Busy busy busy.

It's been a busy time here at the ol' ranch, the ranch that is actually a Cape Cod style, the ranch that we can't sell at anything close to the original asking price.

There are reasons for that, some our fault, some the fault of others, and some that are part of the complex situation of our town. 

Regardless, I have been under the gun to try to rake in as much dough as I can with my freelance work. So...

Sandra Boynton channeling Gilbert & Sullivan via Kevin Kline -- a highly unexpected but successful combination. 

I was kvetching to a friend that selling the house is the most stressful thing I've ever done in my life -- not the saddest, not the hardest, but the most stressful. She thought that moving out of her house rather than selling it was more stressful, but she also noted that she sold her place in less than a week. I kicked her in the pants and said FINE. No, I didn't, but I want to kick someone. I'm looking for suitable subjects for kicking, if you know any. 

As if I was unaware of how stressful this is, I found myself suddenly suffering from periodic and severe pain on my right jaw. It encompassed the upper and lower teeth and the entire region around it, and was some of the most awful pain I've ever felt--and I've been hospitalized with back pain, had stitches, had a concussion, and had a tooth out, so I know a little bit about pain. This stuff was Advil AND Tylenol level, and even then I would have to just wait out the sieges. It was like having a charley horse on my face. 

I figured I had managed to give myself a nice dose of temporomandibular distress, probably from clenching unawares and also in my sleep. So rather than my dentist, I went to the ENT. My old ear doc has retired, so I went to a new one covered by my insurance, a fast-talking Chinese-born doctor with a heavy accent. It almost seems like a cruel joke to have an ear doctor who speaks quickly and with a strong accent, but there we are. 

The doctor confirmed my self-diagnosis, though, taking pains to make me understand what I can do, which isn't much. He did give me a very light prescription for a muscle relaxant to take once a day. It seems to have helped. I've also made a conscious decision to try to stop myself from clenching the ol' jaw during the day, with mixed success. Nevertheless, the facial agony has moved off, at least for now. 

If you've stuck with this entry all the way to the bottom, I thank you for your kindness, and please share your own agonizing adventures with facial pain, or moving, or stress, or anything else in the comments, so I can return the sympathy. Life is stressful, as we know, and we're all in this together. 

Rock of ages.

You know, you don't have to hit Social Security age to realize you just don't bounce back the way you used to. A couple of weeks ago I was putting down some nice store-bought rocks around the front-yard bushes to make the place look nicer, hoping to entire a buyer for the house. I had already distributed mulch and dug up weeds, and so far all was well. 

Then the irony. 

Because while it's called egg rock, it was I that broke.

Well, not broken eggactly (har!). I lifted properly, showed good form, but then I turned in a funny way, and my body took a funny turn. It was one of those muscle pulls that you feel as it happens, and it happens that I felt it. 

It didn't seem that bad at first, but it was pretty painful. When I was a strapping young lad (well, not that strapping) I could bounce back in a couple of days from this kind of thing. But it took me most of a week to stop groaning every time I bent over or stood up. Worse, my ability to twist to the right was severely impacted -- there, the pain was so bad it was almost impossible to force myself to do it. You never know how often you make a particular motion until it hurts every time you do it. 

I'm glad to have recovered now, and the place does look a bit better with the new rocks. 

All this got me thinking about getting older, and thus about an elderly friend of mine who retired to The Villages in Florida. If you are not familiar with that particular patch of real estate, it is a community for people 55 and up about 20 miles south of Ocala, Florida. In the year 2000 it had about eight thousand people, but now almost EIGHTY THOUSAND people live there. 

My friend tells me that on Friday nights the widow women still doll themselves up and go to the bars (people get around by trolley and golf cart, I hear). A couple of years ago the place was labeled "The STD Capital of America," although that turned out to be a myth. However, I'm willing to bet there's a lot of shenanigans afoot all the same. It may be a foot that needs podiatric care, but afoot all the same. 

My question is: Why is there no reality show about The Villages? It's a natural! And it would appeal to the people who still use cable for most of their TV watching -- that is, the 55+ folks. 

I think it would be huge. People would get caught up in the drama. Who's sleeping with whom? Whose kids are visiting and likely to cause trouble? Which guys are doing drunk wheelchair races in the middle of the night? Which black widow is looking to land a rich dude with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel? 

It'd be a regular Polident Place. The Old and the Restless. Medicare Hospital. All My Great Grandchildren. Dwindling Days of Our Lives. Insert your own jokes in the comments. 

I can only assume that the governing body of the tri-county Villages frowns on such coverage. Well, more's the pity. Not that I'd watch the show -- at least, not until I'm riding a wheelchair myself. Which, if I keep fooling around with these sacks of rocks, could happen sooner than I think. 

Off to a bad start.

 

So today started off with a bang. Walking dog Izzy in the dark, thanks so Daylight &@#^* Savings Time. It's recycling day, but unlike our late party dog Nipper, Izzy is not terrified of trash cans. Or at least he wasn't until this morning. 

This morning he decided to dash to the curb and go around the large garbage can someone had left on the sidewalk. That unfortunately put the can between him and me, and when he closed the loop he knocked over the can, sending recyclables everywhere -- mostly plastic bottles but plenty of aluminum cans. This made what is known as a Loud Noise, which startled Izzy, who decided to put a couple of miles between himself and the source of the noise. I, caught by surprise, still had the leash in my hand, which suffered a small laceration between the ring finger and the pinky as the slack zipped through. It was too dark to see how much blood was unleashed (ha) but there was some. 

