Sunday, March 26, 2017

UPDATE FOR ALL MY FANS!




































THE GENTLE WAYS OF EMERGENCY SURGERY





Matthew 4:23-24   “And he[Jesus] went throughout all Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom and healing every disease and every affliction among the people. So his fame spread throughout all Syria, and they brought him all the sick, those afflicted with various diseases and pains, those oppressed by demons, those having seizures, and paralytics, and he healed them.”


I am finally home from a week in the hospital. I
sincerely and deeply thankful for the prayers of those more than I can count from all over the country. While it is true I lost part of my right foot, the truth is I could have lost much more. Indeed, a few of my doctors were sure my entire foot was lost.


I thought I was having a severe bout of the flu and thus I didn’t recognize what was happening to me. It was at the insistence of my wife, Linda, that I let her take me to the Emergency Room. It was only there I came to know how deathly serious my condition really was.


Silly me. All I wanted was to go home. It would have been the worst thing I could have done.


It was a rough week. There were several sleepless nights followed by long stretches of sleep—at least I think it was sleep. Nurses and doctors were constantly checking in on me, taking blood samples, monitoring my blood pressure, and temperature. I am sure a lot was said to me; but I don’t remember most of it.


So, now, I am back with the living. To be sure, lots of wound care therapy and doctor visits in my future. Lots of new resolutions to take better care of myself. [More than a little embarrassment at how this old man still acts like a little boy in looking after himself and doing what he should to take care of himself!]


How I can I adequately express my graduate to my wife who once again saved my life? This episode has been rough and exhausting for her. Be sure to give Linda a lot love, y’all.


Once again, many thanks to all of you--many of you I will never meet. To all those known and unknown, I will never be able to pay you back!


Most of all, all praise and thankfulness to my Lord, Christ Jesus, who carried me through and healed my infection.


Isaiah 53:5: “But he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed.”












STYLISH ATTIRE





As you, my millions of followers around the world know, after many years of faithful service the small toe of my right foot was abruptly dismissed—although it must be added through no fault of its own.


Since this incident, my email has been flooded with thousands of inquiries. All expressing the same concern. These dispatches is best reflected by that of Marc Krajnc from the Czech Republic:


“Dear Crabby: It is well known that you have a refined taste in sartorial attire. After your unfortunate medical occasion, my friends and I have intense interest in the footwear you are sporting these days. We look to your answer. Please reply.”


I am happy, Marc, to answer your earnest request. These days I wear a fashionable and stylish boot. Contrary to the suspicions of my detractors, it is not a cast. Instead, it is layered walking boot made of several layers of gauze finished with a tan roll of dressing.


Although I must wear my boot around the clock, I assure all of you it is quite comfortable.
My thanks to the millions of expressions of concern from my many fans. Rest assured I will post further updates in the days to come.












THE MECHANICAL NUISANCE.





As Ash Wednesday approached, little did I know I would be giving up a bit of right foot for Lent. “Gee”, I thought to myself, “most people give up things like chocolate or TV but this seems a little over the top to me!”


Well, what’d ya goin’ to do? Some will simply chalk it up to the Lord’s will. Others will say it was the work of the Devil. Me? I’ve worked in hospitals since I was 14. I learned a long ago that much of the time there is just no accounting for these things. So it’s something of an adventure.


How I’m doing depends on which doctor I talk to. Some really like the progress of my healing. Others are less impressed with growth of my wound “closing up”. The latter group are contemplating applying a skin graft. I wonder where they would take the needed skin? I have ruled out a piece of my bearded face or my scalp. I wouldn’t want to have to give my foot a haircut every week. Oh well, if the time comes, I don’t suppose I’ll be given much of a choice. Maybe they'll take it from my abdomen. There’s plenty of that.


At least I can walk.


Currently, they have affixed a vacuum device to the site of my wound. Its purpose is to siphon away various “juices” into a canister. Well, that’s not exactly true. Its real purpose is to speed up the closing of the wound. I am told this is advanced stuff which came out of treating soldiers wounded in Iraq. Wonderful stuff, I suppose. I don’t know if it’s working or not. Again, some are impressed, some less so.


In any event, on a practical level, it is a nuisance. It may be a vacuum device, but Linda and I refer to it as “that damn machine”. Many a night I have gotten up to use the bathroom, get half way there, only the find I can’t go any further as I am tethered to the thing. This requires the patience to seal the plastic tubing and separating myself from this and that. A few times, this has made getting to the bathroom a close call.


Other times, Linda and I are awoke by “that damn machine” in the middle of the night as it loudly beeps because something is making it unhappy. Usually, it thinks there is a leak somewhere in the plastic tubing. We NEVER find such a leak. On the other hand, shutting down and restarting “that damn machine” always makes it happy.


In the meantime, we constantly getting packages of medical supplies in the mail. I couldn’t tell you what half of it is for. As it stands, our bedroom has open packages everywhere. This has made vacuuming the floor nearly impossible. More importantly, there is little space left for me to get down on the floor and play with my toys. You should see the marvelous contortions I have to perform to reach for one of my books!


Currently, I am rereading “The Hobbit”. I had forgotten how childish some sections read. Which makes since as it originally written for children. I finished Malachi (a very quick read) and have gone on to the Gospel of John. Whatever you can say about John, many parts read like poetry.


My diet is a subject for another time. I’ll just say that not being able to have my French fries is nearly insufferable.


Well, bear up. Stiff upper lip…and all that stuff. Actually, life is a lot more cheerful than I let on. More to come.












THE OATMEAL ADVENTURE.





It’s been a mixed week so far. OK. It’s only been three days. With the rest of the week, on balance it could turn out to be great.


Sunday, Linda and I went to Panera’s for a small breakfast before going to Church as we customarily do. In the past, my light repast would have consisted of 2 bagels with lots of cream cheese and three or four large cinnamon rolls , a large iced green tea with a cobblestone confection to go. Given my current mandated diet, I had resort to a small bowl of oatmeal. Shortly after I began to dig in, I started to see spots before my eyes. I also became very weak. “Well, gee”, I said to myself, “this is not enjoyable”. This could only mean one thing, it must be the oatmeal…or my blood sugar was too low.


I had to fight passing out and collapsing to the floor. Linda quickly got me a cinnamon roll and a sugary soft drink on the theory that these would boost my blood sugar to normal. I wish I could tell you I enjoyed these forbidden goodies; but the truth is I had to force myself to consume the cinnamon roll and drink the Dr. Pepper (even in desperate circumstances, I refuse to quaff on Pepsi). I got a little better but Linda and I were afraid I’d could still keel over.


Going to church was out of the question at this point. This was dismaying as I had a lot of…and I mean A LOT…of sins to confess. The combined weight of all my sins might break the communion rail next week. The congregation is well aware of what a reprobate (although in refined taste) I am; but I wouldn’t like such a theatrical disclosure of the fact.


So after 45 minutes or so I gained a little strength. Enough to get myself to the car. I had to use the side of the shiny pickup parked next to our car with my hands to hold myself up--much to the displeasure its owner. He had a few glossy words for me but he soon relented once my sweet Linda responded with a few expressions that would have embarrassed a sailor.


Once home, I tested my blood sugar. It showed I had bounced back to the bottom of my “normal” recommended sugar range. One can only wonder what my blood sugar was before eating the cinnamon roll and drinking the Dr. Pepper. I keep small boxes of grape juice for emergency occasions just like this; so I slurped down two of them.


After15 minutes, I felt much better. Still, I was weak and I still saw spots in my eyes. After a while, I fell asleep. Three hours later, I woke up feeling like my old usual self—no spots in my vision. Still, I felt like I had been hit by a truck.


I’m afraid I have no one to blame but myself. I miscalculated how much insulin I needed to keep my blood sugar within the 80-120 range after eating breakfast. (You’re supposed to inject your insulin five minutes before you eat.) I also didn’t take into account how long it really would take to get to Panera’s. I thought long and hard looking for some other person I could blame for my misadventure; but it was no use. I had been foolish and there was no other way to look at it. This is one to put in my memory book.







