This is not exactly a "vent," according to the technical requirements of venting, nor is it a pot pourri, as defined many times in this blog. You can refresh yourself of the sad history of rotten earthenware on elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle by fecklessly clicking HERE.
As for "venting," I'd go there in a heartbeat -- perhaps it's all I ever do -- but the thought of passing gas in the midst of a gastrointestinal bleed that cannot decide whether to resolve or seep, well, you understand. And if you don't, well God bless your sweet little heart and maybe you should consider hanging out elsewhere, hmm?
It's an upper bleed, born of my need for anti-inflammatories. See, Ma? I told you it wasn't the crack and the meth and the fentanyl or the percocets that were gonna bring me down! It's the Mobic and the ibuprofen, not to mention that fiendish aspirin protocol, those deceptively sweet little 81 mg aspirin doses meant for gurgling, chubby babies. Those fiendish back-alley drugs sold by tottering toddlers in droopy diaper drawers.
While I am blessing simpler minds and hearts, let me also praise the television and the brilliance of its offerings today. You see, changing the channel has become difficult, much as standing, sitting, rolling over, and begging for bonita flakes have become terrible tasks. Of course, I may be slightly confused, as my O2 sats are averaging a whopping 84. I don't beg for bonito flakes. Buddy begs for bonito flakes. So where the television was when it was extinguished in the wee hours is where it stayed, mostly, today, under the terse glare of my double vision.
I watched three Dirty Harry movies in a row. I'd never seen one before, not in its entirety (there's a clue for ya!).
Being a member of the simpler-minded set, the "dirty" in Dirty Harry began to bug me. I started to itch. Putting on my thinking cap, and vaguely wondering what-the-hell-is-that-musty-odor? -- I began to calculate, by counting backward through the momentous events that mark my days, when last I showered.
Hmmm, thought I, the Mathematician. I knew The Calculus would serve me one day. A liberal arts education is not yet bereft of all use! And do you remember the guy who tutored me, O My Goodness. Joe the Football Player and Math Whiz. A cutie-pie. A sweetie-poo. His jeans weren't in style but they fit well, and we liked each other. I hope Joe the Football Player and Math Whiz had a good life. He surely deserved one.
Umm, yes, well, anyway, it turns out to have been the morning we went dashing through the rain to the Emergency Room... last Monday. No... that's not right. It was the Monday before THAT, 10 December.
Upon which realization, I made showering the sole goal of my day, to the relief of Fred, the Feline Triumvirate, and the Cistercian Brotherhood (apparently there has been a freakish shift in wind patterns, lo this past fortnight).
I must insist, as I have before, that I am not dirty. I bathe daily, just not in the confines of a bathtub or shower. Judicious use of a well-stocked half-bath, often two to three times in a day, keeps me as clean as your average person. But we all know there's nothing like a shower, and certainly nothing feels so good as warm water streaming down an accursed bowed back.
This time, I refrained from scrubbing my feet, as that proved to be such a distraction to the medic-types in the hospital. "Ew... your feet are bleeding." They even called in the Wound Care Team, which consisted of two timid young folk, quivering at the end of the bed, saying: "Ew... your feet are bleeding."
Moving right along, the shower is done, and the Dirty Harry marathon, as well. I made a stab at changing the channel and hit upon, in sequence, The Sound of Music and The Return of the King, last of the trilogy. Thank you, Peter Jackson. Pippin just sang a plaintive tune to the finger-licking Denethor, Steward of Gondor. That's one messed up Daddy -- though the influence of Mordor can do that to a man.
Which brings to mind a hilarious series of tweets, strung together by Todd Zwillich some time back. I love 'em and know you will, too. It was his moment of personal insanity over the often insanity producing topic of the bleeping "fiscal cliff."
As for "venting," I'd go there in a heartbeat -- perhaps it's all I ever do -- but the thought of passing gas in the midst of a gastrointestinal bleed that cannot decide whether to resolve or seep, well, you understand. And if you don't, well God bless your sweet little heart and maybe you should consider hanging out elsewhere, hmm?
