Category Archives: Human Nature

8 days of work, football, videos, crappy food, and IV antibiotics

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I’m home after one of the least eventful hospital stays in a long time. Other than having to ask for a different nurse after the first one tanked a port-needle change, my prison days rolled by with minimal pain and little to talk to the doctors about, other than why my lung function has dropped and is not improving.

I know most people have one time, short stays in the hospital, but after dozens of visits, I can't take the food anymore.

I know most people have one-time, short stays in the hospital, but after dozens of visits, I can’t take the food anymore.

That is the worrisome part. Or, the part I don’t want to talk about right now.

I pounded out a decent amount of work while in captivity. Sometimes even I wonder why I do it, but I’m just programmed that way.

And perhaps that was the most stressful part of the jail time – work.

Our 8-person group is coming under fire from new management for reasons unknown. It’s a little like elementary school when the entire class loses their recess because of the actions of a few. I just saved anyone reading this the details, but it created a lot of stress for me not just in the way work stress does. Instead it made me realize I can’t put up with some of this bullshit anymore as my life comes to an end. It’s not worth it and my time is too valuable.

I will say this: If it weren’t for my wife and daughter, I might give up. Yes, I know I’m the luckiest man in the world, but even with that in mind, getting painted into a corner in life, or feeling trapped, can make one feel hopeless.

It’s always the total load, trying to work, make money, avoid jail time, keep my lung function up, and float on top of the cloud of trivial bullshit some people live in.

Some days it feels overwhelming and I wish I were pushing a basket around downtown Los Angeles with my black lab and IV machine in tow, which may be happening soon the way work is going these days.

So, with a heavy mind, I spent a lot of time escaping into videoland at night, watching movies or runs of TV episodes, like House of Games (awesome), and Justified (pretty good; I wish I was either the actor that plays Raylan Givens, or Givens himself. There is something to be said for being cool in life).

So, life goes on as I complete the IVs at home, Inipenem every six hours with a 3-hour drip, and Tobra once a day for 60 minutes.

I’ll have plenty of time to think about my next move before others make it for me.

Rat Hunter 1, Rat 0 (graphic photo, turn back before it’s too late)

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If you have a passion for wild rats, then this isn’t the post for you. However, if you like it when wild rats invade the home and get their necks snapped, well, I guess this is the place to be.

The other night my wife and I thought Cali came in through the dog door and hit the dryer. There was a loud metallic bang. But then Cali, hearing the same noise, came out of the bedroom.

Rat trap.

Friends visiting this holiday season will see this guy's head mounted on my wall. "Is that a rat head?" they'll ask. "Damn straight, it is. Hunted it for a week. Wait until you taste the stew."

Friends visiting this holiday season will see this guy’s head mounted on my wall. “Is that a rat head?” they’ll ask.
“Damn straight, it is. Hunted it for a week.”

Needless to say, my wife, claiming she got two votes, elected me to take a look at the trap behind the dryer. At first I didn’t see anything. But after sliding the dryer out a bit, jackpot: one gray rat with his neck in the trap. Gross.

(But not as gross as the episodes of The Walking Dead I’ve been watching lately – zombie killing is a messy business and I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many heads smashed or shot in my entire life, which is pretty exciting compared to a life without flesh-eating zombies roaming the streets, though some of my meth-addicted neighbors could be mistaken for the undead.)

Thus, with all of this killing in mind, I thank the rat for dying cleanly.

So, no more sleeping with a 7-iron in one hand, a flashlight in the other, and my failed rat-hunting black lab at my feet. The rat is finally dead.

And, so far, no evidence of any others in the house.

Lesson learned: each night, before going to sleep, put the damn wood cover in the opening of the dog door.

Speaking to my daughter’s future self

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I hope there is a God so one day I can thank her for my daughter.

Kicking back at the beach with a yellow Labrador pillow.

How I got so lucky, I will never know. But I did. And it’s best not to question why.