THE SURPRISING MONKEY BUSINESS OF MY RIGHT FOOT


Monday I went to my regular nine o’clock appoint at the Wound Care Center at Community Hospital East. Once in the examining room, I had to answer all the questions the nurse asked me the week before. I know they have to ask these questions (1.) to prove I’m me and (2.) whether I answer differently than the week before; still it’s tiresome. When they asked if I had fallen since the last appointment, I had to admit I had. They duly noted my answer and then they slapped a plastic band on my left wrist which said “Fall Risk”. I asked if were a more “upscale” wrist band I could have instead of the cheap looking plastic bracelet. The nurse thought I was being difficult and duly noted it in my chart.


Then the nurse took off all my fashionable, stylish bandages. My naked calves and feet looked shrunken to the bone. The bones and sinews were so well defined my legs could have been used in an advanced anatomy class. They also were a ghastly brown—no modeling on the runway for me this Summer!


They left me alone in the room for a while. I looked around and counted the number of electrical outlets. Then the tiles on the ceiling. Then the tiles on the floor. I did all this until it suddenly dawned on me: “Isn’t this an open invitation to grab some medical supplies for yourself? Maybe some of those long-stem Q-Tip things?” I hopped around the room pulling at every drawer and cabinet. Rats! Everything was locked up. Apparently my reputation preceded me. With great reluctance, I climbed back onto my original perch.


After what seemed forever, Dr. Taulman came in followed by her personal assistant and a resident physician. She noted an improvement in the surface of my “wound” and proceeded poke around and cut away the dead skin.


All when well until a small fragment of bone popped out. This caused her great concern. This is not cool! She immediately put the small bone in a specimen jar and sent it to pathology straightaway.


Unfortunately, that was not the most disappointing of it. She took a closer look at the walls of my wound and discovered a small “tunnel” running underneath my skin which was 4 centimeters (about an inch and a half) long. This was not good. She didn’t explain what was going on; but she immediately packed the “tunnel” with an antibiotic cloth strip. She ordered an x-ray and prescribed an antibiotic. She mentioned in a roundabout way that this might lead to surgery. I normally would have asked for just what this surgery was; but the leave-taking good Doctor said it in such a way it took a long while before it sank in.


They departed and the nurse proceeded to wrap the leg with the wound. Happily, I no longer needed to have my left leg wrapped. This would make taking a shower (or what passes as a shower these days) much easier. Unhappily, this also meant I would have to shoulder the embarrassment of wearing two very different stylish and fashionable pieces of footwear. Even my most devoted admirers would suppose I have made an age-addled style “faux pa”.


After I was discharged, Erin and I made our way to X-Ray. Luckily, there hardly was any one lingering in the waiting room. Five minutes later, the technician came and rushed me back to the x-ray table and began to take aim at my foot from various angles. A few of those angles seemed a little exotic to me but I assumed the technicians had their reasons—although they might only have been taken for the gag reel for the office Christmas party. It was soon all over and so Erin and I went home. In spite of all that waiting, the complete visit only took three hours.


We had been home only a few hours when Dr. Taulman’s personal assistant called. The good doctor wanted me to get an MRI of my foot. I could only imagine Dr. Taulman saw something suspicious from the x-rays. Suspicious enough she called after so little time.


In any event, my MRI was scheduled for next Tuesday. She informed me to expect the procedure to take 100 minutes by itself. I’ve had a MRI twice before and I found them quite unpleasant. For one thing, the table they force you to lay on is as hard as a rock. For another, you must lay there absolutely still the whole time. Being that I am a man of action, laying still is against my nature.


I wondered if there was some way I could out of it; but deep down I knew from prior experience they wouldn’t pay attention to any of my objections. I hope they’ll let me watch television or, short of that, give me a mild (but amusing) tranquillizer.


Since Dr. Taulman’s P.A.’s phone call, I have progressively regained my composure. “What will be will be” I say. My visiting nurses were totally blasé about the matter when asked about my wound underpass. They merely noted how well my wound was healing. They were, however, amused when I told them about the flying bone fragment.


Aside from these curious events, I have spent almost all my time in my usual pursuits. Writing, watching old movies, and listening to music from my insanely vast collection. By the way, if you’ve never seen “The Big Country”, take a few hours and treat yourself. Gregory Peck, Charlton Heston, Charles Bickford, Burl Ives, Jean Simmons, Carroll Baker, and Chuck Connors. A great story!


Unfortunately, while certainly possessing a number of fine moments, on the whole last year’s music was disappointing. I firmly believe each generation is entitled to its own music; but geeeeeeeeeeeeish. I know youngin’s get tired of hearing it; but—really--if you didn’t grow up to the music of the late sixties and early seventies you really missed something.


My! I do go on! Must give my pen a rest. Big thanks to all my well wishers. More to come!












THE WARDING OFF OF PEG-LEG CRABBY





My many follows have sent thousands of desperate messages basically saying the same thing. Luke Ines of Nice, France submitted one such dispatch:


“Where is Crabby? We have been suspensively waiting for the results of his MRI; but, alas, we have been left unapprised of any news. Has the worst transpired?”


The truth is I have spent the last two weeks as a guest of the hospital of my choice. Guest? More like a prisoner of a host of doctors and several assorted medical services.


I kept my April 10th appointment with Wound Care Center expecting the usual torture by its medical staff in which they probe my wound and cut away any dead skin revealed by my advancing healing amputated wound. However, one look at my wound and my doctor ordered additional surgery and admission into the cordiality of the hospital. In a matter of hours, a surgeon removed an infected section of the bone which supported my fourth toe. The toe itself was left attached to my foot; but it no longer offered any support to the act of standing.


After many endless rounds of potent antibiotics, it was deemed acceptable for my discharge the following Saturday. I enjoyed the freedom of one day before my appointment at the Wound Care Center on Monday.


Come April 24th. Unfortunately, after showering, I left numerous bloody footprints across the bathroom floor. The bleeding would not stop. I thought these were the result of a poor application of the vacuum machine. How lucky it was to be that the nurses at the Wound Center would set things aright that very morning. Outside, on my way to the car, I fell. Fortuitously, my daughter and grandson were able to assist me and put me in the car.


On our way to the hospital, Erin and I carried on a calm and interesting conversation. Once inside the Wound Care Center waiting room, I began to experience spots before my eyes and slurred speech. I barely was able to stand on the scales to determine my weight. Once in the examination room, the nurse found that I had some extremely low blood pressure and low blood sugar. Unhappily, the good doctor immediately ordered a return to admission to the hospital.


“Oh no, not again!”


While waiting six hours in the emergency room for a room to open up, I said the most pious prayer I know:


“Lord, this isn’t funny."


What followed was four days of nurses disturbing my rest with the constant taking my “vitals”, taking tubes of my blood, and doctor visits. For my part, I filled my time with reading, TV, and ordering my choices for meals. As it was, meals were the most exciting part of my days.


That is, until Wednesday, shortly mere minutes before a visit from my mother and my brother’ a resident podiatrist came in for a frank talk for Linda and me. After examining my foot, he told that healing my foot was a very long shot. Most likely, I was to lose my foot. I asked what that would mean, to which he replied saying that an amputation either above or below my knee. WHY? He replied that there was no prosthesis satisfactory for a foot!. One only be fitted above or below the knee.


Dear Heavens. Surely not!


Soon my mother and brother made their visit after the podiatrist had left. Seeing no point in keeping the ill news away from them, Linda and I informed them of the wicked prognosis. They were visibly upset. After a brief discussion, we turned to the free-floating gossip about various family members—which was considerably more fun.


I should have known; but the hard news of my prospective amputation brought about a rush of phone calls. They encouraged me to fight against turning into “peg-leg Crabby”. Thousands were praying for me. Surely I could overcome my claustrophobia and submit myself to the horrors of hyperbaric chamber therapy.


