while my schizophrenic heart hardly allows me peace to live comfortably while seeking personal enlightenment as a single man or enjoying a "for better or for worse" situation with another human, it does know one thing.
i think it knows anyway. btw, i should pause here to provide a bit of proof of the aforementioned enlightenment: normally i refer to my heart and follow up with an, "or where my heart would be if i had one" or a "or the lump of coal i got instead of a heart" type of rejoinder. self-effacing or pre-emptive? you know i can't commit to either.
so, here's what my heart knows: i am not a sex addict or sexual compulsive.
which is something.
this thought started kicking around a few months ago when i went to work at my new job. turns out an old friend of mine works there too, albeit in a completely different part of the world. when he and i used to live in the same city and hang around together he was going through his sexual compulsives program. it was interesting to watch that journey and be there as a friend for him as he experienced it..
but a little part of me always wondered if my frequent hook ups or the not insignificant amount of time i dedicated to getting laid could indicate i was in denial of a similar problem. i always joked and said it was "vigilance, like looking for a clean restroom on a road trip" because you never know where your next opportunity will come or "boredom", kind of ripping off gilbert gottfried on that last one.
now i have answered that question. at the ripe old age of-let's say-37.
no. i am not. (in case you missed that earlier)
here's how i decided. and, no...it wasn't the fact that i was in a relationship for 6 years. simply going without sex for that long does not indicate you are free of sexual compulsion.
the summer heatwave of '09 hit seattle as i began to acknowledge these thoughts burbling to the surface of my subconscious. while i more frequently found myself tending to my small forest of foliage in my condo-watering, removing dried leaves or aged blossoms-i realized that i had stopped chiding myself, or amusing myself as it were, with the thought that i don't own plants but rather slowly kill them. then a few days ago i remembered the relationship guide for a recovering sex addict including keeping a plant alive for a year, moving into a pet and then maybe a relationship with another.
that's what it was. i can keep a plant alive. many of them. although some are less needing of caretaking than others and there are some that did not do as well under my green-esque thumb (just getting ahead of the silver fox's claim to reviving my schefflera when he inherited it as i moved from portland to seattle) i can care enough for the needs of another thing-and, ostensibly, that would include another human.
so what the hell am i doing single? what of those claims that i am too picky, always disqualifying people for habits i deem to be negative or other shortcomings? through some miracle, i am not going to bore you with my laundry list of those attributes i find to be disqualifiers.
the reason i am not dating is simple.
i'm not going to date simply to prove i can. in my opinion, that's why there are so many break ups and jaded and bitter people out there. people are dating-hopefully-just because they can. more realistically, they are probably dating to cover up the fact that they need to have their sexual appetite fed. which is to say they are dating for validation. again, that's why there are so many break ups. once that validation ends, the need is to move on to the next source of validation to provide what one isn't providing for oneself. that cycle continues until these folks find the one person that can provide that validation for them (themselves), another soul that is as co-dependent as they are or as afraid of what being alone suggests about them to the world (love junkies), or become hollowed-out shells of people (tragic and bitter old queens).
let's just say that i am not the guy to settle for very long for one of those latter examples. i'm looking for the guy who knows who he can always rely on and wants a boyfriend or partner to enhance his happiness.
until then, i have plants to tend to.
Showing posts with label Silver Fox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Silver Fox. Show all posts
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Need
I think I was born to rail against the typical American lifestyle. Or at least it is a byproduct of my residency in the USA.
And I find myself a member of that lifestyle I so often complain about. That's part of what makes me special.
Mmm-hmm.
It crystallized in a thought I had this morning at Noah's Bagels on 23rd in Portland while I waited for a friend to finish a doctor's appointment.
(A couple of side-bars here: Twenty-third is referred to as trendy-third in Portland, which dovetails nicely on my thoughts for this blog. Secondly, while at Noah's I took a little inventory of what I have consumed on my vacation-the sheer amount of food I have eaten. Crazy. I think it really went off the charts when my friend, The Silver Fox, started his fasting three days prior to his colonoscopy today. I think I ate all his food rations, too. This thought also folded into my thoughts for this blog.)
