Category: Funny Business

For well over a month, I’ve been dealing with some sort of illness. And I say “some sort of illness” because no one seems to be able to figure out what it is.

Could be standard pneumonia.

Could be a form of pleurisy.

Could be bubonic plague.

Who knows?

When I initially went to the emergency room back in July, I was experiencing stabbing pains all over my upper body and my breathing was labored. If I walked from one side of the room to the other, the sounds I made were reminiscent of Joseph Merrick being chased through the streets of London in David Lynch’s The Elephant Man.

So, the medical team did CAT scans, DOG scans, X-rays, and bloodwork. After several hours, they said I had pneumonia.

Maybe.

“We’re gonna treat it like pneumonia,” said the attending physician. “At least it seems like pneumonia. So we’ll put you on antibiotics and go from there.”

Five days of antibiotics and I really couldn’t tell much difference. Some days the pain was much less than other days, but I was always extremely tired.

Thus, a follow-up visit to my doctor was in order. I described my symptoms, and then underwent an EKG. After that, it was off to the lab for more bloodwork.

Because I’m a curious little fellow, I watched carefully as my blood was drawn. The phlebotomist filed up nine vials. You read that correctly … nine.

I didn’t even realize I had that much blood in me.

Afterward, I was told I needed to schedule yet another CT scan, followed by a thoracentesis (fluid drawn from the lungs) by a pulmonologist, and finally a PET scan, which I assume is a natural  progression from the CAT and DOG scans.

This is where things get interesting.

The idea is to have these procedures done quickly so a course of treatment can be determined. I’ve learned that the medical profession’s definition of quick is very, very different from mine.

I did manage to get the CT scan with contrast set up for this Wednesday, and that is to be followed by the thoracentesis.

To speed things along, a call was made to the pulmonologist.

After providing my name, age, social security number, date of birth, next of kin, family medical history, marital status, insurance information, favorite Muppet, chronological list of movies in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and whether I think there should be a remake of The Incredible Mr. Limpet,  I was told that the next available appointment was in October.

“Is there anything sooner?” I asked. “I really don’t feel good and I’d like to find out what I’m dealing with. Plus, I need to know if there’s any point in ordering more running shoes … right now they’re just sitting in my cart.”

Perhaps, they said, there would be a cancellation and I could have it done in September. But that still seems like a long wait.

Surely there’s some pulmonologist walking around with a needle who has 20 minutes to spare. I mean, he or she can even do it on their lunchbreak; I don’t mind if they eat a sandwich while they stick me.

If an earlier time does come up, they’ll let me know through the “patient portal.” As you might know, this is the preferred method of modern communication. However, when I tried to log on, it kept locking me out, telling me my information was incorrect.

A call to the help line revealed that my address was listed as somewhere in Florida ( I live in Alabama.)

“You have me confused with Tommy Tuberville,” I said. “He’s the one that lives in Florida. Here’s my correct address.”

And now, I guess, we wait.

Hopefully by the time they get around to my thoracentesis, the results from my CT scan with contrast will still be valid. And once that’s done, then I can move on to the PET scan, which I assume will be scheduled sometime in December.

It’s all very frustrating. I’ve spent most of my life in very good health, and now I can’t really do much of anything until and unless they pinpoint my problem.

I’m so desperate I thought about checking the Department of Health and Human Services for advice, but realized RFK Jr. would advise me to rub a dead raccoon across my butt cheeks and lick a frog.

All that said, I’m getting impatient … impatient enough that if you’re a pulmonologist on lunchbreak next Thursday or Friday, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.

I’ll be glad to meet you at Subway – and I’m buying.

As you’re probably aware from some of my writings and social media posts, I’m an “animal person.”

Obviously, I’m not an animal person like those found on The Island Of Dr. Moreau, although if I’m being honest, that has a certain appeal. (They’re called “Beast Folk,” by the way).

Alas, I’m merely a human animal who has a deep love for nonhuman animals and enjoy their company immensely. All things being equal, I’d rather hang with them than people – present company excepted, of course.

What does all this mean, you ask? First and foremost, it means the animals living in my home are treated like family.

Why?

Because they are family.

I’ve always been partial to rescue dogs and shelter cats, and currently my wife and I have two of each. I’m not sure how we settled on four companions, but that seems to be the furry feng shui that has worked best for us over the years.

That’s eight hairy ears, 16 legs and four tails to keep track of all at once. It’s a lot, and things don’t always go smoothly.

During the course of any given week, we’re likely to deal with vomit and explosive diarrhea. But you know what? Vomit and explosive diarrhea were integral parts of my college years, so I’m not gonna hold it against the critters.

Yet, even when I leave the house, I seek out animal friends.

Take Bobby, for example. He’s the cheeky chipmunk who lives in a hole right beside our patio. He’s a bit high strung, but that’s OK. If I were a chipmunk and there were stray cats in the neighborhood, I’d be high strung, too.

After greeting him, it’s off to the lake that is less than a mile from our house. Because we’re regulars and go there almost every day, the ducks and Canada Geese have gotten to know us.

At first, the geese would boo and hiss when I’d pass. I didn’t blame them … they’re Canadian and I’m American, so they have every reason to be elbows up. After realizing I wasn’t trying to annex them, though, we’ve become buddies.

