Santa Left a Rock in My Stocking

‘Twas the week before Christmas and all through the house
You could hear Frank curse loudly and grumble and grouse….

OK, I’m not much of a poet. It all started on Tuesday, December 6th. I had just taken my morning shower and dried off. I put my foot up on the toilet lid to rub some anti-itch cream on my leg (dry winter weather makes my legs itch if you must know). All of a sudden, I had the most god-awful pain in my lower back. I could barely straighten up enough to walk to the living room and sit on my recliner. After I sat, I began to wonder if I would be able to stand up again. The pain persisted all day and into the night. The next morning I was almost unable to get out of bed and my wife decided to take a PTO day from work and take me to a nearby clinic.

After filling out the necessary paperwork and sitting for what seemed like an eternity in the clinic waiting room, I saw a nurse practitioner who poked me a few times and ordered x-rays of my back. After that, she prescribed some muscle relaxants, an anti-inflammatory drug and some pain pills and sent me home. By Saturday, I was feeling pretty much back to normal and Sunday I was able to watch my beloved Seattle Seahawks completely demolish the 49ers. I was pretty happy and pain-free.

On Monday the 12th, I was just getting settled into my afternoon nappy-poo when the phone rang. It was someone from the afore-mentioned clinic asking me what I wanted to do about my kidney stone. This was five days after my visit to the clinic! I said something brilliant like, “What kidney stone?” and she said, “Oh, they haven’t called you about it?” Now, I have passed probably a half-dozen kidney stones in my life, and believe me, I would have remembered if someone had told me I had one!

Well, feeling somewhat abashed I imagine because the clinic had screwed up, she told me that if I came up to the clinic and got my x-rays she’d arrange to get me in to see a urologist on an emergency basis that very afternoon. So, I hurriedly dressed myself and hied myself to the clinic, signed my life away for the x-rays, got general directions to the urologist’s office across town and drove there. I filled out more paperwork. And I waited. And I waited.

The staff at the urologist’s office treated me like some kind of celebrity. They kept whispering to each other that I was the “15.” Come to find out, “15” had nothing to do with my undeniable good looks (on a scale of one to 10, he’s a 15). My stone measured 15 millimeters, which by kidney stone standards is considered a boulder. They’d never seen one that big before.

I was finally granted an audience with the urologist, who asked a few questions (most of which I had already answered on the forms I had had to fill out before I was allowed to see His Eminence). He checked my hernias and did the ever so popular finger wave on my prostrate gland. He asked if I’d ever had a hemorrhoidectomy (no, and what the hell does that have to do with a kidney stone the size of Mount Rushmore?). Finally, he told me that it was highly unlikely that anyone could pass a stone larger than a five millimeter, and I had a 15, so I should probably have a procedure called ESWL, which stands for electroshockwave lithotripsy – or something like that. It’s where they use shock waves to blast the stone into smaller fragments so they’ll pass harmlessly through the urinary tract. He also said he wanted to implant a stent somewhere in my plumbing to make the passage of the particles easier. The stent might be somewhat uncomfortable, but he’d remove it after a week or so.

I’m thinking the doc’s going to put a catheter up my male member to put the stent in, and then again to take it out. Having worked in a state mental hospital on a geriatrics ward while a college student, I am familiar with catheters and I really wanted no part of it. He assured me that no catheter would be used, so I calmed down a little.

He could perform the ESWL the following Friday, December 16th. Since I am still unemployed and money is in damn short supply, I told him I’d have to consult with my wife and get back to him (hoping that she’d find a good reason to delay this rather daunting event). We have medical insurance through my wife’s employer, and she convinced me that we’d just have to take money out of our dwindling savings account to make up the difference. Soooo, I called the urologist’s office the next morning and using my very best he-man, John Wayne voice, told the nurse that I would look forward to having the ESWL performed on Friday. She made me come into the office and fill out more paperwork which I was then to take to Kadlec Hospital’s pre-registration office, where I would fill out even more paperwork. Then she called me at home and told me that the doctor had forgotten to tell me I needed to have a CTUT done (that’s a fancy x-ray), and could I be at Kadlec at 3:30 the next day for that?