I was there enjoying a salt bagel (the best!) and a couple cups of coffee while I waited for The Silver Fox to finish his anal probe when a lady walked in and ordered a dozen bagels. The shop manager addresses her from across the counter and offered to put together an assortment for her. Here's what happened:
"I'll pick them myself" No "no thanks"?
"Ok"
"I need two pumpernickel" Yes, I sent myself a text with her order so I would remember what she asked for. Me and my stellar memory.
"Ok"
"I need two plain"
"Ok"
"I need two salt" (the best!)
"Ok" This guy is way more patient than I am.
"I need two asiago"
"Ok"
"I need two pepper, how many is that?"
"That's 10"
"And I need two sun dried tomato"
"Ok. You get one more when you order a dozen. What kind would you like?"
Flustered, "You pick"
Really? Now, now...this is when you release your control issues and let someone else pick? She left the shop without as much as a "Thank you" for the guy who helped her. I think she confused the nature of the "order" she was giving. She obviously needed better service before she felt the need to grace a lowly service person with her good manners. I wondered where her and her clunky shoes worked. I wanted (it wasn't a need) to tell her that if she was gonna put on airs like that, she should put on better shoes. And probably use a better handbag while she's at it. But I didn't-see, there's my generous nature.
I was killing time there for an hour and a half at Noah's. It gave me time to notice how many people tell you what they need when they are really just expressing what they would like. Three people ordered dozens. One accepted the manager's offer to assemble and assort on their behalf. The other two needed specific bagels, apparently.
I wonder what would have happened if they would have reported to the office without the bagels they needed. Would there have been a termination? A corrective action? Hard to say, and honestly, I do not have a need to know. My brief observation of these two customers led me to the conclusion that neither of them was patient enough to take the order of one or two people, let alone a dozen. So where did this need for specific bagel flavors come from?
I think it was a need to be in control. But it did get me thinking about how we phrase things. We don't talk about things that we really do need like food, shelter, oxygen. The basics. We gloss over those things as part of our life experience. Things that are given to us because we, as Americans, are entitled to them and god help the poor bastard that tries to deny us those basics, our birth rights. It made me think hard about the last times I've casually overheard people discussing their needs.
What I recollected was a woman on the street telling her phone, "I need to get a massage". A woman at breakfast (post anal probe) saying to her boyfriend that she needed to go to Nordstrom". Funny, at breakfast at Fuller's (the best steak and egg breakfast in Portland) I fought back a need to ask the waitress if I could buy breakfast for the guy across from me. He had the specific look of homelessness without the addition of "crazy". I wanted to ask after I heard him ask the waitress how much an order of french toast was. After a pause, she offered that they had half-orders, which he requested with a cup of coffee. You may have noticed that I said, "I wanted" earlier, I didn't have a need to buy this guy's breakfast, but he looked like he needed the money he was spending on food. What I needed in this scenario was a way to ask the waitress if he needed help without damaging his dignity regardless of the answer.
Back to the point.
There was a guy at the gym telling his buddy that he needed to get a protein shake.
Sadly, that was the closest to a genuine need I could recall.
Well, there was a memory of someone saying, "I need to use the restroom" but other than that, I was drawing a blank. To be honest, I could have been remembering myself saying that and forgetting it was me, I tend to drink a lot of fluids and forget lots of details.
The conclusion-which I will no doubt hear from someone that this is more of an indictment than a conclusion-that I came to is that we have managed as a culture to elevate our wants to the level and urgency of needs. Frankly-and this is where I reclaim my perceived generosity of spirit-I don't blame the individuals. I blame the culture. Specifically, our media-centric culture.
For decades now we have been programmed, in an escalatingly aggressive fashion, to forget about the basics and focus on the brass ring type items that we see on tv or in movies. The designer shoes and clothes, the trendy eateries, the vacation hot spots, the cosmetic procedures. Over the course of time, this has eroded our sense of appreciation for what we have and shifted the focus to what it is that we don't have. What the Joneses have that we don't. What the next conquest or acquisition is. What we need.