Indeed, various nurses had told me about the many miraculous cases of cures from soaking the body in the oxygen rich atmosphere of the hyperbaric chamber. I could even bring a number of my favorite DVD’s to watch during the one hundred minutes of captivity. Well, this was something to consider. Nevertheless, such therapy would involve as many as THIRTY sessions!


Well, what else can I do? Say what you will; but I have to make my mother happy. Besides, as she said, it was only one opinion from one turkey doctor.


After sleeping overnight, I resolved to fight for what remained of my foot. I also made peace with the possibility that I would suffer amputation. There was the definite possibility if I didn’t act soon enough the infection could spread throughout my body resulting in my death. Definitely becoming “peg-leg Crabby” was preferable to entering the great beyond so soon. There was so much more mischief I had planned.


Let’s see, I’m sixty-three. Another thirty years would take me to ninety-three. That might be just enough.


Of course, I’d agree to more than thirty years if the Lord was so inclined.


To my thousands of followers: look for much more news in the future!







BUENAS NOCHES FROM A CROWDED ROOM


Mercy!!! Where to begin?


As the Grateful Dead sang: "What a long, strange trip it's been".


As most of you, my admiring followers, may know, I spent most of the month of May as a guest in two of the finest of medical institutions. Alas, in the end, my foot could not be saved and had to be chopped off.


But I’m getting ahead of myself.


Before the end of my third (THIRD!!!) hospital stay, two physical therapy nurses paid me a visit to find out if I needed some sessions to teach me how to get around with my compromised foot. I proudly got up and, with the aid of my two trusty canes, walked up and down the hall outside my room. I even showed them how I climbed stairs. To my delight, they concluded that I was in no need of their services. I say “delight” because I already had a myriad of doctors’ appointments and the likely thirty sessions of hyperbaric therapy before me—the last thing I needed was more nuisances to deal with.


Finally, they let me go home and I was grinning all around. “No more hospital stays for me”, I swore to myself. Once thankfully home, I followed all the instructions and friendly advice-- medical and otherwise—to heal my foot. This included hooking myself up to an IV of a powerful antibiotic every SIX HOURS. Not every eight hours. Not every five hours. Every six hours—religiously. This meant I had to wake myself up in the middle of the night for one of my infusions no matter what kind of schedule I could first set for myself.
Positively ruined my beauty sleep.


I looked like a wreck every morning. How could I present myself like this to my many admirers? I have led them all to have high expectations and here I was all set to let them down! Seemed it would be kind of cowardly to hide my present visage from my eager public. But what to do? That’s when I came up with the most honorable solution to my quandary—FAKE IT. I have many endearing faults and my ability to “fake it” ranks right up there. That’s how I got Linda. Enchanting her to believe she was marrying one excellent and fine follow, little did she know she was actually getting a captivating scoundrel.


Despite all these bothers, I traipsed all over the house to my heart’s desire doing whatever I wanted when I wanted. Watching movies. Reading. Writing. Boogieing to my music. Playing with my toys.


Retirement: I highly recommend it!


But all that was before a few misadventures set themselves upon me.


The Friday after my discharge, my foot suddenly went “whump”. Looking down, I found that it had collapsed. To be more precise, absent the two metatarsal bones, my foot twisted to the side. It abruptly felt like I was walking on my ankle. Boy, did it hurt! This was definitely not cool.


Tried as he might, this refined and fashionable rogue could not right the unobliging appendage. Worse, after several years of having no feeling below the knee, Mr. Rogue felt pain.
Walking about on a listing foot proved to be quite agonizing.


Dignity, in my considered opinion, is a much overrated quality. Too much dignity and one encounters too many impositions for his true nature to flow forth. Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t retain some of it. Thus the existential conflict between the calm stoic acceptance of the pain and the primal impulse out of the depths of some primitive architype to blubber and whimper. I chose the first and largely did the second.


In my defense, I also began to suffer all the symptoms of the flu. I would wake up each day feeling fine; but within a few hours I felt a devastating coldness. Linda would come home from work only to find her lovable hubby wrapped up in a heavy comforter while the room bore the heat of those unusually hot days of early May.  As the evening set in, I turned into a venerable blast furnace. I shed the comforter and one by one all my clothes. Still, I would find no relief from the heat. I frequently woke up in the night covered in sweat. More often, I sat feverishly awake through the slow nocturnal hours desperate for the morning hour when I could shower the foul film off my body and cool off.


On Monday, May 8th, my dutiful and loyal daughter, Erin, packed my wheelchair and myself into the car for my appointment with the Acute Wound Care folk. True to form, I felt good. The shower had once again worked its wonders. “Maybe today will be different”, I thought. “Maybe it will be all over and I’ll be back to normal.”


After checking in with the receptionist, we were quickly shown to the examination room. Wow! This room was much larger than the others we had been in before. Apparently, the office staff found out what a swell fellow I was and was treating me accordingly. Neato!


After the typical medical survey rituals, Dr. Taulman finally popped into the room. She is very pretty and is most of the reason I keep coming back.


“Doctor, is there some sort of special shoe I can wear that would support my foot so I can walk normally?”


“I suppose I could prescribe a brace after your foot heals.”
“Well, Doctor, I mean it really hurts now.”


“All I can do for you right now is tell you to stay off your foot whenever you can.”


At that, she proceeded to probe around my wound to remove any dead skin. After a minute, she said:


“There’s some loose flakes of infected bone here. I think we need to go ahead and take them out. OK?”


Before I could answer, the good Doctor had removed two or three fragments of bone in quick succession. Too my relief, there was no pain so I sat back and watched.


Without warning, she pulled two walnut-sized pieces of bone out onto the table. In my day, I happily charmed a number of gullible, appealing girls into letting me play doctor; but even today I cannot honestly lay claim to any real medical expertise. Even so, even I could tell these lumps of bone were “sick”.


“Didn’t expect this.” Doctor Taulman remarked.
“Did we get all the bad bone out?”


“No. I can see some more deep in there. They’ll have to wait.”


I screwed up all the nerve and self-absorption I had and asked: “Is it all over? Is my foot beyond saving?”


“I don’t want to say that. We still have hyperbaric therapy to try. If you’re still willing, my nurse will call you to set up your first appointment.”


I don’t know why; but I found this small window of hope encouraging for some reason.


Erin drove me homewards; but, before we reached our destination, we stopped at Abby’s to get some lunch. My daughter wheelchaired me into the building and parked us at a good table near the soda fountain. While she went to order our food, I sat quietly looking out the window. Then some remarkable female types passed by on the sidewalk outside. They looked to be maybe Juniors or Seniors in high school. Ah…the memories!


Then I slowly felt a heavy chill coming on. I had been feeling well up to this point; but this was not a good sign.


Soon, Erin arrived with our food. We split it all up and began eating. I had been hungry all morning; yet, after a few bites of my sandwich, I didn’t feel like eating anymore. I forced down a little more of my food until I just had to quit. It didn’t feel safe enough to keep down.


Once home, I went to my bedroom and collapsed into the recliner. Wrapping myself in the comforter once again, I struggled through the rest of the day in a deep chill. Sometimes I was lucky enough to sleep. For the most part, however, I laid there awake until morning. Around midnight, the cold had again turned into insufferable heat. Again, there was no escape until my morning shower.


At 5.30a, Linda’s alarm went off and shocked me awake. The last I remember, the clock said 4.46a; thus apparently I had fallen asleep for a little over a half an hour. I felt terrible. I was covered in sweat and the comforter was wet to the touch.


Linda showered and dressed. She expressed concern for me but I told her I’d be alright. After she left for work, I took my shower and, true to my word, I felt much better. I dressed, turned on the news, and sat down for my scheduled antibiotic infusion which flowed directly into my subclavian artery.


For what seemed like only a few moments, Erin called me out of a deep slumber. I must have fallen asleep during the infusion. Indeed, I was still hooked up to the jug of antibiotic. Wrenching myself away from the plastic tubing, I stood up slowly using my canes to find my balance. I needed to hurry; but I had to take my time as well. It wouldn’t do to fall flat on my face yet one more time.


