Tag Archives: fighting cf

Fox Takes Over for the Night

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I am famous, people.

The famous Fox rocks!

I, humble Fox, King of the Vulpes vulpes, received the accolades I am due in @CFFatboy’s blog extraordinaire. Here’s the link so you can read all about me.

The Most Upbeat Article You’ll Read Here. Ever.

I’m honored. Anytime someone stays up until 1:30 in the morning writing about you, with a hot fox named Beautiful at his side, well, how nice is that? Thanks, CF Fatboy, you’re a stand-up guy kicking CF’s green ass. May you live a long life and write about me a dozen more times. I’ll send you some adventures that Unknown is afraid to add to the blog.

Remember, I created Unknown. He sprang from my animal imagination one day while I was taking a beer piss. What a puss I invented, too. Never look up to a cartoon character, my blogging friends, especially one who is a complete fool.

Speaking of her highness, let’s see what unwound in Unknown’s imaginary world today.

First, this is how normal people look to Doctors: Picture a 24-piece Dora the Explorer puzzle:

Easy to solve

This is how Unknown looks to doctors: Picture a 5,000-piece puzzle of a tiger.

It may bite you.

Now you know why doctors start backing out of the hospital room when Unknown starts talking. Here is what the doctor thinks when Unknown speaks: Too confusing. Where does this piece fit? Is this a piece from a different puzzle? Holy crap, there are a lot of pieces. I’ll start with the sides. Oh, screw it. I didn’t go to medical school to solve complicated puzzles like this nut job. I see the world in black and white, as in my black Porsche 911, and my model girlfriend’s white bikini filled with her 100K chest and hips.

I am Fox, hear me growl.

So, some good news. Unknown’s Labrador heart ain’t too bad. He passed the dart frog test. Though he can’t figure how, as he guesses a missing beat every two seconds counts for passing. Jerky Unknown, you lived through it. That’s a passing grade. Get back in the F’ing casino – you got a movie to finish.

Here’s why Unknown ain’t talking tonight. The cardio docs came by and gave him the green light and told him to stop eating chocolate, which makes no sense whatsoever cause he’s been eating chocolate for many months without problems. They played the “blame it on M&M’s” card. But that’s not why he’s pissed.

He’s upset because the cardio docs didn’t fill out their damn report and now he has to stay in the hospital one more night because the main doc won’t kick him lose without their kiss of approval. When doctors own a hospital, don’t expect an early release. There are yacht payments to be made.

Unknown is a sucker on a stick. I would have ripped out the I.V., crapped on the floor and scampered out of there with August and Tiffany at my side, and a few shots of that poison frog they shot him up with yesterday.  Here’s your report, doc, I’d say as I flip him the paw. I’ll email you photos of tonight’s Rum Jungle party in Veg-ass.

Something funny did happen today. The nurse came by and said the pharmacy wanted to know if Unknown had a Symbicort with him or had it gone back by carrier pigeon?

This is two days after he checked into this hotel of hell. Two days. Was he supposed to call in his order for a Symbicort ahead of time, like a chicken fajita at Baja Fresh?

So, the nurse had to take Unknown’s contraband Symbicort to the Rx and they had to place a little sticker on it: Approved by someone who didn’t read a printed list two days ago. What about the other five meds Unknown hid in his carry-on bag?  When do the federales break down the door and bust his chicken ass?  Let’s see you serve a “nickel” in a real prison, pretty boy.  You’ll be begging like a chocolate Labrador pup to return to the hospital and your private “isolation” room.

Last of all, why are the light switches in the hospital room painted red? Shouldn’t a red switch always blow something up? “Pop,” on come the lights. Where’s the fun in that?  Now if it caused Unknown’s bed to blast up to the ceiling, well, that would be a good reason to paint a switch red. Eat acoustic tile, UC.

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

Day Two in Jail – Torture Tests

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Day 2 in Lock up, Lock down, Lock Sideways – it’s all a matter of perspective

I woke up on the wrong side of my plastic bed this morning. Reality smacked me with where I was and why I’m here. I can serve the “nickel” of the normal CF prison sentence. This stay has rattled my nerves and tested me. Escape plans fill my mind.

I swear I heard Fox partying in the hallway last night. I have never slept in a noisier hospital wing than the one I am in now. Loud talkers on a cell phone can’t match these people for volume. I miss the quiet floor I usually stay on.