So, being an orderly person, I plotted out a schedule where I would drive to Richland’s Kadlec Hospital, pre-register for same day (outpatient) surgery and then go get the old CTUT. I allowed ample time (forgetting that the medical industry does not care a wit for patient’s schedules). The pre-admission people were very nice, but in absolutely no hurry to get me processed in time for my 3:30 appointment for the fancy x-ray (which it turns out was in another building two blocks from the hospital).

To make a long story a little shorter, I got pre-registered and was only about two minutes late to fill out more paperwork for the CTUT. Thursday, I did not have to see anyone from the medical industry, nor fill out any paperwork. A day of grace to make peace with my God, I suppose.

I take back what I just wrote. The scheduling lady from the hospital called me late Thursday afternoon to let me know that my procedure was scheduled for noon the next day, and that I should be at the same day surgery unit by 11:00 am. My wife took another day off from work to drive me to the hospital and back. There had been freezing rain the night before, so we left plenty early. The medical industry couldn’t think of any more paperwork for me to fill out for the moment, so we waited a short time before being called into the pre-op area where I was told to take it all off, put on a hospital gown and lay down on a gurney thingamujig while an IV was started.

The day of the procedure was going smoothly I thought. But after waiting on my back for them to wheel me into the operating room for about an hour, the appointed noon-time hour elapsed, and we were finally informed that some inconsiderate person had had to have an emergency procedure and I had been bumped until they could get that little detail taken care of. My wife went to have lunch, and I lay there listening to my stomach growl.

Finally, they got the emergency cleared and the operating room “turned over.” From here on, there were no delays. Scoot your cute little butt over onto the operating table (the center of which has a water-filled pad), breathe into this oxygen mask deeply for a while until the anesthetic is administered, and, well that’s all I remember until they woke me up and hauled me into post-op.

After a short time, they decided to let my wife take me home with a prescription for pain pills and instructions to take it easy for a few days (I told my wife it was a “few weeks”), no alcohol (haven’t had a drink in nearly seven and a half years), and to pee through these paper mesh cones to collect any particles from the stone for analysis.

There are no words to describe the pain a spasming kidney just coming back into usage after what were probably several years of being inactive can cause after being rudely awakened. Only a woman who has been through several days of agonizing labor will be able to empathize. The pain pills (hydrocodone) have helped to keep me from praying for a quick and merciful death, but when that kidney decides to spasm to push more of the now pulverized stone out – well, let’s just say I’m surprised that one or more of our neighbors haven’t called the police to report that someone is torturing a bull elephant in the neighborhood.

Today, December 19, 2005, I have finally decided I might just live through this experience. The spasms have decreased in severity and my urine has gone from the color of cherry Koolade to more of a tan color. And I haven’t had to suddenly run for the bathroom every five or ten minutes. Life is a little less painful today. However, my wife will have to drive me to the urologist’s office, probably after Christmas, where the good doctor will remove the stent without the benefit of general anesthesia; only a sedative according to what he told my wife. Kind of gives me something to look forward to. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a word of advice – drink lots and lots of water.

The Bravest Man I've Every Known

Lest those of you who have bothered to read my other posts think that I dwell on the negative too much (and you’d probably be right), I thought I’d write about the bravest man I’ve ever know. I’ll call him “Joe”. Not a stretch, since that’s his name. I won’t use his last name though just in case you know him. He’s a very modest guy and I don’t want to embarrass him.

Joe contracted polio when he was about three years old and it left him mostly paralyzed from the waist down and on his left side. There is no noticeable musculature on his legs or on his left arm. Joe and his parents had a choice about how he would get around – crutches and braces or a wheelchair. They opted for the crutches and braces, which meant learning to walk again, which, in turn meant lots of pain and frustration, but a bit more freedom of movement. Besides, with the limited use of his left arm, he might have only been able to go in circles in one of those old-fashioned wheelchairs available in the 1940s and ‘50s.