I’ll also thank the Universe for my wife, too, because I won the marriage lotto. And, as a jackpot bonus, she contributed all the best genes and qualities to my daughter, especially the love, goodness, and kindness – because our 5th grader didn’t get any of those from me.

I’m the guy with the low opinion of humanity who thinks the world is going to collapse under the weight of billions of people with resources to support millions. No matter how much ketchup you use, you can’t eat an iPhone or iPad, or fish from a poisoned ocean.

But there in the middle of the madness is my daughter, bright, shiny, ready to join the ride I’ll be getting off of soon. And it’s everything we can do to keep her from harm, especially the self-inflicted kind. It’s almost as if the important talks we have with her now anticipate that she will become someone else, someone different from her 10-year-old self.  We speak to her future self, which feels a bit sci-fi like, and hope what we tell her sticks, and she remembers it when needed years from now.

We have conversations about alcohol and drugs: One day a friend will offer you drugs, someone you never expected (disbelief from daughter). What will you do?  If your friend drinks too much at a party and wants to drive you home, will you remember to call us? We’ll pick you up. No judgment. 

When she is a teenager, will she still love us? That’s a question my wife and I ask ourselves a lot. I’m not as concerned. I’m just not. I can only do so much.

But now that my daughter is almost 11, I’m feeling sentimental and a little bit . . . scared?

I read too many news stories about harm coming to women. I used to worry about our cabinet doors being secure and the bumper around the coffee table being in place, or wearing her helmet while biking. The stuff I worry about now feels more real, harder to see, like it’s waiting outside, lurking – a jungle filled with scummy people, losers, and criminals. We can prepare her, coach her, but in that moment when she in on her own one day, what can we do?

Our neighbor’s adult daughter has a drug problem and history with the police. We use her as the poster child of what not to do with your life. But I still wonder what happened to her. What signs did the parents miss? What mistakes did they make? How did she go from bright, bubbly toddler to living in her car and homeless? How did that happen? And what can we do to make sure it doesn’t happen to our daughter?

So, what does the future hold for our daughter? Will we prepare her properly to succeed in the world? I’m in no hurry to find out.

Thoughts always on my mind

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I could, at anytime, contract a bacterial infection that kicks my ass and destroys my quality of life, or kills me. What would it take? Touching the wrong surface? A careless hospital worker? A rogue germ on the escalator at the mall? It’s hard dodging an invisible enemy year after year.

I need all my clothing made out of these. Adios, bacterial invaders. Too bad I can’t reach inside my lungs and swab out the invaders with one of these.

I may have cancer now and not know it, or get it at anytime in the future. I’m in the death zone and potentially a doctor’s appointment away from it. My mother has cancer, my grandmother died from it. Should I take this as a hint from the universe?

At any moment, a stream of crimson fluid might blast from my lungs. I think about this throughout the day – each day – when I bend over, when I go to sleep at night. when I walk up a hill, when I accidentally eat food that thins the blood. (This salad dressing has garlic?) I think about it every time I cough. Every time. 

Why do I sweat the small stuff, especially considering the other thoughts that live in my head? I should be doing more with the life I have left and not worrying so much.

I worry about my wife and daughter, especially my daughter. My wife works out of the house, so I know she is okay most of the time. But my daughter is getting older and independence is calling. At 10 she thinks she knows it all, and when I gave her the “stranger lecture” before the festival last weekend, she grumbled and told me she already knew it. Every time I read about a missing child or teen or young female adult, I get sad for the loss, and worry.

How many admin tasks will my boss send me today? Menial, administrative work tasks feel like walking up to a chalkboard, opening my mouth wide, and running my teeth across the surface. The thought of it alone gives me shivers. End of Day (EOD), Close of Business (COB), End of Week (EOW) work emails = the classic comedy scene where Lucy works in the chocolate factory.

I need to read and write more. How did I spend three nights in a row watching the first three Alien movies? Final score: Aliens 3; creativity 0.