After restoring order, putting all the stuff back in the garbage can, we returned home -- of course, all this happened at the point of the circle farthest from our house. But we made it, and the injury was not too bad. However, it was a perfect way to start a very busy day, and I mean that dripping with as much sarcasm as I can muster. 

Help me, Obi Mr. Coffee! You're my only hope! 

Meme streets.

Have to get out of the house early today, so I spring-loaded these memes to pop out at you when you opened the page. Enjoy your Saturday! 

The one was making the rounds thanks to Elon Musk--story of my career

The old standby (post-Christmas edittion).

Merrrry second day of Christmas! Well, yesterday was festive, or certainly busy, so I'm falling back on that old standby, the post-Christmas meme! What can I tell ya -- it was that or stories about everything I ate, and I'd bore myself. (Plus -- this is stupid but true -- I managed to burn the tips of my index and middle fingers on my right hand, so it hurts to type today. And I sprained the ring finger on the same hand bending it back on a drawer. And then Izzy yanked the leash so hard -- excited to get a treat -- that I stumbled on the walkway edging and skinned my knee. All very holly jolly.)

Today's craziest thing ever.

Today's lunacy comes from the World of Science, another institution hopelessly corrupted by greed, ambition, and political correctness. I encountered these examples on a research project about headaches.

Let us start with the Global Healthy Living Foundation (bold in quoted material added):

Recently, it has been suggested that the word race should not be listed among risk factors for disease. Instead, it is suggested to state the effects of racism as the reason why a disease is more common, more severe, or less well treated in people from underserved populations.

All right, so there we have it. There is no reason that one group should suffer from any disease more than another; the only difference is the effects of racism. Note that we don't know who has suggested that; it's just out there, like the breeze, like radio waves. 

Taken at face value, what does this mean? Well, for one example, how about all those studies that noticed the preponderance of breast cancer in women of Ashkenazi Jewish descent, studies that pointed the way to the discovery of a mutation on the BRCA genes 1 and 2 that made many of these women more likely to suffer from this form of cancer. Did that teach us anything? No, the only reason that these women were more likely to have cancer was because of the effects of racism. 

See how easy it is to say something that sounds good and throw away a century of genuine scientific research?

The unequitable scientist,
plotting how to exclude others

But Jewish people are of the white race, not the Jewish race, I hear a voice in the balcony say. Well, that depends who's making the assessment, doesn't it? College administrators say Jews are white, I guess, and Hitler said they weren't, and in both cases it was anti-Semitic. 

Let's look at a study in Neurology, the esteemed journal of the American Academy of Neurology. What do we learn here?

Whereas races are not inherent biological categories, race is a social construct that as a vehicle for systemic racism has profound health effects. Throughout the literature, it is apparent that race plays a role in the appropriate diagnosis and treatment of headache disorders. Although recent population studies have found the prevalence of severe headache and migraine is roughly equal among White (15.5%), African American (15.0%), and Hispanic (14.9%) groups in the United States,6 differences exist in diagnosis, treatments, and outcomes.

So now we learn that there really is no such thing as race at all; it's just a social construct invented to keep people down. And yet then we have data for people of difference races, to prove that some are treated differently than others. It's easy to get the feeling that the word race is magic, that it can be dismissed when convenient and raised again when useful. When bad people see race, it's not real; when good people see race, it's crucial. Even in the same paragraph. They want to have their pain and eat from it, too.

Now let's see what the National Migraine and Headache Awareness Month people have to tell us about this topic. (That month is celebrated in June, by the way; mark your calendars.)

About one in six African Americans in the United States are diagnosed with migraine disease and one in five is diagnosed with tension-type headache. Studies on race-related gaps and possible health care inequalities in people with headache disorders are virtually non-existent. Understanding potential race-related disparities in headache patients may inform the development of culturally contextualized healthcare policies and interventions that are more likely to reduce or eradicate race-related headaches altogether (Bernadette Davantes Heckman and Ashley Joi Britton 2015).

Prior research suggests that if a patient is black, his pain is likely to be underestimated and under-treated compared to a white patient.

So now it looks like race is back on the menu, because people have race-related headaches and are treated differently by hospitals and doctors because of their race. In fact, an outfit called CtrlM Health would like us to know that

A growing body of research shows that migraine in Black people is more frequent, severe, and likely to be chronic and associated with more depression compared to white People.

Yet, among Black people with headache and migraine, inaccurate diagnoses are more common. 

BUT WAIT! Race is just a social construct, so how can you possibly say that black people have migraines more often than white people? You can only say that racism causes a difference in their care. 

Look, I personally think WAY too much is made about race. It's part of our individual human makeup and experiences, but as a Catholic, I think we're all made in God's image and we're all made by Him with love, and we should be happy about it, not fight about it. 

Medically, though, racial background and social background can provide a lot of clues about the origins of disease. Arguing about whether race is a real thing or not is almost beside the point; we would like to know if disease is caused by genes, caused by behavior, or caused by genes and triggered by environment, or the like. Thus, there are statistical uses in studying groups by similarities in DNA. And if you don't want to call it race, call it something less explosive. We're just stirring up trouble where it isn't necessary.

As for racism, sure, that's a problem in the human condition and always will be. The more tribal we act, the worse it is, and political correctness is nothing if not tribal, dividing us by income, race, sex, sexual preference, religion, experience, nation, history, you name it. 

