For the past couple of days I haven’t been feeling right. Not so much ‘sick’
but my get-up-and-go got-up-and-went. There were no self-diagnosis I could
figure what changed from the day before, but my usual cure is wait it out.
Get up and take a pee. Make a cup of coffee. Turn on the computer. Nah!
Go back to bed. Repeat every hour.
I wasn’t in pain. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t sleepy. I wasn’t…
By day four, nothing was changing.
As we all do, went to the Internet Witch Doctor and tried to figure a
cure. My diagnosis seemed my plumbing was twisted and I was clogged. I had
taken the little pills that usually clean the pipes, drank gallons of water and
enough coffee to keep me awake until June, but every hour was rinse and repeat.
The funny thing about laying (or lying) in bed with your body feeling
glunky; your mind is still working.
The radio is playing an interview about Tourette
(too-RET) syndrome and then a forum of experts explaining why we are in space
and where we go from here with descriptions of landing procedures that only an
engineer on Star trek would understand.
Think about ALL the stuff that goes on everyday and we
have no idea. Book and movie reviews for what I will never read or view, then
shift to that will get an award? Right now someone is out there creating a new
appliance that you will have to have next Christmas. There is the typical
rehash of gender, race and sexual orientation topics with the never ending of
political views.
Even with the entire constant teaching I’m listening
to, in the back of my mind is ‘constipation’. What do I need to do to
pop-the-pipes? Check the various methods shown on the electronic encyclopedia
of possible truths that are sold over the counter. What if they don’t work?
What if this gets worse? What if…
Having had a recent visit to the Hotel Saint Mary’s, I
didn’t want to spend another vacation in a room full of computers, a white
board and a television. Particularly at the rate they charge. All the staff was
nice (except for the vampires) and the food was good (with desserts) and
shuffling up and down the halls was a poor exercise program (I never found the
gym) but sitting in a bed strapped down by wires attached to screens that had
to be monitored and recorded and charge for just sitting there looking out the
window is not on my bucket list. (*Note: Read that last line back and put it in
reverse. It is what I do everyday)
When will I give in to medical science and request a
visit with the doctor?
At a certain age (just like your car, refrigerator, roof
or marriage) things start breaking down. Got to remember that for seven decades
this life container has been stretching, puffing, bumping, bloating and
squirting. Some knowledgeable person once said (I told you there is always some
specialist out there) that the body uses 40% of its energy on processing food.
Think about that.
Almost half of your energy is spent on those Super Bowl snacks you are
shoving down your gullet to keep the little chocolate choo-choo running smooth.
And this is not just unique to you. Everyone does it. We have special
rooms to do our poo. We even call the porcelain container for our waste a
‘throne’. We ALL go to the loo or the water closet or sit on the crapper to
empty our tubes so we can refill.
What if I call the doctor?
It is a common complaint so it shouldn’t need too much research (unless
this is a variation of the Covid virus that no one else has?)
Fully aware that a visit to a medial professional, it is mostly about
questions, start planning for explaining every nuance to the uncomfortable body
behavior and previous attempts and methods to self-solve the problem. The examiner
(of whatever level of expertise) will put on rubber gloves (hopefully) and poke
and prod the belly area trying to find the point of distress. I doubt that will
be the end of the story.
Hospitals (like churches and schools) always have test. Go to room 209
for some stranger rub gel on your privates and places some sort of wired
utensil around while watch a screen you cannot see with concerned sighs. On to
room 406 for another group to squeeze you against some cold glass and told to
stand still while they put on special goggles and hide behind some kryptonite
protective screen. Wheeled down to room 118-A for another crowd of masked men
and women view you as if an alien from another planet and under their breath is
giving knowledgeable ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.
Once back at the start line, your choice of medial practitioner will look
at their iPad-checked boxes to calculate the conclusion that affects your future
existence.
“Take this pill and you’ll be fine in a couple of days”. “Well I see you
have not been following the rules”. “This looks serious”. “Do you have your
accounts in order?” “Would you like a final drink?”
Sooner or later the final solution will come in and we should be as
prepared as possible for the transition into the unknown, but maybe I’m not
ready yet. Maybe those sugar pills or a shot in the arm will give me another
day or two of sitting around and watching the world go by. Am I participating
in humanity or just getting in the way?