It's an upper bleed, born of my need for anti-inflammatories. See, Ma? I told you it wasn't the crack and the meth and the fentanyl or the percocets that were gonna bring me down! It's the Mobic and the ibuprofen, not to mention that fiendish aspirin protocol, those deceptively sweet little 81 mg aspirin doses meant for gurgling, chubby babies. Those fiendish back-alley drugs sold by tottering toddlers in droopy diaper drawers.
While I am blessing simpler minds and hearts, let me also praise the television and the brilliance of its offerings today. You see, changing the channel has become difficult, much as standing, sitting, rolling over, and begging for bonita flakes have become terrible tasks. Of course, I may be slightly confused, as my O2 sats are averaging a whopping 84. I don't beg for bonito flakes. Buddy begs for bonito flakes. So where the television was when it was extinguished in the wee hours is where it stayed, mostly, today, under the terse glare of my double vision.
I watched three Dirty Harry movies in a row. I'd never seen one before, not in its entirety (there's a clue for ya!).
Being a member of the simpler-minded set, the "dirty" in Dirty Harry began to bug me. I started to itch. Putting on my thinking cap, and vaguely wondering what-the-hell-is-that-musty-odor? -- I began to calculate, by counting backward through the momentous events that mark my days, when last I showered.
Hmmm, thought I, the Mathematician. I knew The Calculus would serve me one day. A liberal arts education is not yet bereft of all use! And do you remember the guy who tutored me, O My Goodness. Joe the Football Player and Math Whiz. A cutie-pie. A sweetie-poo. His jeans weren't in style but they fit well, and we liked each other. I hope Joe the Football Player and Math Whiz had a good life. He surely deserved one.
Umm, yes, well, anyway, it turns out to have been the morning we went dashing through the rain to the Emergency Room... last Monday. No... that's not right. It was the Monday before THAT, 10 December.
Upon which realization, I made showering the sole goal of my day, to the relief of Fred, the Feline Triumvirate, and the Cistercian Brotherhood (apparently there has been a freakish shift in wind patterns, lo this past fortnight).
I must insist, as I have before, that I am not dirty. I bathe daily, just not in the confines of a bathtub or shower. Judicious use of a well-stocked half-bath, often two to three times in a day, keeps me as clean as your average person. But we all know there's nothing like a shower, and certainly nothing feels so good as warm water streaming down an accursed bowed back.
This time, I refrained from scrubbing my feet, as that proved to be such a distraction to the medic-types in the hospital. "Ew... your feet are bleeding." They even called in the Wound Care Team, which consisted of two timid young folk, quivering at the end of the bed, saying: "Ew... your feet are bleeding."
Moving right along, the shower is done, and the Dirty Harry marathon, as well. I made a stab at changing the channel and hit upon, in sequence, The Sound of Music and The Return of the King, last of the trilogy. Thank you, Peter Jackson. Pippin just sang a plaintive tune to the finger-licking Denethor, Steward of Gondor. That's one messed up Daddy -- though the influence of Mordor can do that to a man.
Which brings to mind a hilarious series of tweets, strung together by Todd Zwillich some time back. I love 'em and know you will, too. It was his moment of personal insanity over the often insanity producing topic of the bleeping "fiscal cliff."
[i *totaly* messed up that slick copy and paste maneuver, apologies!]
I can't go to movie theatres anymore -- that's right, I've been universally banned -- so The Hobbit being out is about killing me. Have any of you Dear Readers seen it? Was it wonderful?
When I dropped the bomb about having been granted DNR status and offered Hospice palliative care during this last hearsepital stay, I thought there'd be an uproar. Instead, there's been a studious refusal to discuss it. I am in a quandry, as I don't feel much like talking about it, either, but really, really would be angry were it to be screwed up in application... so I am trying to figure out the right time to broach this oh-so-celebratory topic. All I know is... bless one Dr. Montgomery, who helped me NOT to go to pieces but to articulate my wishes in a sane and sensible manner.
So I am thinking the best time to spring the discussion on the old Loved Ones is between the Yule Log and the popping of the 2013 cork. And to cross every available digit in the hope that nothing happens between now and then.
As usual, not the post I set out to write. Not a vent, not a pot pourri, not even something I'd choose to proof or edit.
It turned out like some kind of underseasoned, overthought side dish.
Needs salt.