However, there is one notable reason that I can guarantee has a lot to do with why white people get better healthcare in America despite the ferocious drive for "equity," a reason that cannot be conquered by all the goodwill in the world. Allow me to quote the uber-leftist Kaiser Family Foundation:

As of 2020, Medicaid covers about three in ten Black, American Indian and Alaska Native (AIAN), and Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander (NHOPI) nonelderly adults and more than two in ten of Hispanic nonelderly adults, compared to 17% of their White counterparts. 

Government healthcare sucks. And that's true whether you're red, white, blue, black, polka-dotted, or striped. The more of it you have to rely on, the worse your overall experience with healthcare is going to be. By the numbers, most Medicaid patients are white, but not by the percentage of the groups, and that's what matters to the equity hustlers.

On a related topic, about twenty years ago or so people were going bananas because researchers noted that men were usually the subject of cardiac health studies, and this made women's experience (especially symptoms of coronary distress) invisible, leading to misdiagnosis and death. They pointed out that heart disease is the #1 killer of American women, same as American men, but claimed that women who relied on the usual advice about heart attack symptoms were dying more often. So in 2004 the American Heart Association launched the Go Red for Women movement. 

Pardon my cynicism, but I also think the AHA and others were tired of the breast cancer people getting all the attention -- that is to say, money. "Hey! We're still #1! Show us some love! And money!" 

The point is, people still want to argue that women face health disparities, but when you put them on the spot they won't even tell you what a woman is. Not even Supreme Court nominees. They know the mob is waiting to pounce, and they're -- what's the word? -- chickenshit. And liars. Don't forget liars. 

Anyway, I literally have a headache now after writing all this. So, my research is complete.

That rings a bell.

I think I mentioned before that we have a mission to get baby Izzy the pooch to stop biting when he has to go out and start alerting us by other means. Tralfaz would whine; Nipper would walk to the front door and back, which was very civilized. Izzy just can't seem to understand that biting is unpleasant, and also nonspecific -- he bites because he's hungry, bored, or overtired, so he needs more tools in that toolbox. As the lone dog now, Izzy can't just piggyback on another dog's trip out -- he has to signal his own. 

So, we're back to the bells. 

Potty Bells from Caldwell's Pet Supply are an inexpensive way to get the dog to alert his owners. Simply train the dog to nudge them when he wants out -- the jingle bells on a tough nylon leash hang right on the doorknob -- and give him high praise for signaling properly. Everybody wins.

So far, Izzy has shown little interest in learning. Like a Vogon guard who would rather just go on shouting, he'd rather go on biting. 

Actually I blame myself. It takes patience and time to train the dog on such a weird action, and I have precious little patience or time. Yet I'm the guy who usually takes Izzy out, so it's up to me to train him. 

Yesterday I had a lot of work to push through, but was awakened in the night by the sharp pain of an ingrown toenail. I'd been to the pootie doc the week before and he sliced that sucker off, but I don't think he did a thorough job, because I woke up feeling like a had a knitting needle shot through the end of the toe. (The doc is out for the Jewish holidays and not available now until the 19th, btw.) I couldn't walk Izzy -- and since the remains of Hurricane Ian were making the day a rainy mess anyway, I didn't want us to be outside. So it was a lousy day for training anything.

Well, thanks for letting me get that off my chest. These problems are pretty minor, and I'm hoping a good foot soak before bed will help this stupid toe so we can get back in the training groove tomorrow. This dog has got to stop thinking it's okay to chomp people. Even Nipper had stopped doing that at this age, and I called him Nipper because of all the chomping! 

Heath-22.

I went to the doctor's office yesterday to discuss the results of my MRI. My appointment was at 11, and true to form, I had to nap for an hour after getting up so I could make the trip because the drug I take to prevent neuropathic pain from spinal stenosis makes me drowsy. 

It's a forty-minute drive from here, but the guy is one gnarly pain specialist and very good.

As it turned out, I didn't see him, but another doctor in the office. Neither of them look at all like this guy.

So, the test results: Severe stenosis. Nothing had changed in almost three years. I don't know why it would, but it was worth a look. Soooo.... what now?

As I discussed it with the doctor, we seemed to be going round and round in circles, and I didn't know why. I couldn't seem to get us past the idea that my pain was currently manageable but my life was not. She mentioned that there were other options up to and including surgery, but if my pain was manageable then we needn't do them at this time. So, I left. The whole appointment took ten minutes. 

I realized as I went home that I am caught in a classic catch-22 here. Because my pain is manageable on the drug (duloxetine), the doctor is not inclined (and no doubt my insurance company is very disinclined) to make any changes. If I go off the drug, my pain may become unmanageable, and then we may have to opt for something else. I do not want unmanageable pain; the memory of being helpless in agony on the floor will stay with me for life. But if I do not get off the drug, there's no way to know if my pain is unmanageable now. So we must stick with the drug that is making my life unmanageable. 

I came home, did some work, had some lunch, and slept for two hours. 

Now I don't know what to do. This is all a little depressing. Ironically, duloxetine is supposed to be an antidepressant that just happens to help with nerve pain, but it has done nothing for depressed mood for me. Maybe because being sleepy so much of the time is discouraging. 

Oh, well. At least when I can function, I can function, if you know what I mean. And if you do, please explain it to me.

Back in the tube.