Yesterday (I believe in) I woke to the static on the radio. Seems NPR had
lost its signal while I was drooling and there was no voices to wake me up and
tell me I was still alive. The white noise sound was the only sound that filled
my wake up call. A house alone at the break of dawn is very quiet.
Instead of listening to other’s thoughts and opinions to get the mind
rolling, there was silence. You are alone in time.
Yesterday (all my troubles seemed so far away) I decided to make a change
in this unending routine of slough.
Yesterday (now I long for) was out of kilter. It was later than my normal
before noon adventures into the outside world. I’d made up my mind so it was
time to venture.
The traffic was sparse but I’m not familiar with this time of day. I
found my way to the hitching post without much avoidance of mobile metal
machines, but instead of strapping on my face covering, I bypassed the sliding
doors and walked down to the other end of the eternal block to find relief.
Being the afternoon, it was pass the midday crunch and the after work
rush to the path was pretty clear. There was the police talking to the
inebriated black man outside of the ABC store. There was the nail attendant
walking around outside on her cell without any business to attend to. There was
the guy standing in the shadows talking on the phone. The parking lot held a
few folks just sitting there.
Weaving in and out of concrete barriers meant for folks to stop their
cars instead of plowing through the landscaping, I looked both ways before
crossing the street. There are two many folks that look like me getting run
over out here.
As I walked up to the store of drugs I hear some paces behind me. Not being
paranoid out in the world, slacking my pace to see the old black man the police
had just sent on his way following me. Sorry, we are not a team.
Once inside the convenience store with a pharmacy, I let the black man
find his destination while I was amazed in the variety of hair curlers. I’d
been here before to get film developed but never had to search for medical
relief.
While wandering the well-labeled aisles checking the semi-vacant shelves
I notice Marshall Morton. Here was the guy who took over the Titanic after the
family gave up on publishing local news and watched it all go down. Should I
say something to him?
Finally finding my rewards, I gathered up all the containers that
promised to flood, soften or wash away my troubles that were not available at
the Tummy Temple. Price is no object.
Back to the counter where I used to get my film, I waited in line behind
someone who looked like they were dragging their worldly goods behind them and
searching for their wallet. More constipation?
The manager with pink hair offered another solution to my acquiring these
items and I took the opportunity to advance in line. She scanned the boxes with
curiosity and placed them in a plastic bag (I thought we were trying to get
away from those?) and I slid my plastic card into the unknown reader for
approval. I could somehow function the questions on the screen and was given my
bag of goodies like a Halloween gift. “Like your hair”, I said upon departure.
Strolling back to my pony I noticed this time of day. Buses were
unloading folks who then wandered about with no appearance of immediacy or
direction. They were zombies staring at their hands.
Safely crossing the traffic to the parking lot that covered several
blocks and then some of vacant asphalt I found my path back to the Tummy Temple
to source some product that I could chew and survive for another day. Along the
way I again passed the nail attendant with nothing to do but talk on the cell,
the empty buildings and the guy in the shadows in the wasteland.
Once back in familiar territory, I find a zip cart! Yah!!
The congregation was much thinner than a normal day of sacrificial lambs
and the choir was quiet. The outside zombies had invaded the pews waiting for
the communion. Still this was unusual and it was time to flee back home.
Is it like this everyday and I’ve just been missing it?
Lock on the gate I devolve into my recluse and start partaking of my
purchases. Can modern medicine keep me alive for another day?
What if it is colon cancer? What if it is liver cirrhosis? What if it is colorectal cancer, irritable bowel syndrome (IBS), diverticular
disease, outlet dysfunction constipation, neurologic disorders including spinal
cord injury, multiple sclerosis, Parkinson’s disease, and stroke, lazy bowel
syndrome, intestinal obstruction, fistula, colonic atresia, volvulus,
intussusception, imperforate anus, malrotation, amyloidosis, lupus, scleroderma
or pregnancy.
I’m not a doctor (and I don’t play one on TV) so I’ll just eat the
approve diet, drink lots of water and get a bit of moving about. It has gotten
me this far.
Time to break for a rest stop.
Tomorrow is supposed to be sunny but still cold? Let’s wake up and see if
they are right.