Or, more appropriately, what we need to validate and/or distract ourselves.
I think that I will place a large portion of the blame for our increasing divorce rate and decreasing ability to maintain solid relationships on this same phenomenon.
I felt kind of crummy after all this. Slightly sickened for the realization. Maybe it was the second cup of coffee.
Not reaching out for any shred of humanity to hold onto for the sake of my precious ego, but still grateful for the unbidden memory, I thought of my aunt's way of expressing her gratitude for her good fortunes or simple pleasures. I was riding in the car with her once and she made a traffic light as it turned from red to green without having to stop or slow down. She exhaled, "Thank you, Jesus".
When I questioned her about it, she simply explained that there are so many things to be grateful for, small miracles, that go unacknowledged everyday that she feels selfish if she doesn't say "thank you" when she notices one. And my aunt has been known, as a rule, to put the "conspicuous" in "conspicuous consumer".
I thought about that practice, and decided I loved it. Putting my own spiritual rather than religious twist on it, I adopted it as my own and try to throw a "thank you" out there myself now and then. I actually said, "Thank you, Paula" to express my gratitude to her for sharing this with me and, therefore, allowing me to recall the moment when I needed to be reminded of the fact that there's plenty of good to witness out there in the world.
I just need to be open to seeing it.
And I find myself a member of that lifestyle I so often complain about. That's part of what makes me special.
Mmm-hmm.
It crystallized in a thought I had this morning at Noah's Bagels on 23rd in Portland while I waited for a friend to finish a doctor's appointment.
(A couple of side-bars here: Twenty-third is referred to as trendy-third in Portland, which dovetails nicely on my thoughts for this blog. Secondly, while at Noah's I took a little inventory of what I have consumed on my vacation-the sheer amount of food I have eaten. Crazy. I think it really went off the charts when my friend, The Silver Fox, started his fasting three days prior to his colonoscopy today. I think I ate all his food rations, too. This thought also folded into my thoughts for this blog.)
I was there enjoying a salt bagel (the best!) and a couple cups of coffee while I waited for The Silver Fox to finish his anal probe when a lady walked in and ordered a dozen bagels. The shop manager addresses her from across the counter and offered to put together an assortment for her. Here's what happened:
"I'll pick them myself" No "no thanks"?
"Ok"
"I need two pumpernickel" Yes, I sent myself a text with her order so I would remember what she asked for. Me and my stellar memory.
"Ok"
"I need two plain"
"Ok"
"I need two salt" (the best!)
"Ok" This guy is way more patient than I am.
"I need two asiago"
"Ok"
"I need two pepper, how many is that?"
"That's 10"
"And I need two sun dried tomato"
"Ok. You get one more when you order a dozen. What kind would you like?"
Flustered, "You pick"
Really? Now, now...this is when you release your control issues and let someone else pick? She left the shop without as much as a "Thank you" for the guy who helped her. I think she confused the nature of the "order" she was giving. She obviously needed better service before she felt the need to grace a lowly service person with her good manners. I wondered where her and her clunky shoes worked. I wanted (it wasn't a need) to tell her that if she was gonna put on airs like that, she should put on better shoes. And probably use a better handbag while she's at it. But I didn't-see, there's my generous nature.
I was killing time there for an hour and a half at Noah's. It gave me time to notice how many people tell you what they need when they are really just expressing what they would like. Three people ordered dozens. One accepted the manager's offer to assemble and assort on their behalf. The other two needed specific bagels, apparently.
I wonder what would have happened if they would have reported to the office without the bagels they needed. Would there have been a termination? A corrective action? Hard to say, and honestly, I do not have a need to know. My brief observation of these two customers led me to the conclusion that neither of them was patient enough to take the order of one or two people, let alone a dozen. So where did this need for specific bagel flavors come from?