There was a series of surgeries when Joe was a child in an effort to correct the curvature of his spine. These operations required him to be in a full body cast for months at a time. More pain, and ultimately the operations were not successful.

My first memories of Joe, or “Joey” as he was called as a kid, were of him pushing one of those little mini chairs used in primary schools down the halls of Mary Purcell elementary school. He used a chair to keep him upright instead of his crutches back then, and with the metal glides attached to the bottom of the wooden chair legs he was able to slide the chair over the smooth tile floors. It worked a little like the walker my mother used after she broke her hip. As I recall, if he was in a hurry, he’d sit in the chair and have someone else push him to wherever he was going.

Joe’s parents never coddled him. They wanted him to live as normal a life as possible. He once told me about learning to tie his shoes. Keep in mind that his left arm and hand are nearly useless. He wanted his mom to tie his shoes. She told him he had to do it himself. She wouldn’t help him. This may have been the point where he learned to swear with such color and imagery – but he learned to tie his shoes without help.

Joe and I both played coronets in the junior high and high school bands and we usually sat next to each other. Also, one of my friends was Joe’s cousin. We got to know each other over time and became friends. I became particularly good friends with Joe and his cousin when I got my driver’s license because neither of them drove. Being teens in the ‘60s, we went to a lot of dances. Of course Joe didn’t dance (or did he? More on that later).

The high school we attended, and later Western Washington State College (now Western Washington University) were not handicapped-friendly. Lots of stairs and no elevators, or even ramps for wheelchairs, not that Joe would have considered using a wheelchair. He’d put his right crutch in his left hand, and using the handrail, pull himself up the stairs by swinging one leg up to a step and then drag the other leg up. Sometimes he’d get someone else to carry his crutches up to the top of the stairs. In high school, he could often get another guy, usually his cousin or me, to get him in a bear hug from behind and drag him up the steps.

Joe isn’t afraid to try just about anything. After he graduated from college and got a job teaching at the local junior high school, he bought his first car, a blue Pontiac that he christened “Bucephalus” with a bottle of beer. Factory-installed hand controls wouldn’t work for Joe. He and his parents finally found a company in Vancouver, B. C. that built custom-made automobile hand controls. Joe could finally drive! He found that his crutches made handy enforcement devises when teaching at the junior high level.

Joe is one of the best storytellers I have ever met. It doesn’t matter if he’s relating a true anecdote or telling a tall tale, the man flat knows how to tell a story. I’ve tried to master the art, but I have never approached his level of skill.

I briefly touched on Joe not dancing when he was a teen. Well, DUH! The guy wears leg braces that keep his knees locked. Kind of hard to do The Twist, Frug, Watusi, or Bop (these were all dance crazes in the ‘50s and ‘60s for you younguns). Some time after I moved back to my old stomping grounds near Joe, we both got invited to a party a member of our community theater group was throwing. I zeroed in on a woman that I had been interested in for a while and worked on impressing her with my charm and wit. In those days I drank a lot and was known to smoke an illegal herbal substance when I could get it, so I considered myself extremely witty and charming with the ladies. There was a slow, romantic ballad playing on the stereo and I happened to pause my scintillating monolog to my, enraptured I’m sure, woman friend. I looked at where a few couples were dancing to the belly-rubbing music, and what did my bloodshot eyes finally focus on, but Joe and a woman DANCING! As best as I can recall, he went home with her that night. A few months later he called me and asked if I was sitting down. I answered that I was. He then asked if I would be his best man at the wedding he and Julie were planning – Julie being the woman he danced with.

Call it fate or kismet or destiny, but I believe that God figured that after all that Joe had been through with his handicap, he deserved some happiness. Julie has never considered Joe to be handicapped. He adopted her two young hellion sons and gave them a decent male role model.

Joe retired from teaching several years ago. He told me that what made up his mind to pull the plug was one of the students at the middle school where he taught brought a shotgun to the first day of school. He said the kid was so dumb that he brought the wrong gauge of ammunition, but still, enough was enough.