Long-suffering readers may recall that back in February 2020 I had a spinal issue that put me in the hospital for a couple of nights. At that time the Chinese Death Virus was just a rumor for the most part, but a month later we were all wearing masks and gloves and desperate for toilet paper. 

What with COVID and all, I didn't go to see the pain specialist in person again until last month, for a follow-up. I wanted to know if he thought it would be safe for me to get off the medication I was on for nerve pain, the antidepressant Cymbalta (duloxetine), which seemed to be useless for my mood but great on nerve pain. Also great on making me have to nap. I don't think I've made it through more than five days without a nap since he put me on it. But, if you recall the harrowing details of my hospital trip, you can understand why I've been scared to stop taking it. 

He suggested I get an MRI and see what my lower back looked like now. 

So Saturday morning, I was back in the tube. 

This time it was at a local radiological clinic rather than a hospital, and the staff was great. I wondered if I would feel once again like I was being buried alive, but I guess I'm getting to be an old hand at this. I got no music, no peephole to the outside world, but I just closed my eyes and lay still as the tech moved me into the machine, and stayed like that for the next twenty minutes. Of course my ear started to itch as soon as I was inside. With nothing else to do, I started praying, and my first prayer was Lord, please stop this ear from itching. And it did, soon enough. 

Some people find the noises scary in the MRI, but I almost found them soothing. The vibrations felt nice on my back. I almost fell asleep. Then again, I'm currently a napaholic, and I've also had a long history of falling asleep in the dentist's chair during procedures. 

I thanked the tech when it was over and went about my day. I'll be seeing the doc on Thursday for the results, and I hope maybe he can give me a jab with the steroid needle and take me off the pills. I love to sleep as much as anyone, but this daily one-to-two-nap schedule is cramping my lifestyle. 

It's not an active lifestyle -- closer to inert -- but it could be much better. Wish me luck!

Pear-shaped.

No, the title above does not refer to my waistline, but my weekend. 

Margaret Thatcher brought the expression "go pear-shaped," as in to fail, to Americans when she used it in a meeting with President Reagan. According to the IELTS site, the origin of the phrase is uncertain. One story "goes back to 1940s when RAF pilots used to get frustrated in case their endeavour to create a phenomenal aerial route went pear shaped instead of perfectly circular. Another story is related to WWI when observational balloons wouldn’t get inflated as designed but go pear-shaped."

Non-optimal, unless you are
an actual pear

What happened was, my wife threw her back out (another odd expression) in a knitting injury. That is, she bent over to pick up her knitting bag and got a stab of terrible pain. I had to stay home all day Saturday, as there was no way she could handle Thing 1 and Thing 2 without me. She was much better Sunday, and better still today. But that shoved all my usual running around town to Sunday, and so I never had a chance to prepare anything for the site today. 

But fear not! Today we're all orange-shaped and back in business. I hope to see you all here tomorrow. 

The Pickleball Menace.

I'm not old enough, and perhaps young enough either, to play pickleball, but the intrepid New York Post makes me wary of the sport. "Pickleball Mania Leading to an Epidemic of Injuries Among Baby Boomers," reports the newspaper. Just looking at this ferocious action shot exposes the menace.

The Post reports, "Pickleball has been billed as a more accessible and a less intense tennis alternative, but experts say the popular pastime is still leading to a rash of injuries amongst the senior set. 'Obsessed' retirees are playing several hours per day, leading to overuse injuries. The older demo is also more likely to have weak bones, putting them at a greater risk for fractures."

The people profiled are not very old; we're not talking nonagenarians here. More like early sixties. Yet somehow, despite being able-bodied, they spend hours playing pickleball instead of working honest jobs. And they don't stretch enough, or take a break when they're hurt. It's just pickleball, morning, night, and noon.

It makes me wonder what other activities are causing overuse injuries in these crazy retirement villages. Is shuffleboard elbow a serious problem? Maybe mall-walking tendonitis? Croquet knee? Horseshoes carpal tunnel? Quoits wrist? I don't even want to ask what problems cornhole might be causing. 

I know a lot of doctors may be harrumphing at me; I can almost hear them through the computer. "Harrumph," they say, "a little overuse injury is nothing compared to the diseases of overweight and inactivity. Do you know that 80 percent of Americans don't get enough exercise, Fred? Well, do you, punk?" 

Well, I counter, do you doctors know that fully a third of Americans don't get enough sleep? Which problem is easier to fix? Mightn't a well-rested person be more likely to engage in exercise, and do it properly, with good stretching and other injury-prevention measures?

What I'm saying is -- avoid the pickleball menace and take a nap. That's what I intend to do, anyway. Maybe right now. 

😴

Updates and downdates.

Today I have some brief updates to items we've posted on this blog. In a way it's that old standby of the newspaper columnist, the Brief Observations, but in another way, it's not -- it's partly a Return to the Well. But some things do need updates, especially when an apology is in order. Thus we start with:

1) Apology to Chinese hand sanitizer

Last month I trashed a bottle of hand sanitizer I bought at Target, the "Scentfull" Winter Wonderland stuff. I thought it smelled like "some cheap 70's cologne with Tabasco mixed in". Well, as time went on and I was obliged to use it to fend off Chinese Death Virus, I came to appreciate its balsam scent. It actually does smell like a pine tree -- an artificial version of a pine tree from some weird planet that's like Earth but not exactly the same, but a pine tree nonetheless. So I don't hate it anymore. Sorry, hand sanitizer from China. But I still hate the government under which you were made. Anyway, speaking of health:

2) FitBit

I'm having much better luck with the FitBit I got for Christmas, the one that gave me a nasty rash on my wrist. I tried it again when the rash cleared up, only I wore it a lot looser and switched arms at night for sleep monitoring. This way I didn't have plastic tight on my wrist all day long. So I have been rash-free for the last couple of weeks. At first the thrill of getting 10,000 steps a day was a good motivator to keep moving, but then it started to wane, and now the software itself doesn't make a big deal about 10K steps. Seriously, I was getting fireworks on the little screen and everything. Now I'm mainly wearing it as a watch and to find out how poorly I slept last night. Maybe it will help with fitness in the long run. Except for...

