Tag Archives: fighting cf

The Pebble Game

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“Whether you think you can or can’t, you’re right.” – Henry Ford

Who has ESP in the family? I do.

I schooled my daughter in the art of non-verbal communication last night. We played a game where she hid a glass pebble in one of her hands and asked me to identify the hand with the pebble. I went six for six until she got mad at me and quit.

At the point I was three for three, I hinted at how I was doing it by reading her eyes, facial expressions, and white knuckles around the pebble. However, revealing the magic didn’t help her fool me. And she did try to fool me by looking at the wrong hand on purpose, which told me to choose the other one.

It took awhile to get to six out of six because she threw little tantrums a couple of times and tried to fool me with no pebble in her hands, which I guessed she was doing, even though she fibbed she did have it in one hand. Then she got mad because I guessed she was fibbing.

Once she calmed down, I went through the techniques I used. I also explained to her that at the beginning of the game I said to myself  “I can do it. I can guess the correct hand each time.” I was confident of success. I also visualized in my mind being able to guess the correct hand. Zip, right over her head that last point went.

I’ve used the Henry Ford quote with her many times when she says “I can’t.” I reply, “I guess you’ll prove yourself right then,” which makes her blow a gasket. She tries to prove me wrong by doing it, which makes me the Reverse Psychology King. (It’s always good to be king of anything, even when you make up the title yourself.)

The pebble game made me think about how clairvoyant I am at guessing which hand a pebble is in but how bad I’ve been at predicting the future. In the past, I have thought, my lung function is screwed forever, or I’ll never make it off this plane alive, or my bacteria will never be sensitive again. I have been wrong so many times.

Why is it easier to visualize the worst case scenario and not the best case? I need to do a better job of practicing my own advice by saying “I can” more often. I can handle what CF has in store for me. Oh, how I’d like to prove myself right on that one. We’ll see.

Three wishes

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[No medical advice is given in this post or any other post on this site. Please see disclaimer in left column.]

Last night I fantasized that I had three wishes for cystic fibrosis.

I wished for a cure for all CFer’s, our lung function and digestive issues restored to normal, and lost warriors returned to life. These wishes came to mind in a heartbeat. But as my mind soaked in the warm bliss of fantasizing that all of these could come true one day, I changed my mental game to think up more immediate and practical wishes. (There will be a cure one day.)

If only it were as easy as rubbing a bottle

So with my brain-game rules changed, I wished for the following:

1)  BITC gets tested, launched, and becomes the most effective CF treatment ever. What would be more fitting than Melanie Childers and Sharktank.org delivering the grassroots knockout punch to CF? Karmic justice at its finest. My fear here is that BITC with its great potential will take mainstream science and medical companies too long to get moving. Hello, CF Foundation or rich donors? Time to step up with some research cash and get BITC  fast-tracked, as you don’t want to say “would have, could have, should have” years from now on this potential game changer.

2) All CF clinics deliver a high-standard of care. Years ago, my clinic had really lax standards – they used a peak flow meter to test lung function. As a result, my numbers went down and I lost some of my lung function forever. In came a new, excellent team with mandatory quarterly visits, PFT testing at clinic, and I.V.s when PFTs drop 10 percent or more. I’ve read others’ blogs and discovered that some clinics sound like my old clinic and are not being aggressive in treating CF. Thank you to the CF Foundation for setting higher standards for CF Centers. My wish is for them to push harder and ensure all CFer’s get the same high level of care. Oh, yeah, how about getting trial drugs out sooner? Please.

3) Every state automatically enrolls its residents in the organ donation program. Individuals should have to opt out of the organ donor plan, not in. This would help a lot of CFer’s and others waiting for organ donations. It seems like such an obvious change and I read that some states may move in this direction. Yay. Move faster, please, as a country.

X) This one is complete fantasy. I wish CF had a physical presence and I could hunt it down and kill it. But I wouldn’t kill it right away. I would torture it. And I would have no guilt about doing so. Imagine the worst, most painful torture scenes you’ve ever seen. I would do that and more to CF and it would feel so good to make it pay for the suffering it has caused to CF’ers and their families and friends.

Those were my immediate wishes. Now all I have to do is find a genie bottle, rub it, and make my wishes. Don’t be surprised when you wake up one day in perfect health and you hear screams coming from the other room. It’s just me with an ice pick engraving names into CF’s flabby skin.

Stay well.