I suck. I am a failure. I have not lived up to my potential. If I had, my wife would not have to work for one of the world’s worst bosses and be stressed all the time. I should not have sold my Apple stock years ago. I should be running my own business and in control of my own destiny.

How many days has it been since I’ve taken a shower?

That’s the stuff I think about.

Conundrum

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It starts with waking up to read my work email in the morning. I don’t look forward to it. There is something about it now that makes me wonder how valuable a lot of what I do really is. I don’t think it was always this way. And I don’t think it has to do with my having less enthusiasm for work email. It’s the email that’s changed. Economy, people worrying about their jobs, tracking everything, measuring and justifying one’s existence, busy work. I don’t know. I just know the quality and quantity of it is painful at times. A distraction from work that matters.

My life will be coming to an end in an unknown amount of minutes, hours, days, weeks, years. If I could find out exactly what day I will die, it would allow me to allocate my resources. 3 months, 6 months? Hmm, perhaps I’m done wasting my time with pointless work. Hello, Las Vegas. Hello, speeding tickets. 5 years to 10 years left? Well then, work is good. Keep on trucking. Benefits, a paycheck – all good. No reason to risk anything.

I’m lucky to have a wife and daughter, two dogs, a job, a house, a car, health insurance. Knock on wood. Life’s checklist is good. I’m lucky. Good too. But what do I do with the rest of my time? It feels like I should be doing more and that I know better than to waste time and worry about trivial stuff. It could all end tomorrow. But one has to survive. Artists and musicians glamorize this situation, as if I should be driving a VW van while lip-syncing to Katy Perry’s “Firework.” I suck at making the most of life. I must have slept through that class in school.

Ah, Ms. Perry, What was Russell thinking?
Photo by Eva Rinaldi – Creative Commons

My garage is full of crap. It’s a warehouse for items I may need once in the next 5 years. It feels like a ball and chain. Stuff weighs a lot. I don’t have the courage to throw it all away. Who knows when I’ll need that spare insulation or scrap of plywood.

I surf the Internet too much. It’s a distraction, has ruined my concentration, and keeps me from doing anything that takes effort, such as writing a blog post. It is escape. I’ve mastered it.

I dislike Yahoo! and its headline stories about nothing. Yahoo! – it’s your brain on cotton candy. “Levi Johnson Poses with Baby Daughter.” At what point is that story worthy of a major headline? Have you ever noticed how many stories are about celebrities’ new hair styles?

Yapoo!

I’m tired of Apple mania. I dig the new Samsung Galaxy commercial poking fun at waiting in line for an iPhone. It’s pitch perfect. I own Apple everything, but now I’m wondering if I joined a cult and they’ll be asking me to drink iKool-Aid soon.

I fear failure, but have nothing to lose, or everything. I’m not sure.

I have ideas. Always have. But I was born without the gene to make shit happen.

This is my conundrum.

Life at the beach made me lazy

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With our adventure of a lifetime near the ocean ending, two things have left an impression on me: how sand gets everywhere and how fast metal rusts. There is sand in the bed at night, the floor that my wife sweeps twice a day, my eyebrows and ears, the dogs’ fur and the clasps of their leashes that no longer want to snap to a close. And occasionally when taking a bite of food at dinner, the uncomfortable crunch of sand ruins a good bite of Ahi, followed by my amazement that there is beach sand in my mouth.

We were lucky and had a two-week stretch of perfect weather – days like the one in this photo I took.

Any exposed metal rusts. The salt air and morning mist bring it. It’s everywhere working its oxidative magic in slow motion, hiding in plain sight. But it’s not just the metal it affects. It’s worked its magic on me, too, especially my desire to blog and be productive or read a lot.

I had big plans for blogging from the beach house. I thought it would be cool to write daily updates. But between the stress of the kitchen remodel and making last minute decisions on tile and flooring, two weeks of nightly Olympic coverage, and the intimacy of being in a small house with my wife and daughter hovering nearby, blogging has taken a backseat to all of this and the fun we have had in-between.