We were leaving to see the infectious disease doctor at the hospital for a follow-up to my last medical incarceration. I had seriously thought about calling the Doctor’s office to postpone my appointment; but I had already promised Linda I would go. Still, I felt awful. Erin shot the breeze as we rode along the road and I did my best to keep up my end of our chitchatted; but my heart wasn’t in it.


Once we were in Dr. Baker’s office, Erin and I were whisked into his examination room almost immediately. Apparently his appointment schedule was a little light that day. That was OK by me. The sooner this was over the sooner I could go home.


Sometimes when they stick you in the exam room, inexplicably you still can have a long wait. In this case, Erin told me our wait was only a few minutes. It seemed like hours to me. I fought sleep and the temptation to lay down. (I doubt the office personnel would have approved.) The good doctor’s nurse arrived just in time before I gave in. After a few pleasantries, she took my temperature and blood pressure. She did not look happy. Out she went.


Dr. Baker himself came in and retook my temp and blood pressure.


“Crabby, your blood pressure is 71 over 40 and you’re running a 103 temperature. Do you feel light headed?”


I admitted that I did.


The next thing I knew, I was being wheeled into the ER.
The next day, I looked up at all the serums running into my IV. In spite of all efforts, I was at war with creeping infection and infection was winning. I looked at what remained of my right foot. So much of it was gone and what was left could no longer provide any support. I felt like I had the worst flu possible.


It was time.


I told the medical staff that I was pulling the trigger. It was time. Take my foot.


My only real question was just how much of my leg would they take? Unfortunately, they could not give me a definite answer.


“It all depends how far the infection has spread. We won’t know that until we open you up.”


On Friday, May 12th, 8.00p, my family reached for my hand as I was taken away to surgery. They had accepted my decision rather well. Still, you could see they were quite distressed. My mother managed to give me a kiss before I disappeared into the restricted area. Linda held my hand until they told her she could follow no more.


“I want a double bacon cheeseburger, a bucket of fries, and a thick wedge of Dutch apple pie went I get back, y’all!” I yelled.


Everyone thought I was joking. I wasn’t joking.


Maneuvering me into the operating room, the nurses, surgeon, and the anesthetist were in deep conversation. The nurses could not find a vein for the new IV the anesthetist ordered after the old one had been removed. A whole bunch of folk had been poking needles in my arms and hands all day with no success.


“I’ll just use the carotid in the neck.” I heard one of them say.


Suddenly, a very pretty and shapely nurse across the operating table caught my eye. “Holy cow!!!” I thought. “I wonder what she looks like with her clothes off!!!”


Then everything faded to black. Until:


I steadied myself in the long boat as my crewmen pulled hard on the oars. Harpoon in hand, I scanned the sea for the next sign of the great white whale.


“You can’t hide from me, Bob.” I shouted.


“No. Bob has you just where he wants you.”


This last utterance came from a mystery girl swimming several feet away from my launch. What she was doing skinny dipping out in the middle of the ocean I could hardly suppose; but, as these things go, you just go with it.


“Aren’t you freezing?” I inquired.


“Of course not. I eat my vegetables—unlike someone I know.”


“I eat a lot of vegetables!”


“French fries don’t count and cinnamon rolls aren’t vegetables.”


I normally would be irritated by this obvious falsehood; but other things were demanding my attention. What had been a calm sea now had become a pitched battle of angry waves. A thunderstorm had set upon us and drenched everyone in cold rain. Our ship had disappeared from view. Still, I stood on the bow weapon in hand. After a few moments, a white shape glanced itself upon the horizon.


The mystery girl began to swim away into the dark distance; but not before pausing for one last cheerless remark.


“Such fools are the children of men! It won’t be long now.”


Suddenly, one of my crewman shouted: “Thar she blows!!!”
Indeed, the great white whale had pitched itself high above the waves and came thundering down only a few yards from our launch. We labored mightily to stay upright; but it was hopeless. We were overturned and lost in the ocean.


Spitting seawater out of my mouth, I struggled to tread water in the rolling sea. None of my companions returned to the surface. I was alone. Pieces of our launch were spread widely around me. My harpoon had vanished among the wreckage. And the great white had me to itself.  It was at that moment the whale grasped my leg in its jaws—ripping me apart.


Nearly six hours had past when I awoke. An abrasive tube was down my throat and my hands were tied to the sides of my bed. A nurse soon greeted me. I tried to talk but found I couldn’t.


“Are feeling any pain?”


I motioned as best I could to my throat. I wanted what turned out to be a respirator hose.


“We have to wait for the doctor to remove your tube. We had a hard time getting you to breathe after your surgery. We need to make sure you won’t fall back to sleep and stop breathing again. Just relax until the doctor comes back.”


Oh man. Just how long was that going to be?


Another nurse across the room piped in and said: “His awake enough. I think we can take the restrains off his hands.”


After some hesitation, the nurse untied me. I knew they had to put me in restrains to satisfy standard mandated medical procedures. A semi-conscious recovering patient often will try to yank the tubes out of his mouth. Succeeding would leave deep scratches and lacerations in the throat; so lashing my arms down did make sense. Still, it felt a little humiliating to be tied up as if I were a loose kite trying to fly away.


Now that I was fully wide-awake, I decided to take stock of my surroundings. Looking around the room, I saw the clock on the wall said two o’clock.


I gestured for a pen and piece of paper to write some questions.


“I’m sorry. I don’t understand those motions”, said the nurse fidgeting with something at the end of the bed.


Maybe he thought I was using sign language. I resorted to making my hand motions more slowly and “detailed”.


“Oh, yeah. OK.”


Handing me a single sheet of paper on the clip board and a blue pen, my nurse waited.


I wrote: ”Two o’clock. AM or PM?”


“AM, Mr. Lee.”


I calculated in my head what that meant. Two in the morning. It would be at least six hours before the doctor (who at this point was nameless) would be back to see me. Be that as it may, now it was on to a more important question.


“Above knee or below knee?”


“Oh, below the knee. Your wife already told you that. Don’t you remember?”


Now that he mentioned it, I did recollect a bare wisp of something about it. Maybe seeing Linda leaving the room out of the corner of my eye. Maybe not. As it was, I mostly had to take his word for it that it transpired or something like it really happened.
“Can’t you do anything to get this thing out of my throat?” I wrote.


“I wish I could. We have to wait for the doctor. He’ll be in in the morning.”


Morning? That could be clear up to noon. A long time.


“Can I have something to watch?”


“Sorry, Mr. Dooley. We aren’t set up for any television down here. When we take you to your room upstairs you will be able to watch TV up there.”


As bad as I may have had it, I think my family had it worse. The waiting room emptied itself of other folk until they were the only ones left. The staff even had turned off most of the lights. Finally, a nurse came and told my family the surgery was over (had been over for over an hour) and I was in recovery. Linda, my mother, my brother, and my daughter all asked if they could go in and see me. “No”, she said. It was at this point they were told I had not woken up and I was not breathing on my own. It was this last part that had the doctors most concerned. My family did not take it well at all.


I always insisted on doing things my way and in my own sweet time; but this was not intentional this time. I hated the idea of having my family wait around in the dark late in the night. As it turned out, although they were anxious for me, Mom, John and Erin had to go home. John still had to work the next day while Mom and Erin were simply too tired to stay any longer. They had to leave not knowing if I had safely pulled through. Only Linda stayed behind. After all, I may have been a scoundrel; but I was HER scoundrel. She spent over forty-five years trying to pound some sense into me. It was a lost cause but the thought of trying again with someone else gave her the willies. I’m a fantastic catch and she knew it.


Several hours later, at about 10.00a, Dr. Baker greeted me as he enter the room. “How are you doing?”


I nodded my head to signal that I felt OK.


“Do you feel any pain?”


I pointed to my throat repeatedly several times.


“Yeah, I’m sure it does. We’ll see about getting that tube out.”