3) Pork rinds

My wife was a pork-rind fan in college, because smoking and drinking were not unhealthy enough on their own (just kidding, honey!) (not really!). But I had never tried them. I remembered they were supposedly a guilty pleasure of George H.W. Bush, but I knew little else. Well, the delightful Mrs. K got me to try them, and I thought they were great -- the consistency of shrimp chips with a great bacon flavor. Just what I needed -- to like another snack with 90 calories in a half-ounce serving, along with 2g saturated fat and 12% of my daily sodium. Why can't I ever get that excited about a vegetable? Especially since all this lard can lead to...

4) Back pain

Had a scare this week following something that happened last week. I was taking down some Christmas stuff (believe me, it's still not all put away) when I decided, as we manly men will, to reach over a wing back chair to get a stocking hung at the top of the window rather than pick my way around the chair to get it. At that moment I felt something pull in a muscle on my left side. More than a week later the Back Revenge set in (a.k.a. Pay BACK Time), and I woke up feeling like I'd been questioned by the Inquisition. Well, I didn't expect that! Fortunately it seems to be fading, but for a day there I thought I was going to have to crawl back to the hospital, after I finally finished paying that little vacation off. Of course, I might wind up there anyway for frostbite, because it is:

5) Freezing cold

Ten degrees and breezy this morning; with windchill, -7. As I write it is colder here than in Anchorage, Oslo, Moscow, Helsinki, or Reykjavik. Which means it is time to take out... the Porta-Igloo, the Huge Lands' End Coat That Walks Like a Man.

I've had this thing for at least eighteen years and it hardly shows any wear. Why? Because it's so warm and well-insulated that I only wear it maybe three or four days a year. Today is one of those days. When I would commute to the city it was a major help, but I was always nervous about wearing a light-colored coat on the subway. Still, it was a matter of survival. And it never got all messed up. I think people believed I was the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man and kept their distance. 

Off I go with the crazy dogs! Keep warm and Chinese-virus-free, my friends!

Christmas +1.

Whew.

So, Chinese Death Virus Christmas was okay. Santa was very good to me. I got some AirPods for the iPhone, a Batman T-shirt (not that I'm in danger of being confused with Batman), a FitBit, and some Black Rifle coffee, among other awesome things. 

All the same, it was weird. Mass was attended online. And it was sort of an anti-white Christmas, by which I don't mean there was a BLM rally outside the house. The temperature got up to almost 60, and the rain was heavy enough to cause flood warnings, so all the snow we had last week is completely gone. Even the mound at the end of the driveway, which had been more than three feet high, vanished within 24 hours. The ground got all muddy and squishy. 

It was also one of the most windy days I can recall here, and we've had a couple of hurricanes come by since we moved to suburbia. The roof I spent a fortune on this summer shed shingles like my dogs shed hair, leading me to spend Christmas morning cursing like a truck driver as I picked them up off the lawn. Up the street, a guy who put up a big PVC privacy fence at the corner saw it blown to bits, which was 100% predictable given our weather history; a cheap and lightweight fence with no windbreak and no means to allow airflow was going to get it. It just happened sooner than I expected. Meanwhile, so many reindeer cutouts on various lawns got flattened and jumbled that it looked like Santa's air traffic control had suffered a catastrophic screwup. 

In other news, while using the mandoline on some vegetables for Christmas dinner I managed to slice off a tiny bit of my right index finger, just about the time I was thinking how careful I was being. The Bible wins again. Bled like crazy and hurt like heck. So now I have to type without my right index finger, and have discovered that it pretty much does all the heavy lifting when I type. This entry is taking twice as long to write as it normally would. 

All the same, it was a lovely day, and a fitting end to the strange Advent of a strange year. Today it's two turtle doves and off toward the new year we go!

Hugs not drugs.

 Yesterday, according to the fine folks at National Day Calendar, was National Hug Your Hound Day. 

On the second Sunday in September, National Hug Your Hound Day dedicates a furry hug to our canine companions. All day long, be sure to give your pooch your full attention. Even spend the day much the way your dog spends it.

The idea of Hug Your Hound Day is about observing your dog (from his point of view). That means, explore your dog’s world from his perspective. Investigate his environment and habits. You may discover some hazards as you roam around the house or yard. For example, you might find broken chew toys that have become choking risks. Perhaps your fur baby leads you to realize he has access to toxic chemicals.

Look for items or places that put your forever friend in danger. Place childproof locks on cabinets. Discard or repair any broken items. Our yards can be surprisingly risky, too. Check for toxic plants or holes in the fencing. 

Not only will your pup enjoy the companionship, but he will also be safer for all your exploring, too.

