August 16th, 1986, I wake up at 5:30 morning with a terrible pain in my back. Now, I am used to back pain. I broke it in 1975 falling through the open trap door on the Guthrie stage. I know what a sore back feels like. This was much, much worse. A pain that was at once sharp and radiating, encircling my back and then around front to my abdominal area, like a belt of agony. I did some stretches but no relief. Then I started thinking that this pain was originating in my stomach, so I washed down half a dozen Rolaids with a swig of Pepto Bismol. I threw that up within minutes. The pain was getting worse.
It was now 6:30 am and time to leave for work. I had started a job as a Juvenile Corrections Worker at the Hennepin County Juvenile Detention Center that January, and was scheduled to work the 7-3 shift that day. I had never called in sick before, but knew that I couldn't go to work with this pain, whatever it was. I contacted the duty supervisor, grouchy John Martin, and told him my back hurt too much to come in. He hung up on me. At this point I was getting desperate, and the pain was beginning to cloud my judgement. I knew I couldn't drive. I called my father, who lived just a few blocks away, and asked him to please take me to the ER. As I waited for him, I started running around my basement apartment, trying to escape the pain. I had in mind a sad story I had read, where in some creepy kid had soaked a tarantula with gas and set it on fire, the poor spider then scurrying about the room trying to run from its agony. That was me.
Next thing I knew I was in Dad's Volvo and we are on the freeway heading downtown to the Hennepin County Medical Center. Dad was really worried, as it was obvious I was really, really hurting, but neither of us could figure out why. When we got to the ER my Dad took charge and told the attendings what my symptoms were (Dad was a clinical psychologist of some repute, and knew something about most things) and I was given a shot of a non-narcotic painkiller. I believe it was hospital policy to avoid, if possible, giving narcotics to long-hairs. Ten minutes later I was literally screaming. Dad grabbed the nearest doctor and said "give him some demerol". They did. Within seconds I was the happiest person on the planet. Demerol destroys pain. Demerol also improves one's mood, considerably. I didn't even mind when they shoved a tube up my willie to help me pass what turned out to be a very nasty, sharp kidney stone. Once it was gone, I was just fine. Except for the memory, that is. While waiting for my discharge paperwork, I asked a nurse how they figured out what I had. "We diagnosed you by your screaming" said she.
Twenty years later, almost to the day, I felt that pain again. It was on a weekend day (of course) and I recognized it immediately. My wife drove me to the ER and dropped me off at the door while she went to park the car. I stumbled inside and told the lady at the front desk, "kidney stone". She literally grabbed me by the arm, dragged me behind a curtain, and I had a demerol IV in me within minutes. I passed the stone within an hour, and happily went home.
I have been told that drinking cranberry juice prevents the formation of kidney stones, and I drank a glass a day until I was diagnosed with diabetes, about a year before that second stone formed. I still don't drink the juice, but I do eat some mutant concoction called "cran-raisins" and keep my finger crossed. Last night I had a pain, a bad pain, and for about an hour believed that another kidney stone had arrived. Problem was that the pain was not as intense (no screaming) and not quite in the right place. My wife used an electric massager on the spot and it felt better. That did it. Kidney stones NEVER feel better, not until you get the real drugs homie. I am still in awe about how frightened I was. Nothing scares me, really. I am more than a little bit of a sociopath, but the idea that I had a kidney stone in me scared the living crap out of me. If you had told me at a certain point last night that I had bone cancer in that painful area of my right hip, I would have gleefully danced about the room, clicking my heels. No more kidney stones for me, brother.
Perhaps no more kidneys for me either. Mine are failing due to the diabetes, and I need a transplant. Luckily, my wife Veneta is a match for me, and has generously offered to give me one of hers. There may be a hitch, however, as the doctors are yet to rule out whether or not some vestige of her childhood TB is lingering in her kidneys, which would rule her out as a donor. My brother Joe and son Zeke are being tested as back-ups, but haven't been cleared yet. I guess there is some irony here, but I'm not exactly sure what it is. One thing I do know, I'd rather have no kidneys (and all that means) than a kidney with a stone in it. I still feel really bad for that poor tarantula. I don't want to feel that way about myself, not again no thank you!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Veneta is a very smart person
So, I was telling my wife how sad I was that Yvette Vickers had died, all mummified and all. That night I had a dream about Leigh Taylor. We went to high school with Leigh, though neither of us had known her, or even exchanged a word with her. In the dream Leigh and I were just hanging out during the day. She was supposed to come over to my parent's house that night (in the dream we were still at Washburn) but for whatever reason I went over to HER house instead. Her family was there, but no sign of Leigh. I couldn't figure out why I would dream about Leigh Taylor. I didn't know her at all, and hadn't thought of her since graduation, which was way back in 1972. All I knew of Leigh was that she was a great big girl, well shaped but tall and just ... big. She also seemed to favor ski sweaters, as I recall.