Sweet and Sour Gummi Worms

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If I were an M&M . . .

We haven’t told our daughter about cystic fibrosis yet.

She visits me in the hospital, and will many times in the future. She sees me doing daily treatments, and is here when the agency nurse draws blood while I’m on home I.V.’s But we haven’t given any of this an identity yet.

We treat my CF like a business, or business as usual, with no emotions when I leave for the hospital. It’s a way of life and is like me going on a trip – one she can join on weekends.

I can’t say if what we’ve done is right or wrong – it’s how we’ve handled it. And it seems to work for us. Our daughter loves life, thinks completely about herself and her world and how many treats she’s going to get and how much Wii time she’ll have and just how much fun she can have in a day. That is what I call completely normal behavior for a happy 8-year-old.

I must have the brain of an 8-year-old because I think the same way – when can I have my M&Ms today?

If we gave the battle a name it might zap her buzz. And one day we may have to zap that buzz, but why do it any sooner than we have to?

That’s not to say we’re doing the right thing by hiding it. We each do what’s best for us. We just never mentioned it and are hoping we can prolong it as long as possible. We may, one day, wish we had introduced it earlier, having backed ourselves into a corner. We’ll see.

My wife and I don’t really talk about CF a lot anyway, except for the bills it generates. We try to ignore it, hoping, perhaps, it will get bored and go away. How much broccoli do I have to eat to make that happen?

But my daughter is starting to become aware of my limitations or lack of wind power.

We were scootering up a moderate hill yesterday. My wife, the aerobic animal that she is, shot to the top, while my daughter hung back. I thought it was odd the little scooter maniac stayed behind, as she doesn’t like anyone to ride ahead of her, inheriting her competitive streak from me.

“Why aren’t you up with your mother?” I asked.

“I’m waiting for you. Can you make it up the hill, Daddy?” she asked, in a gentle and loving voice.

Available at the Sweet Factory

Earlier in the evening my wife and I were talking about going to a concert at the Hollywood Bowl and I remembered the big hill you have to climb, which might cause hemoptysis. Little Miss Elephant Ears must have overheard part of the conversation.

So, it was sweet that she showed concern for me in the sincere way only kids can do. But it was sour at the same time that CF created her concern for me.

 

I’m lucky. I’m lucky. I know. I do know.

But some days CF tastes like a sweet and sour gummi worm – with its brief sweet taste and sour punch – Doctor says: “Your heart is in pretty good shape considering CF” – sweet. “There is, however, mild pulmonary hypertension” – sour.

To which I reply: &$% you, cystic fibrosis, &%(* you, you piece of *$^#. Then I feel better. Much better.

Stay well.

http://www.sweetfactory.com/Candy-nbsp-nbsp-Gummy/Sweet-and-Sour-Gummi-Worms-1-LB-/prod_1212.html

Confessions of a Cyster Blog

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A flower seemed appropriate

Tonight, I’m giving a shout out to Stacey Bene and her new blog. It’s great, and I enjoy reading it. Please check it out if you haven’t already done so.

Here’s the link to the blog.

http://confessionscyster.blogspot.com/

Here’s the link to my current favorite post. Love the wit of it despite the circumstances. I’m sending positive vibes to Stacey.

http://confessionscyster.blogspot.com/2010/07/around-and-around-we-go.html

If you’ve been reading my blog in the past month, you may have read my two posts on CFers having kids. Here is Stacey’s touching post on the subject with a closing line I really dig.

http://confessionscyster.blogspot.com/2010/06/these-are-not-my-mistakes.html

Stacey, thank you for sharing your life. I look forward to more of your story and you giving CF a serious ass-kicking.

Rock on.

.

Work Dinner at Benihana

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I hope I can catch the shrimp in my mouth this time

Is there a name for that phobia?

I fear hibachi-style restaurants.

A few years ago, at a fake Benihana in the southern United States, the chef, who was showing off his mad skills with a spatula and shrimp, forever killed my love of sitting in front of a hot flaming grill while eating.

My work pals lied that it was my birthday, laughing as if they were the first group to ever pull this prank. So, I had to sit there sporting a paper idiot-hat while they sang Happy Birthday and toasted me. Happy, happy, joy, joy.

And, as I was the faux birthday boy, the chef had the genius idea to toss me a shrimp to catch in my mouth. Unfortunately, I had missed the memo about it.