They go on to say that "Ami Moore, author and canine behaviorist, created National Hug Your Hound Day. Her desire is to make America more pup-friendly, as it is in Europe."

Well, you know I love the puppies, and I'm a fan of things that make their lives safer. However, there are some issues about this day that need to be addressed, because I am a noodge and can never be happy.

1) There is also a National Hug Your Dog Day, which the competing National Today people say takes place every April 10. Curiously, it is not on the National Day page. National Today gives no origin for this holiday, but I think they may have seized pride of place. After all, "dog" is a more inclusive noun than "hound," hound referring especially to "a dog of any of numerous hunting breeds including both scent hounds (such as the bloodhound and beagle) and sight hounds (such as the greyhound and Afghan hound)" according to Webster. National Today does not list Hug Your Hound Day. I think there's gonna be a rumble between National Day and National Today at some point.

2) Most dogs don't like hugs. They will put up with it because they love us, but according to at least one canine behaviorist, they show signs of not liking it. Animals just don't understand hugs. It's an aggressive and dangerous move, and to smaller prey pets like rabbits, it could mean they are what's for dinner. Dogs like their freedom of movement. Some may take to hugs better than others, but that may be older or smarter dogs that have caught on that it is us showing affection and it means no harm. It's hard to fight instincts.

3) If your dog is large, as mine are, and independent-minded, as mine are (especially larger dog Tralfaz), there may be repercussions to hugs if you catch them at the wrong time. 

And I dare to wonder how my back got to be such a mess.

Ultimately I did not spend yesterday hugging the dogs, but they were allowed to do as they pleased and run roughshod over the rules. So, pretty much like every day.

I know the feeling.

PITA.

Naughty language alert, I guess.

The other day I was expected at an appointment in a nearby town, and as soon as I left the house it looked like I was going to be late. The problem was that our town is still recovering from the effects of Tuesday's tropical storm, so it seemed like every way I pointed the car, I wound up facing a road that had been closed.

I hate to be late.

As I tooled around, a spark of inspiration struck, and I began to sing this song. I figure it as a jazzy little number, but it would work well with early rock or country too.

"Everything Is a Pain in the Ass"

by Frederick Key

Who Knows All About It

Everything is a pain in the ass
Every little thing is a pain in the ass
Ol' Daddy used to say as he signaled to pass
"Everything is a pain in the ass"

Car won't start 'cause the battery is dead
Now you're late so you take the bus instead
Waiting at the stop and it starts to rain
You know what it is and where's the pain

Everything is a pain in the ass
Every single thing is a pain in the ass
The story of our lives on this side of the grass
Everything is a pain in the ass

You get to work late and the boss isn't glad
The coffee cup leaks and you start to feel mad
Everybody dumps all their projects on you
You want to explode, but what can you do?

Everything is a pain in the ass
Every blessed thing is a pain in the ass
The teacher used to say as she turned to face the class
"Every one of you is a pain in the ass"

[spoken] All right, everybody, put your hands together! Keep the beat! Try not to suck at it, people! And now tell me what you think of these!

The guy who lives next door?
[crowd] He's a pain in the ass!
The checkout at the store?
It's a pain in the ass!
The boss on the job?
He's a pain in the ass!
Your daughter's boyfriend slob?
What a pain in the ass!
The traffic on the street?
It's a pain in the ass!
The bunion on your feet?
Sorta pain in the ass!
The bill that's in your mail?
What a pain in the ass!
The numbers on your scale?
Such a pain in the ass!

That's right!
Everything is a pain in the ass
Every bleeding thing is a pain in the ass
Nothing really works and it's all broken glass
Everything is a pain in the ass!

I think it's a peppy little song, a tune for our times. I'm pretty sure I've stolen the melody that was in my mind; when I was a dopey teen and tried to write songs I inevitably did that, to my chagrin. I have no knack for music. But such awesome lyrics!

I'll have more to say on this topic tomorrow, regarding the spiritual component of krexing and moaning. Doesn't that sound enticing? Or is it just a you-know-what?

That's gonna leave a mark.

Every once in a while my wife gets hooked on a show that sucks me in as well. Last fall it was Mysteries at the Museum. More recently it is Untold Stories of the ER.

This show's been running a long time -- it debuted on TLC in 2004 -- and reruns have been on a couple of nights a week on Discovery Life. Untold Stories features reenactments of bizarre cases or situations in emergency medicine, with comments by the actual doctors, nurses, and often patients and others involved in the story. Sometimes the real people play themselves in the reenactments. So, the acting is not always top-notch. But the stories are always compelling. Often astounding.

For example, in just a few weeks of watching I've seen people with heads and necks impaled by giant metal hooks, fence posts, and poles, and one poor guy who fell off his roof and was impaled groin-first on a shovel. There was a fellow with a stiletto heel jammed in his chest. Someone with no fellow feeling might find these things hilarious, like Hell's own America's Funniest Home Videos, but I'm too busy squirming in my chair. The money saved on professional actors and complicated sets is used for realistic bloody reenactments. (The word "dramatization" is often posted on the screen so you know it's fake gore, but it looks real enough to me.)

There's usually a mystery element to the show, like "What's making this dude so sick?" or "Where can we find enough rattlesnake antivenin?" or "How are we gonna get this fence post out of this guy?" And I don't believe I've seen a complete fail yet, where the patient died, although they often don't come through unscathed. It's an impressive element to the show that they often get the real patients, sometimes with limbs or senses lost, come on to tell a bit from their end. The medical professionals relating their stories sometimes paint themselves the noble heroes, the lone voice of reason, but not often. You learn a good deal about what goes on from the other side of the curtain in the emergency room.