I told Veneta about the dream, and she puzzled on it for a bit, and then came up with the answer as to why I had dreamed about Leigh Taylor. It was all tied into mourning Yvette Vickers, who starred in ATTACK OF THE 50 FOOT WOMAN. Duh. Some long damaged atom of my brain had stored the fact that Leigh Taylor was a really big girl, and had retrieved that item to somehow symbolize my grief over Yvette's passing. Veneta figured it out. She usually does.
Once I asked her what her IQ was. She told me what it was, and it was really high. #&%. She asked me what mine was. I didn't hesitate, and replied "#&% ... and one half". I came to about ten minutes later, and my jaw was really frigging sore. Always try to marry a smart woman, but never, ever forget to duck.
I told Veneta about the dream, and she puzzled on it for a bit, and then came up with the answer as to why I had dreamed about Leigh Taylor. It was all tied into mourning Yvette Vickers, who starred in ATTACK OF THE 50 FOOT WOMAN. Duh. Some long damaged atom of my brain had stored the fact that Leigh Taylor was a really big girl, and had retrieved that item to somehow symbolize my grief over Yvette's passing. Veneta figured it out. She usually does.
Once I asked her what her IQ was. She told me what it was, and it was really high. #&%. She asked me what mine was. I didn't hesitate, and replied "#&% ... and one half". I came to about ten minutes later, and my jaw was really frigging sore. Always try to marry a smart woman, but never, ever forget to duck.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
IMPERIAL
The Chrysler Imperial, to my mind, is the finest American luxury make ever made, and should be ripe for a comeback. Cool name, uber-powerful design, embodying everything that is wrong, and right, with America. I've wanted one since I was a little boy, admiring the gigantic '50s models parked in front of our house on Lake Calhoun, shining in the bright summer sun. At the Chrysler showroom in 1963 I tried to steer my dad over towards a hunter green Imperial, but he instead went with a white '64 Chrysler 300, with a stick shift. Odd choice. Washburn High classmate Astrid Johnson's father had one. I've never even sat in an Imperial, let alone ridden in one. I've ridden in a Rolls, and in a Mercedes 600. Very fancy, very cool, but not Imperials. Breaks my heart to think of the '66 Imperials destroyed in the making of the Green Hornet movie. I wish they had saved me just one.
Chrysler Imperial
"Gun Sight" tail light from the finest American luxury car ever made .... the Chrysler Imperial.
black cherry soda pop
1964 at the trading post at the far end of the Gunflint Trail in northern Minnesota. There was a pop machine, and for a quarter you could get a frosty bottle of black cherry pop. For my brothers and I, there was nothing better. Gorgeous, exotic, unobtainable in the city. To this day my favorite pop, yogurt, color on automobiles. Black Cherry forever!
Draft Autopsey
I've pretty much beaten this subject to death. Sorry. Things worked out ok for the Vikings in the end, and I had some fun, so what the hey. If the CBA allows us to keep Edwards and Rice, and Ponder manages to not melt down, we will make the playoffs as the second wild card team (with the Lions!). Said in the Trib today that Ponder will wear #7. Odd. That was Tavaris' old number, so it has terrible mojo. If I were he, I would have taken #1 (for 1st round) or #12 (for 12th pick) but that's just me. It's a long time until football season, and we still have to suffer through the Twins season. No hitter last night, though, which was pretty darn cool.
RIP Yvette Vickers. Not so much Osama Bin Laden. I expect his nuts to show up on E-Bay any day now. I bid three dollars.
RIP Yvette Vickers. Not so much Osama Bin Laden. I expect his nuts to show up on E-Bay any day now. I bid three dollars.
Yvette Vickers
Wow. Yvette Vickers. Attack of the 50 ft Woman, 1959 Playboy Centerfold, mummified remains discovered in her Laurel Canyon house, 5/2/11. Baby, as they say, had back. RIP.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)