I think it was a need to be in control. But it did get me thinking about how we phrase things. We don't talk about things that we really do need like food, shelter, oxygen. The basics. We gloss over those things as part of our life experience. Things that are given to us because we, as Americans, are entitled to them and god help the poor bastard that tries to deny us those basics, our birth rights. It made me think hard about the last times I've casually overheard people discussing their needs.
What I recollected was a woman on the street telling her phone, "I need to get a massage". A woman at breakfast (post anal probe) saying to her boyfriend that she needed to go to Nordstrom". Funny, at breakfast at Fuller's (the best steak and egg breakfast in Portland) I fought back a need to ask the waitress if I could buy breakfast for the guy across from me. He had the specific look of homelessness without the addition of "crazy". I wanted to ask after I heard him ask the waitress how much an order of french toast was. After a pause, she offered that they had half-orders, which he requested with a cup of coffee. You may have noticed that I said, "I wanted" earlier, I didn't have a need to buy this guy's breakfast, but he looked like he needed the money he was spending on food. What I needed in this scenario was a way to ask the waitress if he needed help without damaging his dignity regardless of the answer.
Back to the point.
There was a guy at the gym telling his buddy that he needed to get a protein shake.
Sadly, that was the closest to a genuine need I could recall.
Well, there was a memory of someone saying, "I need to use the restroom" but other than that, I was drawing a blank. To be honest, I could have been remembering myself saying that and forgetting it was me, I tend to drink a lot of fluids and forget lots of details.
The conclusion-which I will no doubt hear from someone that this is more of an indictment than a conclusion-that I came to is that we have managed as a culture to elevate our wants to the level and urgency of needs. Frankly-and this is where I reclaim my perceived generosity of spirit-I don't blame the individuals. I blame the culture. Specifically, our media-centric culture.
For decades now we have been programmed, in an escalatingly aggressive fashion, to forget about the basics and focus on the brass ring type items that we see on tv or in movies. The designer shoes and clothes, the trendy eateries, the vacation hot spots, the cosmetic procedures. Over the course of time, this has eroded our sense of appreciation for what we have and shifted the focus to what it is that we don't have. What the Joneses have that we don't. What the next conquest or acquisition is. What we need.
Or, more appropriately, what we need to validate and/or distract ourselves.
I think that I will place a large portion of the blame for our increasing divorce rate and decreasing ability to maintain solid relationships on this same phenomenon.
I felt kind of crummy after all this. Slightly sickened for the realization. Maybe it was the second cup of coffee.
Not reaching out for any shred of humanity to hold onto for the sake of my precious ego, but still grateful for the unbidden memory, I thought of my aunt's way of expressing her gratitude for her good fortunes or simple pleasures. I was riding in the car with her once and she made a traffic light as it turned from red to green without having to stop or slow down. She exhaled, "Thank you, Jesus".
When I questioned her about it, she simply explained that there are so many things to be grateful for, small miracles, that go unacknowledged everyday that she feels selfish if she doesn't say "thank you" when she notices one. And my aunt has been known, as a rule, to put the "conspicuous" in "conspicuous consumer".
I thought about that practice, and decided I loved it. Putting my own spiritual rather than religious twist on it, I adopted it as my own and try to throw a "thank you" out there myself now and then. I actually said, "Thank you, Paula" to express my gratitude to her for sharing this with me and, therefore, allowing me to recall the moment when I needed to be reminded of the fact that there's plenty of good to witness out there in the world.
I just need to be open to seeing it.
Monday, October 27, 2008
It wasn't a heart attack...
So I have that going for me, which is nice. So sayeth the prophet Bill Murray.
This happened back in August, and I am just getting around to writing about it. I've been busy nearly dying, after all.
Friday.
I was working out with a friend at the gym. A trainer-type. A natural athlete. You know, someone exactly my opposite. Why I thought this was a good idea? No clue. So, he's putting me through these jack ass exercises, like his personal guinea pig and I kind of go along with him cuz he's hot, right?
I should have know better from the time we were doing preacher's curls and something ripped in my elbow, which prompted his eyes to make like saucers and him to say, "Are you ok?" Sure, it does that all the time, just ignore it. But nooooo, not me. I mentioned he was hot, right?