Maybe it's of extra interest to me since I had to spend time in the ER last February. Although the show demonstrates how emergencies can pile up and cause longer distress for patients who aren't in immediate danger, it doesn't really tell me why I had to wait so long for pain meds that my wife was about to try to score some heroin for me. However, I am a little more sensitive to the situation of healthcare providers in ERs (or EDs -- emergency departments, as they are more typically known). There's a fine line between crisis and chaos.

I certainly think all medical interns and students who haven't seen this show should check it out. It's a good example of how life is always trying to throw curve balls and change-ups at you, no matter how well prepared you think you are from school.

Back to the present.

Correspondent and non-commenter Mr. Philbin wonders how my back is doing. This may come from the goodness of his heart, or indeed it may come from his desire to inherit my vast collection of Precious Moments figurines upon my passing. As I have drawn up no will, at this time no non-family member can expect to get anything. Sorry, Philbin old boy.

As for the question, though, regular readers of this site (you handsome devils, you) will recall that last February some spinal issues landed me in the hospital in absolute agony. I haven't mentioned  much about my medical progress since, only my financial progress, as bill after bill keeps coming in from my two-night stay. Just FYI: Business Insider says the most expensive hotel in Manhattan is the Central Park Ritz-Carlton, whose rooms start at $4,000 less per night than my hospital bed (not including doctors or treatments or drugs or tests, which are billed separately).

Anyhoo, what about the back itself? When I left the hospital, in grave fear of a relapse, I could not walk more than a hundred feet without shooting pain in my back and/or my leg. Follow-up care with a pain specialist and another spinal injection barely made it scarcely better at all. I was forced to order groceries for pickup and abandon walking the dogs. I wondered if this was going to be as good as I would get for the rest of my life.

The problem is
in here somewhere.

By the time I was due for a follow-up to the follow-up, my pain doc was doing virtual appointments because of the Wuhan Death Virus. I figured he would suggest trying more shots, or maybe go straight to surgery, but to my surprise he recommended... an antidepressant.

What the hey...?

Yep, duloxetine (known as Cymbalta to its friends) is an SNRI drug that for some reason treats chronic musculoskeletal pain (also diabetic peripheral neuropathic pain). I have taken antidepressants in the past, for (duh) depression, and was not eager to go back on one. But I was sick of debilitating pain and was willing to try almost anything.

And what do you know: It works.

I've been able to do normal supermarket runs now, and have walked the dogs for a mile or so at a time without having to stop and wait for the pain to subside. I do have some weird leg and foot cramps and the odd shot of pain, and sometimes a cold feeling in my back where the disks went flooie, but it's almost normal. I am not advised to do very strenuous things, like tossing cabers, but the fact that I'm able to do normal things without suffering is almost a miracle compared to how I felt that night I came home from the hospital.

Now, duloxetine does not actually change the situation; it doesn't put slipped disks back in place or heal bone or anything. I am mindful that the whole spine issue could come crashing down on me again. The doctor said these things can improve on their own, so I have hope. But it's definitely improved the pain situation, so thumbs-up for that.

The funny thing is, I don't think the drug has improved my mood at all. It ranges from kind of average to bleak, depending on my worried fixation on money and quarantining and things, probably like everyone else. I think it makes me drowsier, and certainly the naps have been more frequent. But we have plenty of coffee, so I'll get through.

Thanks to everyone but Mr. Philbin for the kind wishes. You're not getting my Precious Moments, pal.

The rest of the hospital story.

If you'd told me on Sunday morning, when I was in crushing pain in the ER, that I'd be relaxing in a private room watching America's finest network program on Sunday night, I might have thought that it was some weird, unattainable dream. But indeed that was the case.

The hideous pain I'd suffered didn't return, but I was terrified that it would. However, I slept and napped pretty well, for a guy who was getting an IV bag (they feared bone infection initially) and vitals checked every few hours. Ultimately on Monday they chose a course of action, and that was the epidural steroid shots commonly used in my situation. They had had to hold off until they decided bone infection was not likely, because steroids' immunosuppressant characteristics would make an infection worse. Monday afternoon I was whisked away for the job, and that was awfully painful, because I had to lay on my stomach. This stretched out the nerves, and the doctor doing the procedure said in cases like mine it could bring that pain right back. But there was no choice. However, the nurse was able to slip some fentanyl in my IV plug, which made me dizzy but eased the agony.

And that was the last painkiller I got. I had to stay over another night for observation, and then all day Tuesday while endless paperwork was processed, but I haven't had so much as an aspirin since. I don’t want to mask a return of crisis signals.

I'm grateful to the hospital for getting me some treatment. Complain as I have over the last couple of blog entries, I can't imagine what people did with these kind of issues in the past. Whiskey, I guess. What else did they have?

And every person on staff was shockingly nice. The grumpy nurse, the overworked resident, the empty-headed intern, not one of these caricatures appeared in my reckoning. They were all great.

Yes, the food was exceptionally bland, but it was prompt and generous. I thought the bed was comfy enough, considering that I had to sleep on my back for the duration. One nurse sympathized, having heard complaints from patients about the beds; another said she'd been a patient and had hated the bed. But I thought it was fine.