I raised my hands prayer-like to the sky to indicate my thankfulness. Dr. Baker seemed to think I was trying to be a little funny and chuckled.


“I’ll leave some orders to DC that respirator. I’ll see you tomorrow. Just rest and take it easy.”


It took over an hour for someone to get around to reading Dr. Baker’s instructions. After deflating the balloon which held the esophageal tubing down my lungs, they drew the plastic “air duct” out.


“How does that feel? Better?”


“Much better”, I croaked. It did feel better; but speaking was agonizing. In spite of this, I squawked in a harsh whisper. 


“Can I have some water?”


“Sure. You want a lot?”


I didn’t know how much “a lot” was. Whatever it was, I’d take it.


She handed me a full, big cup of water. Without taking one second to stop and take even a bare glimpse of it, I drank the whole thing down in one huge gulp. As least at that moment, it was better than sex.


I took a second cup of water and sipped it down more slowly this time. Now came the next big task. I didn’t know if it would come as a relief or horror; but I had to know. Sitting up, I took a deep breath and surveyed what remained of my right leg. Indeed, they had sawed me off below my knee. About mid-shin I’d say.


“Not so bad”, I thought. “Just stick a peg-leg on me and I’ll just walk out right of here.” For sure, in the next few days, it became obvious it was going to be a lot more complicated than that; but, even so, it seemed like a small task compared with what I had been through.


I am sorry to tell my many followers that during this adventure I have not been able to exercise my typical refined instinct in dressing well. A hospital gown lacks even the pretense of good taste. Folk have complained embarrassment in walking around the hospital with their bare buns hanging out the back for everyone to see. As for me, if everyone is going to see my rear end, then I’d prefer a better setting. After so many hospital stays where I would be naked as a jaybird around any number of medical staff at any given moment…well…after a while you just say to yourself “what the hell” and not mind it so much. Nothing like showing the female-type nurses what they’re missing.


My. I do go on! Too much information?


As I am apt to say: “Communication is vastly overrated.” Much unneeded conflict (and more significantly, self-incrimination) comes from talking too much. In most cases, one doesn’t care to know the other person that well in the first place. Communication also poses another grim hazard. It gives the listener the misconception that they understand you more than they really do. (Which is why psychotherapy takes many sessions over several years for the analyst to somewhat “know” his patient .) I would submit my own happenstance as a graphic example of these actualities.


It is a customary singularity in my experience that many folk will think I am a fine fellow of the highest moral fiber for several years only to be shocked by some random event or remark to learn that I am in fact a “complicated” individual. “Complicated” meaning that I am a raging, self-absorbed hypocrite of the first order. “Complicated” further in that I am fully aware of my hypocrisy and I do not feel the slightest discomfort with this wicked distinction in my character. What is more, hypocrisy is the least significant character trait which goes into making me such a malefactor.


As you might imagine, the sudden phase-shift from thinking another is a fine fellow for whom you thought you understood to knowing he is a rather dark person you never in fact knew and you are unlikely to ever decipher …well, things are never the same. For one, trust takes a perpetual nosedive. For another, the fact, that this exposure of his “nakedness” does not in the least shame this bad actor toward repentance and reformation, is disturbing in and of itself.


All of which brings me to those who are sincerely concerned for my emotional welfare. The supposition is that I must the grieving over the loss of my foot. Perhaps wallowing in self-pity. Perhaps suffering a festering doubt in the promises of my faith triggered by the amputation I had prayed God would save me from. All these persons are no doubt quite genuine in their solicitude; but their concerns are misplaced.


I have never ever felt any sense of grieving or self-pity—much less a challenge to my faith—by these recent events. I do not regret having my foot removed. There is not a doubt in my mind that I did the right thing. I am at peace with it. I was at peace with it before I made my decision. Many people have found my reaction to my amputation jarring. It is not what they expect. Some refusing to believe that this is really where I’m at.


I am not surprised that some will not take what I say at face value. What I find exasperating are the unbending interrogations by those who believe they are plunging the depths of my soul to dredge up what they are certain are more “authentic” emotions. What rubbish!


[A tangent thought on the above. A little thought experiment. What exact good are these interrogators trying to achieve? For a moment, suppose the effected individual really is in denial about his real feelings. Suppose also an interloper labored mightily to lift that denial away in order to confront the individual with those raw emotions and thoughts. Why should one think that by excavating those feelings he was doing his friend any favors?


Denial is a defense mechanism. Defense mechanisms are called “defense mechanisms” for a reason. Not all defense mechanisms are bad or maladaptive. In fact, in most situations they are quite healthy as well as natural. It is a mistake to think a person can do all of the time what he can only do sometimes. An event can easily overload the senses and intellect to stunning effect. To prevent this overload, a defense mechanism is raised as a shield. At some remove, when the toxic intensity has receded, the shield will be lowered and the individual can begin to accept and cope.
Unless one is a professional, leave other people’s minds alone. If you are a professional, proceed with caution mindful of the limitations of your craft.]


At the present moment, after nearly a month in the hospital followed by a two week tour in a rehab hospital, I am sitting in my very own bedroom at home. My “residual limb” is all wrapped up. The aim is to mold my “stump” into a shape conducive to wearing my forthcoming peg-leg. My bedroom overflows with all sorts of medical supplies. I have a new wheelchair and a hospital grade rolling sitting stool. I have a bedside commode—which I never use but there it is. I also have a new ottoman to prop up my legs. More importantly, my family has brought my desktop computer up from my office in the basement. I try to rearrange everything so my bedroom won’t seem so crowded; but no matter what I do, it is a lost cause. Oh, well. What did I expect?


I think I’ll rest my pen here. More later. I promise.


My heartfelt thanks to all those who have wished me well. To all those who wished me ill, ** yours too!












REHAB HOSPITAL AND JUST DESERTS





“…for He [The Father] maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust”. (Matthew: Fifth Chapter)


So I have lost part of my right leg: my foot and much below my knee. Yes…it is something of a bummer. While necessary, axing my foot off seemed like an inelegant resolution to my dilemma.


As much I wanted to go home, the medical staff would not let me. I had to go to a rehab hospital. No rehab hospital…no discharge. I couldn’t get my family to sneak me out the hospital while the nurses weren’t looking; so rehab hospital it was.


Two long weeks in rehab. If you’ve never been in one, it is just like being in a regular hospital. Endless taking of vitals. Blood draws. Having to tell them your name and birthdate all the time. Being woke up at all hours of the night so they could get those vitals and draw blood. All this plus six hours a day of physical and occupational therapy. All this to teach you how to get around and cope with home sweet home. Trying to walk on one foot using parallel bars. Lifting weights. Learning how to transfer yourself from wheelchair to bed and chair. The only thing that stands out is “learning” how to take a shower. My two instructors were two very pretty and shapely young nurses assisting me while I sat on the shower bench naked as pealed grape. It was not even close to being as sexy as it sounds. They were unflappably professional and kept their clothes on.


But in the end, I got to go home, discard everything they taught me, and figure out how to get around in the house I actually live in. It was a long two months. Finally, I was issued my peg-leg; now everything is much better. Except…some days when I wake up, I forget I do not have both feet and, with sleep still in my eyes, try to get up to walk. A few times I have tripped over myself. But most of the time, when I try to walk in such a sleepy state, I am halted by the fracas it takes to kick off my covers. My loving wife smiles and gets all superior about it at my expense. It’s funny that way.


In the many messages sent my way, certain mocking birds who like to believe they are “without superstition” have chimed in: “You thought your bronze-age sky-god saved you from getting an amputation. Guess he didn’t listen...or more likely he doesn’t exist at all.” They snicker this making no attempt to hide their satisfaction. We know what their story is. I have dealt with these ill-tempered souls long enough to know there is simply no speaking with them. Let them be. However, those who themselves retain a modicum of “superstition” have their own trepidations.


Some among fellow believers kinda hem and haw around it; but what they want to ask (and many do in more “cloaked” manners) is “Why did God let this happen to you—especially you, a man of boundless faith?”