So this time, it's just a little pinch in my neck while doing the roman chair. Of course, since I am his guinea pig, it's a modified roman chair. "Put your arms out in front of you like Superman"...my inner voice translated that to "Flail your arms around you like someone free-falling off a cliff". But I buck up and keep going through the work out. What's that called now? Manning up? That's what I did.
Saturday.
I wake up a little stiff-in all the wrong places. A little sore. I pay it no mind, a pulled muscle does that. Later in the day when I am running a little 5k, my arm starts hurting. This is about halfway through, 12 or so minutes in. Then my arm goes completely numb from the shoulder to the finger tips. Next comes tingling in the finger tips.
So here I am thinking, heart attack-wouldn't you? My mind, inhabiting my body as it does, thinks, "Keep going or stop and get help?". I keep going. I'm sure as hell not leaving the gym on a gurney while I have a pulse. I'm going out like Douglas Adams. Google it.
I try shaking it off while I finish my run. But I can't tell where my arm ends so I end up just thrashing is about, occasionally bonking the treadmill with my senseless wrist.
That night I can't sleep because I normally sleep on my left side but can't because it's too painful and uncomfortable. Although I cannot feel my arm, my neck aches like crazy, too. There's another random pain just to the left of my sternum that migrates from front to back, depending on where I am laying.
Awesome!
Now the best part, I really think I am dying. But I won't go to the emergency room because I don't have enough cash to pay the $75 co-pay. Rough year. And frankly, aside from the darned inconvenience of, y'know, dying this seems like about where my year would end up. so I wait for the end. I'm actually sort of mad. There's been plenty of time for my life to "flash" before my eyes, but nothing.
Sunday.
Thank god I am off work. I lay in bed most of the day. Then I hang out with a few friends. I'm doped up on some expired Advil I found in my linen closet. Seems mildly effective, but not 100%. My friend Silver Fox in Portland tells me that I'm not having a heart attack after taking me through several motions on the phone. He has a PhD, so that's a comfort. I still don't sleep Sunday night.
Monday.
I go to work. Seriously. But I do call my doctor and make an appointment for that afternoon. All I have to do is make it through the day til 2:45, then I am off to the doctor's office and hopefully the hospital after that. I tell my boss, he asks me to come back after my appointment! Now, I am a little pissed. I think I tell him "No problem", thinking "Like hell, buddy". At this point I am the only manager he has that hadn't taken a bunch of sick days in the first half of the year. Besides, in my mind, I'm going to the hospital. I'll just call from there, won't he feel bad then? Maturity is one of my finer qualities.
I get to the doctor's office and he asks me what the problem is. I can practically see him warming up a needle of penicillin wondering what I've done this time.
I'm pretty sure I'm not having a heart attack, I tell him. I'd just feel better if someone with a medical degree would tell me that.
You're not having a heart attack, he says from behind a smirk in his seat across the room.
Any desire to earn your $120 and come over here and say that after-oh, I don't know-listening to my heart? That's like $10 per step, y'know.
He assures me he will listen to my heart but tells me to stop worrying because he can tell from where he's sitting that I am fine. I'd be sweating profusely and unable to lift or move my arm if I was having a heart attack.
Again, I translate this to something flecked with names like "wussy" and nearly overrun with barely contained laughter at my discomfort.
You just pulled a muscle. Probably pinched a nerve from the sounds of it.
But the pain...putting on my best relieved expression even though I am not sure I want to give up dying so easily. My rational mind knew after the first day or so that I wasn't dying, but there was still some niggling doubt as to my guaranteed survival.
Trust me, he tells me while listening to my heart. I wanted to drop dead in his office just to wipe that grin off his face but my body wouldn't cooperate. To make me feel better he assures me this will be the worst day for pain-day three always is for a muscle pull, he says.
Great. Pain. Can I get that with some mushrooms and eggnog, just all the stuff I hate at once to get it over with?
The pinched nerve should heal in about six to eight weeks.
