Why CF clinics aren’t located in high-rise buildings

It’s a good thing they don’t put CF clinics in high-rises. 10 floors or above today and I would have base-jumped. Me talking to myself on the way down: I have a feeling I forgot an essential piece of equipment. 

photo by goldduck, creative commons

Take a deep breath, now blow, blow, blow, keep blowing, blow

The news pushing me out the window: my PFTs did not recover from the last bout of the flu and IVs. I tried to fight the virus for too long before admitting myself to the Hospital California (“you can check out anytime, but you can never leave”) and damage may have been done.

“Oh, the horror . . . the horror.” (It always makes me feel better to think of pudgy, bald Marlon Brando at times like this.)

Will jumping from clinic’s third floor kill me? Can someone sharpen a dozen spears and place them in my landing spot? Will Martin Sheen shoot me at the end of the film?

Would it be like Groundhog Day if I kept leaping from the hospital room each day, only to be brought back to heal? Will Bill Murray play me in the sequel? Too old.

We probably should have gone longer with the IVs. But then again, I would have had kidneys the size of beach balls when I left, and the joy and bragging rights of going a week without peeing. Watch me drink this five-gallon bottle of water. Gulp, gulp. Gone. Nothing coming out. Magic. Let’s see David f’ing Copperfield top that?

My most excellent doctor believes my sinuses may be contributing to my low numbers and reinfection. So, I started Cipro today and have an appointment with a new ENT next week. I’ll play along with my doctor and hope he’s right. He usually is. However, this time I doubt it.

My decline was a combo of the flu biting me in the ass, going under for my Bluetooth chest port, and the amount of fluid they filled me with Willy Wonka style, which makes me think how much the hospital is like the Willy Wonka factory. Fall in the chocolate river and you’re hosed. Eat the blueberry candy and you’re a balloon. Kiss a nurse and . . . magic gumdrops fall from the sky? That sounds okay. Hold it. Where am I going with this? I got distracted by the image of the nurse with the rump-rounding shoes again. Happens six times a day.

I’d just like to say “thank you” in advance for honoring me with the “most motivational CF blog post” award for this one. It’s an honor and I’ll make sure I’m holding the trophy in my hand when I jump out of the clinic window.

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12 thoughts on “Why CF clinics aren’t located in high-rise buildings

    • Jenny,

      I cracked up when I read your comment. I wish I had thought of that ending. It was after midnight and I wanted to publish. Argh. Maybe I’ll rewrite with the Jenny ending.

      UC

  1. My clinic is on the 12th floor. I don’t think the windows open though. There was an elevator incident in grad school that cause me to not take an elevator for at least a year (didn’t need that accidental death and dismemberment insurance, thankfully!) and the very next week I had CF clinic while they were simultaneously remodeling the clinic building. Scaffolding everywhere, inside and out. Like, walk through this plywood doorway into the elevator. No thanks. I’ll do 12 flights of stairs. Only I actually did end up riding the elevator b/c the building is like a maze and in spite of the panic attack I suffered in the elevator, I made it to the 12th floor.

    • Nanos,

      I am moving to Texas and going to your clinic. It doesn’t matter if the windows open or not. I’ll throw the PFT computer stand against it or a chair. I wish I could still climb 12 flights. What flight would I be coughing up blood by?

      Sounds like a crappy building though.

      UC

  2. I have three thoughts:

    1. I’ve had those type of clinic days before. My clinic is only on the second floor, so there is a higher probability I survive my jump and be an even more mangled mess. Maybe I would take out the smoker or two that can’t read the sign prohibiting smoking near the entrance of the building. Grrr.

    2. Maybe if YOU wore the rump rounding shoes it would improve your posture and in turn your pulmonary functions. Plus, you’d finally fit back into those ass-less chaps you bought back in college.

    3. I’m glad you are giving the ENT a try. I think that is my next step as well. Perhaps we could prepare notes or cultures? 🙂

    Good luck, buddy.

    • Joshland from Josh,

      Wow, I can’t believe you had three thoughts at once. Don’t push yourself like that.

      1. At least you ended with a heroic act and killed the smokers. However, please make sure you don’t land on any of them smoking PM brands. You’ll cost me money if you do. The third floor should ensure I’m a vegetable. When you recover, you can pull my plug.

      2. When I emailed you picture of me as a Chippendale’s dancer, you promised to keep it to yourself. Now you’ve mentioned it on my blog and everyone will be asking for a copy. That was our special photo. BTW, those chaps really cause quite the rash in case you’re thinking of buying a pair. Opt for the silk lining.

      3. I’m not optimistic on this one. My doctor’s streak of being correct may be coming to an end. I’m thinking of going to Home Depot for a special plumber’s drill to stick up my nose and do it myself.

      UC

  3. Don’t jump! With your luck lately, you might break your back and then you’d NEVER be able to keep up with Fox.

    Besides, I’m thinking of buying McDonald’s stock based only on your consumption. 🙂

    • Mal,

      You know me too well. I would find someway not to die and suffer instead. You are so right.

      Regarding McDonald’s, you’re a smart woman. The stock has gone up since I started eating McGriddles, proving one person can make a difference.

      UC

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