hating haters who won't vote the way they're told.

Kid Brother (CBS) -- It's CBS's long-running hit Big Brother... but with kids! Small children completely unattended by adults, in a camera-filled house with toys and sugar. Lord of the Flies meets Romper Room!

Mythsploders (Science) -- Former Mythbusters star Jamie Hyneman returns to the small screen to blow up things he did not get to blow up in the original series. Episodes focus on such unexploded items as: 1,000 cans of ham, the world's largest propane tank, viewers' hated appliances, Detroit.

Loving Neanderthal (History) -- Historical commentary and recreations of hawt & sexy Neanderthal action with Homo sapiens 50,000 years ago. Cave man? More like rave man!

Aw, that's just a fish story.