W-w-wh-whud? Six to eight weeks? What am I supposed to do until then?
He's laughing-compassionately, I assure you-telling me not to worry, just take it easy with that side of my body. No gym. No lifting at work, under five pounds is fine.
The reason he's laughing is cuz he knows I'm right handed...for most things. Why did I think I could tell him what I use my left hand for? I mean it was a year and a half ago, who knew the little perv would remember?
Now he's leaving the room, talking about something else. Himself. Look, just because I worry doesn't automatically make me a hypochondriac, sure, I'm a bit of a wussy, but I don't want to talk about you expanding your practice. Yet. I mean, maybe there will be a cute doctor joining the practice, but I need a few minutes here to grieve for my continued persistent survival.
I can't live yet, I'm not ready!
When I come to, I'm back at work. WTF? And I'm wet. Was it raining? All the rest of the management teams seems to be heading for the door. I have enough of my wits about me after my brush with not-death to realize they are all leaving early but not enough to be mad about it.
Well, inside I am raging about it. I have to come back so you clowns can leave early? No, not a chance. I'm a little too busy not dying to work. But they don't hear my internal raging over the woosh of the automatic doors.
Thankfully-or not, in retrospect-my right arm is my drinking arm. And I like really fattening beer. No PBR for this boy. Naughty Nellie's, Prohibition, Redhook ESB...that's how I roll. And that's exactly what I drank myself into-a roll around my middle. Sure, it took me from a 32" waist to a 33" (barely, but I am not admitting to anything larger) but this is one place no man wants an extra inch!
Four weeks later, follow up.
I can't feel my fingers. I think I'm going to puncture my eardrum scratching my ear or poke my eye out with these dead fingers.
Yeah, yeah...really funny. I'm going back to the gym, I'm bored.
Five pound weights? You can't be serious? I can feel the right side of my body just fine, five pounds won't do jack for me. Fine, fine, fine...let me out of here, I tell him intending to do whatever I please once I get to the gym.
As it turns out, five pounds was just about right. The 25's I was using while "taking it easy" on the dumb bell presses almost ended up twisting my shoulder out of it's socket as the weight in my left hand went careening toward the ground. Fine...my doctor went to medical school and I didn't. I'll do it his way.
In talking to the membership manager at the gym about my gimpy arm I discovered that this particular injury was called a "stinger". How appropriate, since I couldn't really feel anything.
Well, that's not true. Here I was feeling proud that I had a jocky sounding sports related injury. 'Bout friggin time, I'm 40 here!
Two months later.
My left index and middle finger still go numb now and then. Like when I am commiting run on sentences to the internet on this here blog. I'm fully released to be back at the gym. My obstacle to getting back? My body feels depressed from not working out and not eating right. I am managing to get there twice a week, but I feel weak and worn out after about 45 minutes. My spirit is depressed cuz I haven't been blogging like I used to to clear my head and indulge my-limited-creative side. Double whammy.
Gonna have to work on that.
I had pretty much forgotten about putting this mildly amusing episode to this virtual paper until yesterday when I got a voicemail from my friend Big-Word-Ben in Portland. My old neighbor had been hospitalized and undergone surgery for a heart attack. He's only 50, maybe 51 now. The good news is that the damage had been repaired and any lingering damage could be controlled with medication. That's actually great news. His partner had had a heart attack about ten years prior to this and never really recovered, in spirit anyway. They corrected the heart muscle witha pace maker, but he was constantly aware of it's presence, and it basically haunted him until he shot himself a couple of years later. It was devastating.
But here, we had good news. All would be well, we are told.
The only bad part? He'd been having what his doctor called a "rolling heart attack" for about a week.
WTF? My doctor told me a heart attack that lasted three days would be unbearable!
OMG, I could have died!
This happened back in August, and I am just getting around to writing about it. I've been busy nearly dying, after all.
Friday.
I was working out with a friend at the gym. A trainer-type. A natural athlete. You know, someone exactly my opposite. Why I thought this was a good idea? No clue. So, he's putting me through these jack ass exercises, like his personal guinea pig and I kind of go along with him cuz he's hot, right?