We filled much of the time with work, especially my wife. Friends and family drove here to visit, and I shared lots of little moments with my daughter at age 10. They aren’t what I would call big-event moments, like if we went parasailing – we didn’t. They’re the simple moments like the one the other day when after my wife took the dogs back to the house, and my daughter and I played soccer in the low tide, kicking the ball back and forth, skimming it across the water. Or we’d kick it out to sea and wait for the tide to carry it back.

Those were the cool moments when the stresses of life took a backseat to fun and nothing else but the actions at that very moment existed. I’m going to miss those the most when we return to reality.

Hospital Communication Tales

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There are certain things an attractive, charming, intelligent woman should never say to a dying man locked up and trapped in a room the size of a walk-in closet. At the top of the list is, “if there is anything I can do for you, anything at all, please let me know.”

Yes, one of the few RTs I have ever liked said this to me the other day. And I had to do a double take, my first thought complete confusion. Did I miss something? What does that mean? Was there some hidden meaning to it?

That’s the problem with saying something like that to a guy. Or to me. I’m not bright enough to understand an ambiguous statement. Does it mean you’ll get in your car and drive to McDonalds for me, buy me two McGriddles, and hand feed them to me while I recline in the hospital bed?

I’ve obsessed over the statement for two days now. And I’ve kicked myself for not simply asking, “What do you mean by that?” I’m sure it would have been innocent and harmless, as I look like . . . and smell like . . . five days of hospital grime and fevers. But I am a curious person with a vivid imagination set loose by ambiguities.

But that wasn’t the strangest thing said to me this week. It doesn’t come close. Here’s my favorite.

A nurse conducted her assessment – blood pressure, temp, pulse ox. And then she said this: “Turn around please and let me listen to those pretty little lungs.”

Yes.

I can’t make up something like that. Well, I guess I could, but I’m not sure I’d want to because it’s kind of creepy. And that’s what I said to her: “That may be the creepiest thing anyone has ever said to me in the hospital.”

But I said it with a smile on my face. I love odd statements, especially here in the pits of Hell. And when I joked about calling the HR department, she did a double-take. “I’m joking,” I said. “It’s all good, my lungs weren’t offended, but they aren’t feeling very pretty today.”

Awkward silence. Not sure she’ll be saying that to another patient now after I batted it around verbally for five minutes. Too bad. I ruined it for others. Or did I? Or are only my lungs pretty? I’d like to think so.

I’m not sure why I speak to doctors who work the weekend shift. There’s really no point. They’re here to collect the $300 or $400 for entering the room, and only want to make sure you’re still breathing and not lying on the floor in a pool of your body fluids with the word “anything?” written in your own blood on the board that reads “Pain Goal.” (Mine is in the photo.)

So, even if I cut off two of my own fingers and glued them to my head like a devil on Sunday, the weekend doctor would take one look and say, “you may want to mention that to your doctor on Monday.”

That’s it. It’s been a rough two days of not feeling well. And that damn statement? “Anything” with emphasis? What did that mean?

Yes, I have problems. I know.

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More kitchen appliance shopping – death of a salesman 2012

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I ordered all of our new kitchen appliances on the Internet.

And though I’m thrilled to be finished with this dentist-visit-like step in the kitchen remodeling process, I feel bad about it.

I passed on the three retailers I mentioned in the previous post. It’s hard to buy something from a store when you’re not approached by anyone. I do, however, give Sears some props because when I tweeted about it they were concerned and wanted to know more about the experience. And Lowes tweeted too.

But that’s not why I feel bad.

Here’s a sample kitchen we like. It’s a lot of fun trying to pick the right shade of green. Almost as fun as sticking your hand in a running garbage disposal.

Our contractor gave us a tip on a family owned appliance business here in the valley. I called the store and spoke to a very helpful and knowledgeable salesperson. Tom, we’ll call him for this post. He gave me a good price on the appliances I wanted and was responsive by phone and email. I did the math and they were around $400 more than what the appliances would cost me on the Internet, figuring in no tax, but higher shipping costs.