The first thing that comes to me is how remarkable it is to have fooled them into thinking I am a man of great faith. As one of Irish descent, I share in common with other Irish folk the malady that, the further an Irishman gets with the sacred Éire soil, the crazier he gets. In other words, some may believe you have exhibited actions indicating a special closeness to the Almighty when you are in fact just plain nuts.


As an Irishman, there also an element in one’s flesh and blood which, nonchalantly nurtured, makes for a natural con-man. Oh, yes…we have the gift. The Irish take particular pride in having a rebel or horse thief as an ancestor. They also feel a unique delight in their ability to pull one over fellow sinners.


That some mistake me for a man of great faith, when I am in fact a rank hypocrite and a reprobate, fetches a chuckle in my heart. This doesn’t bother me even close to what it should. Indeed, I derive no small satisfaction from this achievement. Many a folk have learned enough to recognize my fraud; however, it doesn’t bother me when they do. Without a doubt, I experience the joy something akin the rambunctious glee when one’s target realizes he has been at the receiving end of the practical joke you’ve played on him.


In my moments of self-reflection, I must plead guilty to occasionally feeling bored with my rather frail faith. You know, periodically you just get tired of beer and want to move on to something stronger—like bourbon. It’s like that. Consequently, sometimes I am compelled pray: “Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief”. (OK, I’m plagiarizing from the Gospel of Mark, so sue me.) But I stress…this happens only at times. For the greater part, I am quite comfortable in my spiritual lassitude. Dietrich Bonhoeffer pooh-poohed chasing after “cheap grace”; but I am always happy to get in on bargain basement prices.


Even so, if only for a moment, let us be courteous and entertain the original question: “Why did God let this happen to you?”


As it happens, what many people actually want to know is a shortened, more compact version of the question. What they really wonder is this: “Of all the people of the world this could happen to, WHY YOU”? Thousands of folk lead more despicable lives. (Debatable.) Certainly many others exercise a far more a careless and unhealthy lifestyle than you ever have. (You might want to rethink that one after taking stock of my table manners.) Aren’t they more deserving? WHY YOU? You’re so loveable.


Truth be told, that I’m so loveable is beyond question. Female folk frequently flirt and cuddle up to me while engaging in enjoyable conversation--often pleasurably revealing their most deep personal secrets. Small children spontaneously climb into my lap just to hear my voice and listen to my many charming stories. Grown men beam with smiles, shake my hand, slap me on the back, and buy me several rounds of adult beverages while enlisting me in stimulating intellectual conversation or telling me about their latest cutting-edge woodworking projects.


But then again even the most dastardly scoundrels have their charm. I am a member in good standing in the Dastardly Scoundrels Association; so I know a thing or two about this. Psychology 101 tutors us that there is a vital distinction to be made between personality and character. Let me explain. I am sure, if you think about it, you have known at least one at least one enchanting, delightful “Cary Grant” whose moral fiber absolutely reeks. You liked him immensely and enjoyed his company; but you also knew (or now know if only in retrospect) you should have kept your distance from him for your own good. I modestly submit that I am one such “Cary Grant”. “Cary Grant” or “Clark Gable”. I obligingly haven’t made up my mind thus far.


Nevertheless, leaving aside my amiable wicked ways, I must admit to retaining a modest assortment of virtues. I may do the right things for the wrong reason; but do them I do. This is no great accomplishment, I assure you. The situation is analogous to the teacher who promised she would give you an “A” on the test if you answered every question wrong. This seems like a breeze at first but in reality a trap has been laid just waiting for you. You’ll go merrily along marking off every dumb answer on the test when…snap!!!...the cage door is shut and you are bolted inside. Somewhere, the most improbable answer will turn out to be a small cog in how the world actually works. A “truth stranger than fiction” kind of thing. Given a test of sufficient length, it is virtually impossible to get every question wrong. Doubt it? Next time you’re in class taking an exam, just try it.


In the same way, just try to go through life without preening around in some virtue. You can’t do it. You may do so in spite of yourself. You might catch yourself doing it after the fact. You might try to take it back. But in the Big Black Book in heaven, you will get a mark on the plus side nonetheless. Your one shining moment of virtue won’t be enough to be an entirely redeeming quality; but a shining moment of virtue it will remain.


In this sense, all of you, for better or worse, are quite like myself—if only in this limited persuasion. Definitely not a celestial angel—but not quite a hellish fiend either. Consequently, in the grand scheme of things, I am not sufficiently different enough from the abundant mass of mankind to deserve having my foot lopped off. For that matter, neither are you. So what gives?


There is one answer that blows away the smoke hovering over this conundrum. As Clint Eastwood said in one of his movies: “Deservin’ ain’t got nothing to do with it”.


When we were small children, we were told that life isn’t fair and there is precious little justice in the world. Naturally, we didn’t believe it. Grownups, after all, have a way of pronouncing easy absolutions on themselves for their iniquities and abuses. Repeating “life isn’t fair” from the adult catechism was just an all-purpose justification for a whole variety of maldiferous behavior. As grownups, we often forget this judicious diagnosis we made as children. Worse, when we pull out this article from the catechism, we actually end up thinking we’ve succeeded in selling this bamboozle to our children. Regrettably, as right as children are about adults, they draw the entirely wrong conclusion believing the whole “life isn’t fair” mantra is bogus altogether. The stark truth is life really isn’t fair and we were never issued an operator’s manual promising us it would be.


Ever since Eve decided to be a busybody and stick her nose where it didn’t belong, the human lot has been a mixed bag. We are all ooze the same vexing human frailty. In addition, the world is one messy muddled creation.


We all embezzle from the unbought grace of life. Much of life is pure blessing and loveliness—and one mustn’t minimize that. I, for one, count on it and I stick my hand inside that cookie jar as often the opportunity presents itself.


On the other hand, life is prolific in tragedies and shortcomings. In each of our times, we dwell amongst what seems like an incalculable number of natural, existential evils. Death, scarcity, sickness, violence, bad whiskey, and suffering immediately come to mind. Much of these are outcomes of our own indiscretions. But not everything that happens to us (both good and evil) is a consequence of what we have done and we would be foolish to think otherwise. Much of the time, the search to find fault is misplaced. Like those huge SETI dishes scanning the skies for signals from extraterrestrial civilizations on distant worlds, all that comes back is radio silence.


If you grew up in the late nineteen-sixties and early seventies, as I had, one maturated with the conceit that we loved nature more than the generations who came before us. One heard a lot of verbal dysentery about “becoming one with nature”. That my contemporaries loved the natural world more than the previous generations was not particularly factual. And whatever benefit may be found in “becoming one with nature”, it begs the question if that were even possible. I also don’t believe we fully thought through what it could mean.


When we reflect on nature, we are inclined to think of green forests, blue waters, sunny skies and fair winds. Perhaps this appeals to you. For me, not so much. I like my oversized, eight cylinder gas-guzzler and I don’t care how many miles of “old growth” forests in takes to lay a road to where I want to go. Be that as it may, genuine nature is more problematic.


All the children of men come into life and are nurtured in the bosom of the Great Earth Mother. Nevertheless, she is also immensely hostile. Whether one colors inside or outside the lines, disaster can befall you at any moment. To add insult to injury, she is quite impartial about it—although she does seem to spin the roulette wheel. Some last into an old age having lived a rich and full life. Others depart from this world too early-- leaving a lot of unfinished business.


So, you lose your foot. You’re a diabetic; but there are thousands upon thousands of diabetics who go through their entire lives never to lose a limb. You may look at everyone around you—they missed the bullet but not you. “Why me?”, you may plead. “Why did you pick me?”


If you have a friend…a real friend…he would reply: “Why not you?”


“…for He [The Father] maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust” says the Good Book.


A lot of putrid rubbish has been written and said about why the Lord lets bad things happen to good people. The “problem of evil” they call it. Many have lost sleep and had doubt fester while struggling to find an answer. As much as it has been tried to twist an answer out of the Scriptures, the simple truth is that they make no attempt to justify the ways of God to us. Quite the opposite. They sternly spurn any effort to interrogate God and put Him on trial.