When I noticed the grilled shrimp coming at me, I opened my mouth like a SeaWorld dolphin but couldn’t maneuver in time to avoid it hitting me in smack in the eye, which led to everyone laughing their asses off. Oh, funny man, make us laugh, please. Let’s see that again. I didn’t laugh very much when I spent 10 minutes washing the grease out of my eye. Fun times don’t come better than that.

That’s why I hate these ##$*@ places. They bring back bad memories of the “shrimp to the eye” night.

So, last week, when the gang told me the work dinner was at Benihana, I just couldn’t wait to go. Sarcasm alert, if you didn’t get it.

With Benihana being the restaurant choice for the night, someone’s memory flashed on the “shrimp incident.” Then the jokes started rolling my way around noon and continued through dinner. At one point, a pair of safety goggles showed up to protect my eyes from another mad shrimp. Thank you for your thoughtfulness, guys. I’m so lucky.

Light, damn it, light. Oh, screw it. I'm retiring.

Retire before you suck at what you do

At the restaurant, we got the worst teppanyaki chef ever, an ancient bench warmer they called into action when no one proficient at their job could be found. The crusty geezer was counting down the days to the cashing-in of his Benihana 401K and “free fried rice for life” coupon.

This is how much he sucked: He couldn’t flip a shrimp tail into his hat, which is a basic skill they teach you on day one of teppanyaki-chef school. He missed six in a row and gave up. Six? How do you miss six? I could make that shot in six tries. How hard can it be? Evidently, harder than it looks, as was the behind-the-back shot that hit the floor. You’re 0 for 7, loser.

Worst of all, he completely screwed the pooch on my favorite part of the show, the flaming-onion volcano. How do you mess that up? There are only three ingredients: onion, flammable liquid, and a lighter. A six-year-old could torch that baby. Somehow his onion didn’t ignite, much like his passion for the job.

I looked at this cat and wished that CG would get her new lungs soon

Free Drinks on the company

It’s amazing how much some people drink at company functions. It feels like it’s the people who have been in the same position for 30 years and have never moved up. Is it the chicken or the egg? You got drunk at company functions and didn’t get promoted, or you got drunk at company functions because you didn’t get promoted?

One such person, who exceeded his limit, slurred that he was cutting out carbs to reduce calories. When I told him alcohol has more calories per gram than carbs, he mumbled something about not giving up the one thing he enjoyed and turned his back to me. I admit that eating meat and drinking beer sounded like a good strategy regardless of his poor knowledge of caloric intake.

This same guy turned to me later, after he’d forgiven me for my rude remark, and shared this depressing fact: he felt really bad because he’s been attending a lot of funerals lately. Five people he’d known had died in last two months.

You know what I was thinking: I need to get away from this guy right now. I don’t want to be number six. I made sure I didn’t rub up against him. Back luck rising. I started to worry that the chef might lose control of a knife at any moment and I’d look down to see it stuck in my chest. That would be . . . ironic? I survive 47 years of CF and meet my maker at a teppanyaki grill where I’m killed by a guy who can’t make a flaming volcano? I know what my British friends would say: F#*king hell.

When someone finally drove the carb counter home, I yelled out “seat-belts,” and got a funny look back like I was the drunk one. I just didn’t want the driver to be number six.

I was so happy when I left and survived the night. I will do my best to avoid these places in the future. I’ll use the “I’m sick” excuse. No one at work will argue with that one.

Stay safe.

On the Road with My Pal, cystic fibrosis

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Fox taught me to get a hotel room with a stove for boiling nebs.

[Warning: adult language]

Four days on the road

Mush, you CF drugs, mush. Creative Commons - jurvetson

I used to love traveling on business, but now I haul so much CF stuff that it’s not very enjoyable. It feels like I load a dog-sled full of nebs and meds. And it takes a couple of hours to boil and pull everything together. Then I need to make sure I don’t forget anything, though I’m didn’t fly this time, which meant I could drive back, if needed. Still, I’d rather avoid that.

Thanks to my wife, I received a packed suitcase for my trip. She packs enough clothes for a three-week trek across Antarctica. I can change my underwear twice a day, which fortunately I don’t have to do.

I’m not complaining.

A stuffed suitcase is a great perk of being married. I just need to lighten the load before I leave next time. I did promise to bring her back a cute penguin, though there weren’t any at my real destination, Ontario California.

What you can see looks nice. Creative Commons: angelasevin

What do we really know about each other?