They know I’m on their side, and several of them actually come up to me, greet me with a hearty honk, and trot beside me as I walk. We talk about hockey and Neil Young, and have an all-around good time together.

I also have a warm relationship with Muscovy ducks, the most populous waterfowl at the lake. My favorite, who I call Charlene, recognizes me immediately and quickly waddles toward me when she spots me on the walking path. I like to think it’s because of my friendly face and pleasant smile, but more likely it’s due to the fact that I always carry rolled oats with me.

Other ducks have realized I’m holding, so they’ve come to expect treats as well. I make sure they’re never disappointed.

Now, I don’t claim to have reached Dr. Dolittle status; I talk to animals with the understanding and expectation they won’t talk back to me. Well, my chihuahua Steve talks a little, but the words are mostly expletives – loud, piercing expletives.

Regardless, I’ve long had a close relationship with creatures great and small, and it has truly enriched my life.

Years ago a friend had a bearded dragon, Puff, and the little guy loved me. He enjoyed climbing up on my chest and falling asleep.

And I once knew a goat (I did not “know” the goat in the Biblical sense … being from Alabama requires me to address that stereotype and clarify) who would rub her head on me to the point I feared she might go bald. She was named Cliffie Cloven, by the way.

Turtles, frogs, rabbits, squirrels, lizards, chickens – if it clucks, quacks, bleats, mews, barks, honks, moos, neighs, crows, gobbles or ribbits – I want to be its friend.

And if it wants to be my friend, well, that’s about the best feeling in the world.

So yes, I am an animal person and quite proud of it. That being the case, once you’re done reading this please tell your dogs and/or cats I said hello.

There was a meme a while back that proclaimed, “Dear Naps, I’m sorry I was mean to you when I was a kid,” or something to that effect.

Apparently, there were and are children who don’t like going to sleep early in the day. I must confess that I was not one of those kids.

Sleep – and any opportunity to sleep – has always been a real treat for me. Even if an adult was trying to trick me into it, I played along.

For example, I distinctly remember the ruse Mrs. Baker, my first grade teacher, used to prompt naptime. After we’d come in from recess, she’d say, “Children, put your heads down on your desk and close your eyes … we’re going to play the quiet game.”

I saw right through that scam. I’m sure there were some low information first graders who thought the goal was to merely sit in silence, but I knew Ms. B wanted us to cat nap (even though no cats were involved).

I never told my nice teacher this, but in my mind the “quiet game” was the “snooze and drool” game – and it was a game I played to win. Within seconds of her command, my oversized noggin was nudged against my folded arms and I was drifting away. Before you knew it, I was dreaming about eating paste with Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Puff and other characters from the Dick and Jane Literary Universe.

Sadly, sanctioned naps were phased out by the time I was in third grade, and that made me sad. I was always down for the quiet game and felt it should have a permanent role in my continuing education. And by sitting in the back of the classroom for the balance of my grammar school years, it did.

Fortunately, I even managed to make time for naps in high school and frankly, it was easy to do. If you played a sport, physical education was replaced by something called “Athletics.” Basically, if you were on a varsity team, you were exempt from P.E. classes so you were given a free period.

I did not waste mine.

I played soccer and ran cross country, and practices were always after school. I felt the best way to prepare for those workouts was to sleep during Athletics.

If you don’t think the top bleacher of a high school gym is a good place to nap, well, you’re wrong. The sound of bouncing basketballs and whistles is quite soothing once you get used to it.

And as for college, many of my elective courses were simply fronts for naps.

I took Music Appreciation 101 and was told by the instructor on the first day that the tests would be based strictly on material from the textbook. Classes, on the other hand, were for listening and enjoying various musical genres. So, I read the book at night, and used the class to catch some Zzzzzzs.

I’ve often wondered what music was played during that class.

Not even my social life was immune to naps.

Once – following a romantic dinner at Wanda’s House of Lard – my date wanted to see A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors.

I’d already lost interest in the franchise, so this was a perfect title for what I had planned over its 96-minute run time.

The hope was I could convince her that I was closing my eyes because Freddy Krueger scared me, but she didn’t buy it.

We never went out again, and I can only assume it was due to my loud snoring during a pivotal Heather Langenkamp scene.

Now, jump to the present. I’m retired, and that means I don’t have to give a reason for taking a nap. I can do it anywhere at any time and you’re all powerless to stop me. If I choose to flop down in the middle of the spice aisle at my local supermarket, you should step over me and mind your own business.

When at home, naps usually take place right after lunch. Two dogs and two cats will pile up with me, and more often than not, the nap lasts the full 90-minute cycle.

The hour and a half naps are great because they’re like a fun-size regular sleep. I also apparently burrow my head in my pillow because when I arise my hair calls to mind Professor Irwin Corey (put that name in your search engine, kids).

And the best part of taking naps now is that sometimes, I don’t even need them … I just take them for sport. While there are those among us who think sleep is wasting valuable time, to me it is valuable time – and time well spent.

So, if I were to make a meme, it’d probably read, “Dear Naps, thank you for always being there for me.” Not great, but perhaps I can come up with something a bit catchier.

Let me sleep on it.