It is said our Lord has a “right hand” and a ‘left hand”. The right hand is what He reveals to us. This is the God we are to worship, love, and take into our hearts. The left hand is that about which He chooses not to take us into His confidence. This is also the God we are to worship and love—but those things He does not disclose to us are to be left to Him. Loving God also means learning to trust Him. Saying “God is good” is not an objective, observable fact. If we were to get down to cases, much in life would put that thesis very much in doubt. Believing that God is good is a matter of faith—not that anyone should regard me as an authority on the subject. All I know about it comes from the old magazines at the dentist’s office.


Of course, many will feel it only makes sense that a wicked reprobate such as myself would receive divine punishment by having my foot hacked off. Maybe so. But I suppose it all depends on one’s point of view. God has His own purposes it is said. In my case, as I came to see, the taking of my foot saved my life.










TRIBULATIONS AND THE BLESSINGS OF PROSTHETIC SCIENCE





September 17, 2017


Particularly after a tempestuous foxtrot with death, there is nothing like getting a new lease in life—--and a renewed dedication for continuing diabolical machinations against my fellow man. My cascade of wicked deeds, you must understand, is completely impartial—or “inclusive” as the Equality-Nazis would have it. They are disseminated to friend and foe alike. And why not?


One can go off the working theory that at some level everyone is a jerk; but deservin’ ain’t got nothing to do with it. As I’ve plead guilty before, at first glance, I’m a great, sweet dude; but, as one gets to know me better: what you see is not what you get. You will be certain to learn what a devious rank hypocrite I am. Pretty creative at it too. What is more, I am perfectly comfortable with my fraudulent character and transgressions. No attempt to shame me has been to any avail. I am well aware of my true self. Take it or leave it.


You may well be astonished to know how well this works. Your intuitions might lead you to believe a majority of men and womenfolk would “leave it”. You would be quite mistaken. Most choose to superbly “take it”. I am one of those charming scoundrels you would be well advised to avoid--but you just can’t help enjoy hanging around.


But we’ve been over all this before.


After losing a fair amount of my right leg, I had to make an uncomfortable sum of adjustments. More about that later though. In my previous missives, I selfishly neglected to mention that, while I was miserably ensconced in the rehab hospital, my sweet, loving wife suffered a distressing incidence of congestive heart failure.


On that fateful Saturday, Linda had made a long tender visit to me that day and as the evening progressed she decided she had had enough of me and that it was finally time to go home. Once in our palatial abode, she immediately got into bed and went into a peaceful sleep. Shortly before midnight, however, she awoke to the sensation that she was drowning. Waters filled her mouth and breathe which she could not expel from either. She faltered her way into the hallway where she collapsed to the floor making garbled pleas for help. My grandchildren couldn’t understand what was happening; but our daughter, Erin, quickly summed up what was going on. She immediately called for an ambulance. Soon—although not nearly as swiftly as she would have liked--Linda was whisked away and taken to the nearby hospital.


Once in the ER, doctors and nurses attended to her plight and, thankfully, her distress was soon amended. Linda felt quite better and desired to go home; but her doctors thought better of it and admitted her into the cardiac ward.


The next day, Erin came for a visit to me. When I asked her how things were at home, she responded with a wistful “aaaaaaaah”. Erin then told me of the previous night’s misadventure knowing that it would cause me no small anguish. My first torment, of course, was for Linda’s wellbeing. The second was the anguish was that I couldn’t even go to see her as I was imprisoned there in the rehab hospital. The third and most suitable response was “but who’ll take care of me”?


Not to worry. Linda was discharged to following Monday—barely two days after her admission. Still, it came not too soon for her. Like me, she found it almost impossible to rest as the nurses regularly checked her vitals every two hours and physicians came and went. All these pains to assist one back to health can be quite a nuisance.


She ferried home and rested (somewhat) for a single week. As is her want, she returned to work the following Monday--although her superiors had told her she could and should take more time off to recuperate. Their insistence was noted and dismissed. Not only had she returned to work, Linda resumed attending to the needs of my daughter and grandchildren. Linda is one tough cookie; so this came as little surprise to those who knew her.


Unfortunately, this not would be the end of her tribulations.


Days later, I was released from the rehab hospital and once home I began to adjust to my new circumstances. Sometime two weeks later, Linda was refilling my tumbler of bourbon and trimming the crusts off my sandwiches. It was then she first complained of abdominal pains. She thought it must have been something she ate. I immediately reprimanded her for disturbing my television viewing and promptly she faithfully apologized. But her pains persisted for the next following several days during which she became a veritable geyser of complaints.


Linda’s plight turned very grave. On Saturday, her pains became quite acute and she began to wonder if she was suffering an intestinal blockage or something like appendicitis. Linda asked me if I thought it would be a good idea to go to the hospital. It was clear it wouldn’t be wise to wait several days for a doctor’s appointment; so it met my approval that she should go. Erin ran her to the ER where it was swiftly determined it was indeed a case of appendicitis. She was going to need surgery.


Here Linda was again a patient in the “krankenhaus”. Regrettably, her operation couldn’t take place until Monday afternoon. The surgical schedule was just that stacked up and her appendicitis was not deemed to be that urgent.


Monday came and Linda’s surgery was slated for 3.00p. Erin and I arrived shortly after noon to keep her company. It was expected the nurses would come for her at about 2.00p to take her away for surgical prep. But 2.00p came and went. Then 3.00p came and went.


At 4.00p, the nurses in Linda’s unit explained that many of the surgical procedures thus far had taken longer than planned. (A rather common occurrence.) Hopefully, they would be back for her shortly. But it was not to be.


During all that time, I began to feel cold. I thought perhaps it was the air conditioning—although air conditioning rarely bothers me. Linda’s nurse kindly provided a warm blanket for me. At first the blanket provided some welcome relief. But as the hours passed I became increasingly cold and an additional blanket did not improve matters. I began to feel very ill. Fearing that I had picked up some sort of flu and Linda’s surgery seemed to be nowhere in sight, Erin took me home sometime around five o’clock.


It was distressing I couldn’t be there for Linda; but, then again, I was doing her little good sickened as I was. Once home, I went to my bedroom and wrapped myself in a thick comforter. At first, I tried to watch television; but after a while I realized I wasn’t pay it any attention so I turned it off. I then drifted in and out of slumber.


Somewhere around nine o’clock, my son, Sean, and his wife, Christa, dropped by after their visit to Linda. Linda still hadn’t been taken to surgery. It was late, but they decided to check on me before they went home.


What they found was a woeful paterfamilias tightly blanketed in a dark room. It was a very hot day, but I hadn’t turned on the air conditioner, and so the room was a roasting hell. Nonetheless I was freezing. They tried to talk to me; but my replies were rambling, indiscriminately inappropriate, and vaguely unsuitable. Even though I was unwell, I somewhat remember being amused by their bewilderment. Then notion arose in Christa’s head to strong arm me into going to the ER; but I didn’t want to go. All I wanted to do was sleep.


After repeated unsuccessful requests for me to consent to be taken to the hospital. Christa and Sean called for an ambulance hoping the EMTs would compel me to go. So here they came--taking my vitals and asking me all sorts of nonsense. They pestered me until I gave in. As any intelligence officer will tell you, eventually everyone breaks under torture.


I dreaded being kept in the ER; but there I was anyway. Being a Saturday night, all the drunks and drug overdoses were there with an unusually large compliment of police officers. A couple of stations down, a girl was screaming her lungs out. A bad reaction to methamphetamine they said. Couldn’t they stuff a rag in her mouth? Sadly, “no”, they said.


Nurses and doctors went from place to place while the police officers paced the floor--occasionally striking up a conversation here and there. The minutes stretched into long interminable hours. The worst of it was that it felt like my tailbone was being drilled into the hard metal gurney.