Joe and Julie are very active in their community. They’ve made trips together to Alaska, Florida and a couple of journeys to Scotland. He’s of Scottish descent and this may explain his liking for a certain imported spirit.

Joe will be 62 years old near the end of December. A few years ago he finally surrendered to the fact that he isn’t a young pup anymore and allowed his wife to get him one of those electric scooters they have for quadriplegics nowadays. He suffers from the mysterious post-polio syndrome, but you’ll never hear him complain. In the 50 or so years I have known him, I have never heard him complain about his plight and he doesn’t like it when people show pity or try to find out why he’s on the crutches. He just wants to be treated like everybody else. No special favors, no singling him out from the crowd because he’s “handicapped.”

Joe and I were roommates at Western and sweated out final exams together. We were best man at each others’ weddings. We’ve laughed at each other’s jokes and commiserated with each other about life’s disappointments. We have overlooked each other’s foibles. He is the most valuable thing you can have – a true friend.

Death & Taxes

The old saw goes, “The only sure things in life are death and taxes” – or something like that. Did you know that even if you die, you still have to pay income taxes on what you made during the year you croaked? It’s a fact. The IRS has probably ordered St. Peter not to let you through the pearly gates until your account with them has been settled under threat of a thorough audit.

I just finished a course for would-be tax preparers through H & R Block, which was paid for by one of my former employers. This former boss, who advertises himself and his business as “tax accountants”, has been in business for about 50 years. He paid $174 for me to take this course from his biggest competitor, and then the old goat fired me two weeks before I finished the course. I decided, “what the hell,” and finished the class and took the final exam. After knew with absolute certainty after the first week of this course that I did not want to ever be asked to prepare anyone else’s taxes. After 60 class hours, and probably double that in homework, I do not want to ever do my own taxes without the help of software such as Turbo Tax or its ilk.

My sainted mother used to emphasize that she did not want to debate an issue with me (or anybody else) by saying, “No ifs, ands or buts.” This meant there was no room whatsoever for any interpretation of what she said. No argument! That’s Final! Finito! Our federal tax code is thousands and thousands of pages of “ifs, ands or buts”. In the three months I gave up six hours every Saturday and most of my days off taking this tax preparers course, I cannot recall finding a single tax regulation that did not have some kind of “if, and or but” – except, of course, for the one about having to pay your taxes even after you’ve kicked the bucket.

I would like to propose that each and every person seeking election or reelection to the U. S. Congress be REQUIRED to take the same or similar course that I just completed. Make them take a good look at what they and their predecessors have wrought! Notice that I am not blaming the IRS for this indecipherable maze of mumbo jumbo that we refer to as a tax code. The IRS doesn’t write the tax laws, they just enforce them. With vigor.

I have no objection to paying my fair share of taxes. I’ve always considered myself to be a pretty good citizen and that’s what a good citizen does. I just want a tax code that anybody with a rudimentary understanding of written English can understand, that don’t refer me to umpteen different publications which, in turn, refer me to the myriad worksheets and forms that are designed to confuse and bewilder the average person so they have to pay “professional tax preparers” or “tax accountants” like the old fart who fired me recently. Geez, if we could figure out how to do our own taxes what would happen to one of the country’s largest and most profitable businesses (H & R Block), CPAs, and “tax professionals?

Why was I fired you may ask. Damned if I know for certain. I got a hand-written note from the old boy saying, "I have given considerable amount of thought to your work and how it benefits our office. After careful evaluation I believe your temperment does not give the right skills to our situation." Whatever the hell that means!

The guy's wife took over the office management several months ago after firing the whole staff. She hired me, and she did not agree with her husband's decision to let me go. He told me on my first day there back in August that I was the first man that had ever worked for him. I believe that therein lies the problem. I started to write some things here that I know about his treatment of female employees, but have deleted that part of this rant.

So, I'm looking for work again. Isn't it ironic that Congress has started raising the age when we can start drawing Social Security and businesses are lowering the age at which they will hire you?