Seems like a comfy spot to me

And when the time came to leave, the duty nurse was organized and efficient. I was offered a wheelchair but refused. I was going to have to start walking on my own again anyway.

Now what? Well, I was told to see four different doctors, including my own GP, who is finally returning to action after being missing for months. (I suspect he was on a three-hour tour near Hawaii when the weather started getting rough.) I can't walk very far without the leg hurting, so my wife still has to tend to the dogs all by herself. 😞 And I can't lift anything heavy. There's also some question in the discharge papers as to whether I should be allowed to drive. So clearly there's a path before me to traverse back to health.

But I'll say this: On Tuesday night, when I went to bed, I was bone-terrified I would wake up again as I did on Sunday morning, in all that awful pain. Fortunately I was exhausted, because I fell asleep. In the morning I didn't feel any better -- but I didn't feel any worse. And that was all I really wanted at that moment. For a long time on Sunday, being without pain was all I thought I could ever want again in this world.

Later, that same morning....

Continuing my saga from yesterday....

The emergency department is like a fish tank where the bloopfish and beepfish communicate constantly through the medium. Something is always making an electronic noise. TV shows about hospitals would be ridiculously annoying if they accurately portrayed the ambient electronic sounds in an emergency medical setting.

I lay on my side once more, racked with pain, waiting for something to happen. With any luck it would involved lowering the pain, but so far things had only added to it -- drawing blood, checking vitals, sticking in an IV line.

Frankly, I was surprised that someone in so much obvious physical distress would be allowed to linger so long. I'm not exaggerating when I say it was hours before I was given a dose of morphine, which eased -- but didn't remove -- the intense pain in my back. I have to wonder if hospital protocols have gotten so tough on dispensing pain medication that they make the stuff exceptionally difficult to procure. I intend to ask someone about that.

Meanwhile, I was in the bed, white-knuckled, grasping the side rails like they were keeping me from falling. The pain actually kept getting worse, incrementally, as my repeated blood pressure checks confirmed objectively, and like a good Catholic I offered it up for the salvation of souls. But five hours into the ordeal, I suggested to God that I had probably saved as many souls as I could handle.

I got a lidocaine patch, which helped about as much as a smear of vanilla frosting would. But at last the nurse said he get some morphine.

The time between the nurse saying he would get me morphine and the drug's actually arrival was so long, you could probably have watched half of Cats, which might have been almost as painful. Because now it was tantalizingly just out of reach. My wife, my angel of mercy, probably would have gone out in the streets to try to score some illicit drugs is it had kept up much longer.

No man I know wants his loved ones to see him the way my wife had to see me. I was reduced to a whimpering mess. I feel ashamed about it, but I don't know how I could have behaved differently. Now I wonder if she'll always think of that when she needs me to be strong for her.

Hours passed. I listened to the usual ER chitchat. One patient and his wife being interviewed over and over by staff trying to get them to admit that the husband was a drunk; them clearly bluffing and prevaricating. Occasional laughter in the air. Someone with a long, dull litany of complaints. Me moaning. Why couldn't I pass out from the pain? Does that happen in real life? Of have I been lied to by the movies again?

About the time that the minor relief of the morphine was wearing off, they came to cart me out for a CT scan. This meant lying on my goddamn back again, and once again it was brutally hard. But at least we were doing something constructive. Then it was back to the same spot in the emergency department, to wait some more. Next time I get in medical trouble, please remind me not to do it on the Saturday overnight.

I don't know when it was that they decided I ought to get some Dilaudid, but it took until they decided to send me to get an MRI. That stuff did really ease the pain, at least to bearability, and for the first time I started to think I might survive this mess. I want to note that there was no fun to be had out of these pain meds. I had no mind-altering effects, except what you would expect from the reduction of awful pain. I was a little dizzy. And then I broke into a terrible cold sweat, right in the middle of the MRI.

If you've stuck with me this far -- thanks! Also, you may remember that in 2018 I was sent to get an MRI of my head for a hearing problem. That MRI had a mirror to give the illusion of looking out at the world; this one didn't. It was a blank white tube and it fit me like a tuxedo. I'm not terribly claustrophobic, but it was pretty bad. I shut my eyes and tried to think of anything to occupy my mind -- prayers, shopping lists, every member of the Justice League of America in alphabetical order. When I started flushing and sweating, I didn't think I could make it through -- it's almost a half hour ordeal for the contrast MRI. But I was so strongly motivated to stay in that tube and let them get the data they needed, I just kept my eyes shut and managed to not panic. That was a gift from heaven, right there.

From the MRI I was checked into a room in the orthopedic section, there to get interviewed by all the doctors who hadn't interviewed me already. Now, at least, the painkillers were adequate to the situation, and once installed in the room I was able to rest. It was about mid-afternoon.

I don't think I was rude to anyone, and absolutely no one was rude to me. Really, the staff could not have been more kind through the ordeal. However, I am not proud of my behavior, the moaning, the cries of pain, the inability to put on the brave face. If all the other little indignities of a hospital stay did not follow -- the need for permission to get up, the stupid gown, the escorts to the bathroom, the constant reminders of what one looks like stripped down -- it would still have been as humiliating as anything that has ever happened to me.

Maybe it just means I have too much pride, after all. But as I said, no man wants to be seen by his loved ones as I was in the ER.

🏥 🚑

We'll finish up the tale tomorrow; all downhill from here. What happens next? As Wagner wondered yesterday, maybe I died! That would be awful.