No matter how I changed positions, the intense pain in my undercarriage persisted. I reported this menace to my nurses. “Yep…these tables are sure hard”, they volunteered. Big help. They offered to put an extra pillow behind my back but it wasn’t my back that was brutalizing me. It was my damn tailbone.


My anguish persisted as I continually twisted and turned—getting entangled in the IVs sticking in my arm and monitor cables patched to my chest. My daughter, Erin, sat with me but she was powerless to compel any relief from the medical staff for me—all she could do was anxiously watch. The monitors tattletaled all sorts of biological indicators on which she kept a close eye. At one point, I suddenly withered to the gurney. It was at this time Erin witnessed from one of the monitors an abrupt drop in my blood pressure.


At long last, the nurses rushed to take me upstairs to my patient room. They transferred me to a large patient bed and then sped me down the hallway and up the elevator with the confusion of IVs and monitors in tow. Lights, doors and people flashed by until we backed into the cardiac unit. It was a curious place to put me I thought; but at least my downtrodden coccyx no longer sent lightning bolts up my spine.


More medical nuisance transpired. Endless requests for me to recite my name and birthdate with every taking of vitals and replacement of IV solutions. At long last, I was left alone. Erin gave me her leave for home. Now at long last I could sleep.


Except I couldn’t.


I could see by the clock it was just before four in the morning. No one told me what happened to Linda. Did she come out of her surgery O.K.? For that matter, did she have her surgery? Was her room close to mine? The night staff couldn’t tell me anything. Although I was her loving husband, those dastardly Federal regulations made them unsure they were even allowed to look up the information. An argument for smaller government if there ever was one.


I had four or five plastic bags of fluids dripping into my IV. As the morning passed, the nurses replaced one particular container every two hours—it turned out to be a rather aggressive, powerful antibiotic. This meant I was fighting another infection. This was cause for concern. When they took my lower leg, did it turn out they were unsuccessful in removing all the infection after all? Would this mean I was to lose even more of my leg?


About mid-morning, the parade of doctors made their appearances one after another. As it turned out, the inflection was fairly minor and would clear up in a few days. The potent antibiotic was there to make sure what was minor didn’t blow up into a raging catastrophe. Then my cardiologist turned up for what I thought was merely a friendly visit.


“You realize you had a heart attack while you were in the ER.”


This astonished me.


“I was really uncomfortable and in pain; but I didn’t have a heart attack. No one rushed in and treated me for one while I was there.”


“Oh, yes. You did have a cardiac event. Your lab work shows you did. We can tell these things by your blood test series. The blood-draw when you first arrived in the ER was neutral; but your later draws were positive.”


“Now we want to schedule you for the cath-lab and insert a stint if that’s what you need.
”
“No”, I said.


When my cardiologist suggested I submit to one more surgery, my ordeal in recovery after my amputation immediately came to mind. The thought of having a respirator stuffed down my throat for hours was more than I imagined I could endure.
There was another concern which came to mind—however irrational it might have been. During my previous last couple of surgeries, the medical staff had trouble restoring my blood pressure while in the surgery suite and the post-op recovery room. I thought of how a slowly I returned to normal. And, as my blood pressure was so low, they did not administer anything for pain.


What if next time my blood pressure never returned to normal? What if the pain put me into an unrecoverable terminal shock? Well, I would die. Not a desirable outcome to be sure.


My cardiologist was befuddled by my uncustomary lack of cooperation. Nonetheless, he soon sized up the situation and dropped the matter.


After a few days, they sent me home. Relief at last! Don’t misunderstand me, I implore you. The hospital staff were very nice and supportive—never a cross word or disapproving facial expression. Not to mention, the nurses were tremendously shapely and easy on the eyes. But, merciful heavens, medical manipulations and bloodlettings are grievously taxing on body and soul.


Once again, it was left to me how to cope with only one foot. I had to throw out everything they taught me in the rehab hospital and learn how to meet the challenges of real life: the hospital was one thing—home was another. While in the bedroom, one could “motorvate” around in a wheelchair. The complication with that is that the doorways in most residential homes are not wide enough to accommodate wheelchairs. Even when merely I was going to take a shower or go to the bathroom, this presented a problem. Accordingly, one is reduced to getting on one’s hands and knees and scuttle across the floor. I hadn’t done any such crawling since I was precocious one year old. How absolutely humiliating! Crawling around at front of my loving wife was one thing; but doing so for my grandchildren to witness was rather another. It is not in my nature to be humble; so it was entertaining for them to witness.


My reduced circumstances also required me to ask for help for even the slightest undertakings. Preparing my food, delivering my meals, washing my unwholesome clothing, helping me answer the phone, carting off my cups and plates, retrieving my mail…all necessitating an unaccustomed patience and no small amount of forbearance on their part.


Then was the time I fell crossways into the bathtub and, unable to pry my way out, they had to respond to my cries for rescue and hoist their naked grandfather to safety. Modesty and nobility were not the bywords of the day for Grandpa.


Going to my various doctor appointments required snaking around to the front door. From there, auspiciously, it allowed my daughter to wheelchair me to the car. Getting into the car necessitated a marvelous set of gymnastics on my part; but I eventually learned how to perform these with some skill and composure.


Of course, during all this time, thousands sent various missives asking all sorts of questions. The most pointed one comes from Gordon in Scotland: “But Crabby, what about your new leg?”


Well…let’s get to that.


Finally at long last the day came for me to be fitted with my peg-leg (prostheses). Erin and I eagerly arrived for my appointment which had already been rescheduled twice before. The gentlemen who fashioned my peg-leg, however, were concerned my shortened leg might be too swollen that day and so perhaps I should come back another time. I was having none of that. While in the great scheme of things three months waiting to walk again after my amputation would be only a minor chapter in life, I was determined to make this work.


Peg-leg fitted on, I proceeded to stand up and stomp in one stationary place on the floor with the aid a walker; but it wouldn’t fasten itself into place. The peg-leg gentlemen again suggested I come back another time; but I insisted we would make it succeed this time.


After forty vexing minutes, I did exactly what they told me not to do: I took to walking across the room. Three steps in, we heard the much anticipated “click” sound—meaning the peg-leg was firmly snapped into place.


The kind gentlemen then took me to another part of the building to a room that looked very much like a gym. It had all sorts of dumbbells, weights and exercise machines so it must have been some sort of gym.


Again, with aid of a walker, they asked me to cautiously walk a little ways. I took off and walked across the room and back two or three times—much to their consternation. Erin got out her cellphone and filmed me amble around the room to send to my loving wife.


I must confess that as I walked I emitted a few tears of pure joy.


I could now walk all over the house. Granted, I could not amble up and down all the aisles of a grocery store. (At this early stage, agony would set in if I took too many steps and strolled too far.) Even so, at least now I could get out of the car and walk to the pew in my favorite saloon or, lamentably, the waiting room at the doctor’s office. This may not sound like much; but it’s a whole world of difference to me.


What may be regrettable to the public at large is that I am free to once again return to prosecuting my wicked intrigues. I prefer to think machinations these make the world that much of a better place. Sure, one might think the world already has all the malevolence it needs. But you can never have too much obnoxiousness for the task toward lowering the lofty flights of virtuous idealism.


John Lennon sang raptures about a world without religion, possessions, countries, and a brotherhood of man; but I have nothing but contempt for such talk. Rivers of blood and suffering flow from such romantic notions. A wicked rogue I may be; but the earth groans beneath this cancer of such proud morality.


So, you might look at it this way: I am just the right medicine the earth needs! It sort of levels things out. Be that it as it may, I wouldn’t encourage you to entertain this heroic notion of me too much. Don’t imagine I am some white knight beneath black armor. I am too much a coward to charge at dragons—even if the prize were some lovely damsel in distress. Besides, I have my reputation to uphold


My…I do go on! I do apologize for bending your ear so long. When the Lord’s shameful servant is rescued by His hand, we have the bad habit of bragging about it.


Until next time. Now…it’s time for my supper!





Posted by at No comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)