Sticking with the Antarctica theme, I’m an iceberg, as are my co-workers. Just like icebergs, we only know the 10% of each other that sticks out of the water. The other 90% remains hidden from view. The longer we work together, the more ice we see. But with me, there is always cystic fibrosis lurking below the waterline.

Only three trusted people at work know I have it. The rest have the impression I’m sick a lot, I don’t like to shake hands due to germs, and I don’t like to talk about being sick a lot. Pretty close, but I don’t think I’m sick a lot.

CF neuters me again

My manager asked me to travel overseas on company business, which I used to do all the time. I turned it down. I just couldn’t do it. I have hemoptysis screwing with me these days, and I already lived through a bloody gusher on a plane across the Atlantic once before. Plus, travel wears me out, which affects my health in bad ways. Not wanting to go through that again, I turned it down for health reasons, which was embarrassing and made me feel like less of a man.

A leak develops - Creative Commons: clearly ambiguous

There’s that CF iceberg again, dragging through the water, slightly more complex than other people’s. Still, I’m lucky, I know.

The joys of saying the wrong thing

A co-worker said to me, “you looked really tired in the meeting.” She made this simple comment three times, as if I didn’t hear it the first time. Why do people always have to comment on the way I look? And why is it always negative? Do you really need to point out circles under my eyes or other physical characteristics? “Gaunt” or “thin” used to derail me when I was younger. I’ve heard it so many times now, who cares. I should wear a bag over my head 24/7.

What they don’t know

What my pal didn’t know was that my mucus production quadrupled the day before, and I was awake until one in the morning coughing it all out. Then I had to get up at 6:15 a.m. – when my co-worker was sleeping – to do my xopenex, two hypertonic salines, and my flutter. Then, I had to get ready for work. All of this took close to two hours.

Who wouldn't want to dream of these?

So, when someone says you look tired to me, I feel like saying, fuck you very much. While you were dreaming of puppies playing, and snug in your Marriott bed, I was sitting in my bulldog-covered boxers coughing up a pile of the stickiest crap you’ve ever seen in your life. Would you like me to show what I coughed up?

When you don’t have anything nice to say, just STFU.

I was pretty tired on Tuesday. I had to grind out the workday. I hadn’t slept well or long; my upper back was killing me, an 8 on the pain scale.  When I hurt it . . . I have no clue. Sharp back pains zapped me when I coughed. And my stomach bothered me all day. Overall, CF did a good job kicking my ass that day. I should have looked tired. But she had no idea why I did.

Zen and the art of keeping your mouth shut

Perfect bag for me. Note the upside down "crazy" on the bag. Awesome.

I had my own “foot in the mouth” incident when I said hello to someone I hadn’t seen in a long time and added: “I hear you’re kicking ass in your new position.” I meant it as, “I hear you’re doing really well.” I forgot she just fired one of the nicest people in the department, a woman who wasn’t a very good worker, but made days brighter. Thus, when I made my comment, she turned red from embarrassment.

I had to quickly explain what I meant. Too late, Mr. Tiny Verbal Dancer, damage delivered and done. I won the idiot of the day award, which goes on my shelf next to a hundred others that I’ve won at work. Yay, oh, yay, Communications Master, just STFU in the future.

I’m thinking of becoming a monk, the type who takes  a vow of silence. The only problem is there’s still non-verbal communication. I’m sure one of my fellow monks would look at me, make a sad face, and then use his finger to trace imaginary half circles under his eyes, which is the monk-way of saying “you look tired.”

I, of course, would use non-verbal communication right back with my middle finger – the universal way of saying, just STFU.

Stay calm and quiet.

100th Blog Post – Thank you – See you in a week

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The above video includes one of my favorite songs. If you like music while you read, please press play.

***********************************************************************************************

To everyone who has visited and read my posts and the comments, I have the following words for you:

Thank you. Thank you, so much.

I started this blog to leave a record for my daughter detailing my fight against cystic fibrosis. It has evolved into something more.

Much younger here, she's everything to us.

I say this from my heart: this blog became better than I ever imagined thanks to you, my friends.

With your help, it has evolved into something I never expected – I got more back than I put in.

When I felt like quitting the blog, you kept me going. During my recent jail stay, you gave me the strength to find the humor to fight CF – to say, I may bend, but I will not break from CF’s cheap tricks and mind games.

And, most importantly, the lesson my daughter will take away from this blog will be greater than my words alone.

It will be a message of hope delivered by others.