I should have know better from the time we were doing preacher's curls and something ripped in my elbow, which prompted his eyes to make like saucers and him to say, "Are you ok?" Sure, it does that all the time, just ignore it. But nooooo, not me. I mentioned he was hot, right?
So this time, it's just a little pinch in my neck while doing the roman chair. Of course, since I am his guinea pig, it's a modified roman chair. "Put your arms out in front of you like Superman"...my inner voice translated that to "Flail your arms around you like someone free-falling off a cliff". But I buck up and keep going through the work out. What's that called now? Manning up? That's what I did.
Saturday.
I wake up a little stiff-in all the wrong places. A little sore. I pay it no mind, a pulled muscle does that. Later in the day when I am running a little 5k, my arm starts hurting. This is about halfway through, 12 or so minutes in. Then my arm goes completely numb from the shoulder to the finger tips. Next comes tingling in the finger tips.
So here I am thinking, heart attack-wouldn't you? My mind, inhabiting my body as it does, thinks, "Keep going or stop and get help?". I keep going. I'm sure as hell not leaving the gym on a gurney while I have a pulse. I'm going out like Douglas Adams. Google it.
I try shaking it off while I finish my run. But I can't tell where my arm ends so I end up just thrashing is about, occasionally bonking the treadmill with my senseless wrist.
That night I can't sleep because I normally sleep on my left side but can't because it's too painful and uncomfortable. Although I cannot feel my arm, my neck aches like crazy, too. There's another random pain just to the left of my sternum that migrates from front to back, depending on where I am laying.
Awesome!
Now the best part, I really think I am dying. But I won't go to the emergency room because I don't have enough cash to pay the $75 co-pay. Rough year. And frankly, aside from the darned inconvenience of, y'know, dying this seems like about where my year would end up. so I wait for the end. I'm actually sort of mad. There's been plenty of time for my life to "flash" before my eyes, but nothing.
Sunday.
Thank god I am off work. I lay in bed most of the day. Then I hang out with a few friends. I'm doped up on some expired Advil I found in my linen closet. Seems mildly effective, but not 100%. My friend Silver Fox in Portland tells me that I'm not having a heart attack after taking me through several motions on the phone. He has a PhD, so that's a comfort. I still don't sleep Sunday night.
Monday.
I go to work. Seriously. But I do call my doctor and make an appointment for that afternoon. All I have to do is make it through the day til 2:45, then I am off to the doctor's office and hopefully the hospital after that. I tell my boss, he asks me to come back after my appointment! Now, I am a little pissed. I think I tell him "No problem", thinking "Like hell, buddy". At this point I am the only manager he has that hadn't taken a bunch of sick days in the first half of the year. Besides, in my mind, I'm going to the hospital. I'll just call from there, won't he feel bad then? Maturity is one of my finer qualities.
I get to the doctor's office and he asks me what the problem is. I can practically see him warming up a needle of penicillin wondering what I've done this time.
I'm pretty sure I'm not having a heart attack, I tell him. I'd just feel better if someone with a medical degree would tell me that.
You're not having a heart attack, he says from behind a smirk in his seat across the room.
Any desire to earn your $120 and come over here and say that after-oh, I don't know-listening to my heart? That's like $10 per step, y'know.
He assures me he will listen to my heart but tells me to stop worrying because he can tell from where he's sitting that I am fine. I'd be sweating profusely and unable to lift or move my arm if I was having a heart attack.
Again, I translate this to something flecked with names like "wussy" and nearly overrun with barely contained laughter at my discomfort.
You just pulled a muscle. Probably pinched a nerve from the sounds of it.
But the pain...putting on my best relieved expression even though I am not sure I want to give up dying so easily. My rational mind knew after the first day or so that I wasn't dying, but there was still some niggling doubt as to my guaranteed survival.
Trust me, he tells me while listening to my heart. I wanted to drop dead in his office just to wipe that grin off his face but my body wouldn't cooperate. To make me feel better he assures me this will be the worst day for pain-day three always is for a muscle pull, he says.