My wife and I discussed it and decided it was worth it to buy locally and have better peace of mind should one of the appliances break down.

After looking at tile and more granite (don’t ask), and quartz, we went to the appliance store and met Tom. Again, super nice. And I had my credit card out and ready to go. But the stove I picked out didn’t have the hood style we liked and back in my wallet went the AMEX card. We drove home to research generic range covers and new stoves, telling Tom we would be back the next day to purchase the appliances.

I spent more hours Saturday night looking at stoves and reading reviews, which by the way was a killer, going back again – how many stoves and stove reviews can one wade through? Food for thought: angry people always take the time to leave negative reviews. And they always tell people not to buy anything from the brand they’re upset with. I soldiered past these.

Sample number 2 with green and white.

Up early Sunday morning, I continued reading and researching, wading through comments to sort out key points, like if a stove had a fan noise problem, or the dials melted (some do), or if the LED displays petered out over time. My OCD comes in quite handy at these moments.

Finally, I upgraded the stove, which made my wife happy because it’s all silver, no black, has a griddle feature, which made my daughter thrilled for the future pancakes she’ll try to flip but miss, turning them into taco shells.

This is the most I’ve ever spent on an appliance. It better cook like a charm and come with a personal chef to make me my McGriddles each morning.

I looked up the price of everything on the Internet. The local store doesn’t match internet prices. And the difference was at least $900, with 2/3 of that tax. I thought about calling the local store and seeing if they would match them, but I didn’t, as they told me the day before they didn’t match online-only prices. So, I ordered them off the Internet. And I felt very bad, but was thankful the Internet wasn’t around when I was a salesperson, which leads me to a question that may seem anti-American.

How are brick and mortar retailers supposed to compete with no-tax internet retailers?

It doesn’t seem fair that I can order a Whirlpool refrigerator from ABT and save sales tax, but if I order it online from Sears I pay tax for my state. I understand the early argument about wanting the internet to succeed in its infancy. But it seems well established now. I also understand why sales people stand around in these stores. They’re tired of spending time with customers who are milking them for research, then purchasing the items off of the internet – ask Best Buy how this is working out for them.

We’ve now moved to the “picking out countertops and backsplashes” stage. It’s even more painful, but in a different way. There are a lot of moving pieces. And I now understand why people resort to white subway tile backsplashes – simple, easy choice, and less chance of a mistake.

I wish it were that simple for us, but we like making things in life more difficult than they have to be. And we’re really good at it.

And we want to become adults because?

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It would have been nice had someone explained to me when I was young how difficult it is to be an adult. It’s not a cakewalk. Nor is every day a day at the beach. I probably wouldn’t have listened, or cared, but it still would have been nice. All those milestones we dream of as children, 16, 18, and 21, blow by. Then we become adults and can do anything we want, including wishing we were 16 again, but smarter.

Okay, moaning over. It’s just one of those days. Let me explain.

So many questions, so little time. © kbuntu – Fotolia.com

I spent two days writing a post about what happened over Memorial Day weekend with a neighbor. I would love to publish it, but I don’t know if I can make it plain enough to avoid all legal scrutiny and not get in hot water. In a nutshell, a neighbor who has caused the neighborhood and my family great stress went to jail this weekend. I and another neighbor followed the instructions of the police the last time they were here: call if she shows up again. We just wanted her out of the neighborhood. The going to jail part was a surprise and not intended. Now I know why some people don’t get involved. It’s easier and requires less effort and stress.

And if you do get involved, it’s easy to muck it up and experience more stress (I know this firsthand).

I’ve been on the phone with a lawyer about my options to sue since then, and I’ve spoken to a police officer about everything happening in the neighborhood for the past year. My wife and I have had stressful conversations about the situation. Unfortunately, there’s no manual on how to protect your family from people with drug habits.

But there should be.