My daughter will read the comments and learn more about the people who took the time to write them. She will discover that the heart of the blog lives there beyond my individual thoughts. It is greater than I, and tells the following story: one cannot fight cystic fibrosis alone – it takes a team of the finest minds and hearts, and the courage they share, to defeat this brutal, complicated disease.

I have work commitments this week. It’s the perfect opportunity to take a week off from writing and reflect on the next 100 posts. It’s my hope they’ll be even more rewarding and that together we will find new strength to crush CF until its life blood drains into the gutter, never to be heard from again. Hope is on the way and it carries a very big flail.

I reflected on the 99 previous posts that Fox and I wrote and tried to identify my favorite. One post kept coming to mind. And of course, it features you know who – she of Jimmy Choo shoes, and Pink Bunnies and all things soft – she with the ability to transform darkness to light, words to sweet-smelling daisies, and toads to handsome doctors – My friend, Cystic Gal. Here’s the link:

https://unknowncystic.wordpress.com/2010/04/23/cf-blog-throwdown-dude-versus-the-lady/

Stay well – Fight hard. See you in a week.

p.s. If you’re wondering about Fox, he is in a Las Vegas jail right now. Last night, at the Hard Rock Hotel, he punched The Who’s Roger Daltrey, who according to Fox, made a pass at Ginger. I think Fox can use a few days in the hole to reflect on his actions before I bail him out, don’t you?

I am the luckiest person alive – Redux

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I have new readers and friends; and several wrote excellent comments this week. I’m thankful they did. So, I feel it’s important, after my recent posts “live from the hole,” which sounds like a great name for a concert album, that I restate something important:

Daddy & Daughter t-shirts because we're learning to play guitar together. This will be a great hospital shirt, too.

I am the luckiest person alive.

That is a true statement. Four-leaf clovers fly from my pockets when I walk. McGriddles fall from the sky. And just when I’ve thought this disease has had the upper hand in the past, some lucky solution revealed itself.

I have survived hemoptysis 39,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean, and a collapsed lung flying to Texas. I’m not a big fan of airplanes anymore. But I am here.

Every day that passes, even my darkest, I remember how lucky I am to be 47 with a disease that has taken so many others younger and brighter. I’m not sure about the grand logic in life that has allowed such a situation to happen; I feel it’s best not to question my luck, just be thankful that I have it.

I visit cysticfibrosis.com and am a proud member of sharktank.org. I read about the pain CF causes everyday.

I have blogging friends I care a great deal about, especially that crazy pink blogger waiting for new lungs. I hope she gets them soon. I’ve boxed up two McGriddles and some extra luck and sent them to her, and hope she remembers her old pals when she’s running marathons and shopping for new Jimmy Choo shoes in Paris.

Here on Father’s Day I sit typing, feeling lucky that I have a wonderful wife, who is stronger than I and who takes a body blow during each of my hospital stays. I’m not sure it’s the life she dreamed of. I have no idea what she was thinking when she signed up for this joy ride 25 years ago, which has been harder on her. She worries more than I do.

They insisted I get new slippers. Our Lab was playing, nipped me in the heel, and ripped the back out of one of them. Yes, they're gross, CG.

I also have a daughter, which never seemed possible for us earlier in life, but who now steals muffins from the kitchen and thinks I don’t notice. I’m a terrible muffin cop. Life is short, eat your muffins, I think. My wife will have a different and very verbal opinion when she gets back from her run.

I am lucky. I just want to make that clear.

And now that I’ve written this post and am happy someone will comment with “cue the sappy music,” I know Fox will have to post next and get this one out of his system, as he is truly in charge here.

Until then, I am taking the day off from worrying about my job, insurance, potential hemoptysis and everything else ahead of me. I’m going to spend a lot of time looking up at the sky today, not looking down.

Stay lucky and well.

(Message from Fox: I don’t believe what I’m reading. He never learns, this asshole Unknown. He never learns.  This lucky bastard – I’m so tired of hearing how Leprechauns hump his leg. I’ll be putting my paw up his . . .  Oh, never mind. ARGH. Hand me a Schlitz and the MacBook, Ginger, I have some unraveling to do.)

Message from Fox – I’m Pissed

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Dear Readers,

Fox here. And I’m a bit irritated with my yellow labrador of a creation, Unknown. Here’s what went down.

Are my eyes dilated? Ginger, help. I can't get up.