Great. Pain. Can I get that with some mushrooms and eggnog, just all the stuff I hate at once to get it over with?
The pinched nerve should heal in about six to eight weeks.
W-w-wh-whud? Six to eight weeks? What am I supposed to do until then?
He's laughing-compassionately, I assure you-telling me not to worry, just take it easy with that side of my body. No gym. No lifting at work, under five pounds is fine.
The reason he's laughing is cuz he knows I'm right handed...for most things. Why did I think I could tell him what I use my left hand for? I mean it was a year and a half ago, who knew the little perv would remember?
Now he's leaving the room, talking about something else. Himself. Look, just because I worry doesn't automatically make me a hypochondriac, sure, I'm a bit of a wussy, but I don't want to talk about you expanding your practice. Yet. I mean, maybe there will be a cute doctor joining the practice, but I need a few minutes here to grieve for my continued persistent survival.
I can't live yet, I'm not ready!
When I come to, I'm back at work. WTF? And I'm wet. Was it raining? All the rest of the management teams seems to be heading for the door. I have enough of my wits about me after my brush with not-death to realize they are all leaving early but not enough to be mad about it.
Well, inside I am raging about it. I have to come back so you clowns can leave early? No, not a chance. I'm a little too busy not dying to work. But they don't hear my internal raging over the woosh of the automatic doors.
Thankfully-or not, in retrospect-my right arm is my drinking arm. And I like really fattening beer. No PBR for this boy. Naughty Nellie's, Prohibition, Redhook ESB...that's how I roll. And that's exactly what I drank myself into-a roll around my middle. Sure, it took me from a 32" waist to a 33" (barely, but I am not admitting to anything larger) but this is one place no man wants an extra inch!
Four weeks later, follow up.
I can't feel my fingers. I think I'm going to puncture my eardrum scratching my ear or poke my eye out with these dead fingers.
Yeah, yeah...really funny. I'm going back to the gym, I'm bored.
Five pound weights? You can't be serious? I can feel the right side of my body just fine, five pounds won't do jack for me. Fine, fine, fine...let me out of here, I tell him intending to do whatever I please once I get to the gym.
As it turns out, five pounds was just about right. The 25's I was using while "taking it easy" on the dumb bell presses almost ended up twisting my shoulder out of it's socket as the weight in my left hand went careening toward the ground. Fine...my doctor went to medical school and I didn't. I'll do it his way.
In talking to the membership manager at the gym about my gimpy arm I discovered that this particular injury was called a "stinger". How appropriate, since I couldn't really feel anything.
Well, that's not true. Here I was feeling proud that I had a jocky sounding sports related injury. 'Bout friggin time, I'm 40 here!
Two months later.
My left index and middle finger still go numb now and then. Like when I am commiting run on sentences to the internet on this here blog. I'm fully released to be back at the gym. My obstacle to getting back? My body feels depressed from not working out and not eating right. I am managing to get there twice a week, but I feel weak and worn out after about 45 minutes. My spirit is depressed cuz I haven't been blogging like I used to to clear my head and indulge my-limited-creative side. Double whammy.
Gonna have to work on that.
I had pretty much forgotten about putting this mildly amusing episode to this virtual paper until yesterday when I got a voicemail from my friend Big-Word-Ben in Portland. My old neighbor had been hospitalized and undergone surgery for a heart attack. He's only 50, maybe 51 now. The good news is that the damage had been repaired and any lingering damage could be controlled with medication. That's actually great news. His partner had had a heart attack about ten years prior to this and never really recovered, in spirit anyway. They corrected the heart muscle witha pace maker, but he was constantly aware of it's presence, and it basically haunted him until he shot himself a couple of years later. It was devastating.
But here, we had good news. All would be well, we are told.
The only bad part? He'd been having what his doctor called a "rolling heart attack" for about a week.
WTF? My doctor told me a heart attack that lasted three days would be unbearable!
OMG, I could have died!
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