I went to clinic today and my PFTs haven’t gone back to baseline. Not looking good. So, maybe it’s time for IVs to see if we can nudge them back.

When the nurse was reviewing my records, the conversation went like this: Have you made an appointment with the sinus doctor? No. Have you scheduled a sleep study? No. Have you scheduled a bone scan? No. An oral glucose test? No. And so on.

Working 50 hours a week makes it difficult to spend my weeks enduring medical tests.

A new doctor untrained in the mysteries of CF walked in and surprised me. I’m picky about my doctors and my time. I knew in the initial 30 seconds based on the way she entered, spoke, her mannerisms, and plopping herself on the first chair she could find that I had nothing to say to her. And I told her that, then asked for the regular doc. Nothing personal, I said, as she left. One of the regular doctors I like entered the room and it rained happiness and Skittles. I only had to use a third of the words and effort with her compared to the doctor I booted.

A similar situation happened with a temporary member of the staff. I answered her questions as quickly as I could and got her out of the room as fast as possible. But the visit wore me out, as the longer I’m there, the more the work feels like it’s piling up.

So, all of this and more have added up to remind me why some must turn to drugs in life. The future overwhelms. How much of what we worry about will or won’t happen? I wish I knew.

Something I would give to my worst enemy – c diff

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I don’t believe in the saying, “I wouldn’t give that to my worst enemy.” Not me. I’d give everything bad I could think of to my worse enemy. And other than passing on my cystic fibrosis, c diff would be second on my list.

This is the devil picture on Wikipedia? That's the best they can do? Hmm. Oh, well, I'm wishing c diff on the devil, though I have my suspicions he invented it.

Holy f**k, this bacteria is not pleasant. I had to start week three of the Vanco. And just when I think I have the upper hand on it, bang, boom, bang, there goes my stomach again.

Where is my worst enemy to give this to?

I’ve had some days with this sucker when I wished a meteor would fall from the sky, pulverize me and the c diff. Pile of dust and dead bacteria. Kind of like the movie where the hero grabs the enemy and jumps off a rooftop, taking both of their lives, to save the world. Not sure what that movie was called, but you know the genre, I hope. Hero dies to save the world. I just want to kill the c diff for the good of the world (and me).

I’m doing everything right. Taking the vanco on time, eating probiotics, getting sleep, making little c diff voodoo dolls to throw in the bonfire each night in an ancient c diff-be-gone ritual. Then I apply war paint to my face and chest and dance through the neighborhood in a kilt. My neighbors close their shades and turn off their lights. No one home, go away.  

Bacteria have it out for me. Story of my life. Story of your life?

In other random news, my wife is losing hair and is stressed about it. I think it’s from living with me and am surprised it didn’t happen sooner, like a week after she met me.

In reality, it’s probably her job. She stresses too much about it and is 10 times the worker I am. However, we don’t live in a big house or drive exotic cars, and we don’t have a boat or coke habits, and we don’t because we don’t want to stress about these things.

But she stresses like we do have these worries and that’s not right. And if she’s going to stress that much, we may as well move up to a larger house. I’ve always wanted a Porsche. And god knows I can throw a rock in any direction in this city and hit a coke dealer. Oops, sorry, meth dealer. I don’t live in Beverly Hills.

So, tonight I played the following TED video for her. It’s really about happiness, not work, and appreciating what you do have. Hopefully, it will help her fight the deterioration of aging and have a positive mindset. Or not.

I don’t like seeing her go through this, but I’ve been living it for many years and depend a great deal on Super Glue to hold my stuff together. Works like magic.

We all go through it don’t we? If we live long enough. But how we go through it is what matters most, isn’t it? No sense being unhappy about the inevitable. As my ex-friend Fox would say, Party like it’s your last.

(The TED clip is below. It’s funny. Please check it out. It may make you happier. Or maybe it won’t. Will. Won’t. Will. Won’t. Oh, hell, give it a shot. What do you have to lose?)