I’m standing by the poolside of my buddy’s Malibu Mansion tonight and feeling good about life again. Ginger, god bless her nursing heart, has just given me my fifth dose of poison dart frog. We’ll all laughing because my fur is standing on end and I look like I stuck my paw in a wall socket.

Not to mention that I’m wearing Ginger’s panties, which say “I love foxes” on them. They feel comfy, but they’re riding up my ass, but I can’t do anything about it because my paws aren’t listening to me and because they’re paws. Nobody’s lending a hand, they’re just snapping pictures and laughing.

So, I’m pretty messed up. I have to use Unknown’s Xopenex just to breathe again. My tail is stiff as a rock and I’m knocking glasses in the pool every time I spin around. The pool is where we have that damn ER doc that made Unknown wait six hours. Couple of my pals, Badger and Skunk, have tied him up and are dipping the dope upside down over and over. Six hours is the goal. After that we’ll give him the bill and kick his ass out of here.

Great times, right?

Yeah, that’s what I thought. That’s until Bambi comes strolling out with her MacBook Pro open. She’s screaming something in French or French-like, but I can’t tell her to speak English because the dart frog has paralzyzed my vocal cords. So, she holds the screen up for me to read.

Holy $$*#*#*$. What has Unknown done now? Unknown has gone and written the post of the century for total wimpiness. WTF is he doing to my blog. I’m pissed. I can’t speak, and trying to type with paws ain’t exactly easy when ya got all your faculties in place, which I clearly don’t.

The gang can see I’m upset. Ginger loses her mind when my eyes start cartooning out of my head. She knocks me down on the mat and goes all Pulp Fiction on me with a syringe the size of an Old Milwaukee bottle right to my fox heart. I spring to life and feel like I just traveled through a worm hole to reality with that ER doc screaming every time they let him up for air. Skunk gives him a blast of bad air, which ends the party on the spot because we gotta evacuate.

Here I am in action. Photo by Neil Phillips. Creative Commons.

Now it’s 12:30 at night and I have to apologize to all my readers for Unknown. I’ve put him back in his kennel. How’s he expect to fight this f’ing disease if he’s going to cry like a baby. He better dig deep and stop the whining or an ass-kicking the size of the moon is coming his way.

I’m sending him off to my pal @onlyz for a few days of Camp Onlyz’s Grow a Pair, where they’re going to surgically repair the two chicken nuggets he’s sporting. He’ll come back a a rabid Akita.

And I say this to cystic fibrosis for the number you’ve done on my pal Unknown this week, one day I’m going to catch you. And when I do, I going to hurt you, and then I’m going to hurt you again. Then me and my pals are going to reenact the final scene of Braveheart, the one with the creepy tools and slab. Except it won’t be Mel Gibson screaming “freedom” this time.

CF, you’re going to wish you never existed.

I may be a fox, but I stand up for my friends.

Fox out.

Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles – Hospital Time

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Handsome and curious looking for . . .

Unknown is tired after his jail time this week, screaming for the Lakers tonight with his daughter, and no McGriddles in the last three days.

He asked me, humble Fox, to post in his absence. I’m feeling pretty tired too after my quick jaunt to Vegas last night with a couple of gal-pal nurses. Rum Jungle was rocking. I got thrown out again, but that’s not unusual. What can I say? It’s my nature to cause trouble.

Tonight, I’m going to share a few photos from my vacation. There should be more, but Unknown panicked and forgot to grab a fresh camera battery before leaving the casa. Slim photo pickings thanks to that boneheaded error.

The photo below is the first room Unknown stayed in – for 45 minutes. Then he cried like a little lab pup about chest pain and they took him straight to a lower grade room. Learn from Foxy on this one, folks, never talk your way out of an upgrade. They’ll snatch it from you if you do.

Now this is a room for a hospital party!

Here’s the hole they sent Unknown to after he complained.

Welcome to the garden view, Mr. Unknown

Remember when they strapped Unknown to a table and scanned his heart? This is the badboy itself. Those are the two blue straps they used. 20 minutes of hell for Unknown. 20 minutes of napping for me.

Don't move or you'll have to repeat the test

Someone thought it would be funny to erase the hospital information board below. I am Fox, after all. Everything worked out great and the nurse thought it was cute until she read “patient goals.” The smile fell off her face. Ouch, you nasty boy.

Fox out. Picture below. WARNING: Adult language

You got in trouble, you got in trouble. Ha, ha, ha.