Yesterday’s nurse princess transformed into a nasty, bossy four-foot troll who woke me up for blood pressure around dawn.  No sweet kisses on the forehead here to awaken me from my slumber. Just a nasty lady mustache atop grinning wart lips. 

Hospital communication breakdowns are my favorite. I give them a printed list of my meds but somehow they find a way to f**k it up. They cannot process the fact I take two nebs of hypertonic saline in the morning and two in the evening. They write down what they think it should be. READ THE LIST, people. I will be placing a special note on future lists: “Yo, it’s two, I repeat two HTS in the morning and two in the evening. That’s not a typo.”

Then there is the “surprise test of the day.” Today, I wasn’t supposed to eat breakfast, yet breakfast showed up. Luckily, I had treatments to do and didn’t eat it right away. The nurse stopped me in time. What if I had eaten it and couldn’t complete the tests? There’s another day in the hospital and another 10K all because of a three-dollar breakfast being delivered by accident.

It’s getting harder to hide CF from my managers at work. It was easier to do it years ago when I only went in once a year or every 18 months and I could depend on having a new boss every year. Now, it’s tightrope walking and juggling at the same time. It’s getting technically more difficult to hide the truth. I’m not sure how much longer I can do it. I want to work as long as I can, but CF is screwing with that plan.

Tests, tests, and more tests

My insurance company will look for ways to get rid of me after today. These doctors love tests. And they delivered big time with that love today.

First up was what I call the Survivor test. They injected radioactive Thallium into me, then strapped me to a table so I couldn’t move. Three large boxes circled me, taking images of my Labrador heart. It seems strange to say 20 minutes being immobilized feels like a long time, but it does and did. Holy crap. I have new respect for Survivor games where they have to stand on a stick for 6 hours. The tech made it a constant point to tell me not to move. I didn’t and couldn’t thanks to his strap-down job.  

From there I went for the poison dart frog venom test. In this one, they placed me on a table and the same guy who shot me up with radioactive material 30 minutes earlier, dosed me with what must have been poison. All of a sudden it felt like I had just chased Fox out of a downtown L.A. bar and down the block. My chest tightened and I couldn’t breathe. SOB. SOB. SOB. Alert. Alert. Dying here. Shoot the f’ing frog that humped me, damn it.

The techs acted like it was normal to feel like you just ate bad blowfish. FU. Normal this, dudes. The bad guy just poisoned me like James Bond in Casino Royale.  But I don’t have an Aston Martin with a drug kit in it. Why are you standing there? Give me the antidote. I’ll tell you what I did with the “Nurse, Nurse, Nurse” guy from last night. He’s duct taped to a gurney on the top floor of the parking garage. Antidote, please.

It’s no wonder I have a splitting headache tonight. It took me 10 minutes to come down off of that joy ride to heart stretching heaven.

From there, I enjoyed the Fast Pass to my 50-minute echo test.  The three guys working it were cool and Fox had some x-rated guy conversations with them, but it was still painful.

Lunch came after the tests, which was a cheeseburger and fries with three ketchups and no salt. I get the no salt part. I’m in the heart ward. But three ketchups for all of that food? Are you kidding me? Who do I kill?

I got to repeat the Survivor test after lunch. It was just as fun as the first time. Try it yourself sometime. Lie on your bed, with arms at your side, hand clasped over your groin, and don’t move. 20 minutes. Start now.

The rest of the day I worked, barely.  But I did eat more M&Ms in one sitting than I’ve ever eaten in my life. They’re monitoring my heart – WTF. Let it race.

Stay well.

Fox’s day in hell.

I thought it was a dude that woke Unknown for blood pressure. It was the lady stache that fooled me. I’ve woken up next to a few whiskers in my day, but this one was thick, black and greasy. I jumped on top of the TV and waited until she dragged her club foot out the door.

I partied hard last night with the nurses. Loud, lively honey babes charmed by moi. Bambi and Ginger helped me tape up the dude next door who couldn’t master the call button. We laughed our asses off to his duct taped, muffled “nurse” yelps. Press the button next time, dude. Press the button.

The docs punished Unknown for “chest pain” today with more chest pain. Whatever they shot into him is something I want a bottle of. That looked like 10 minutes of rollercoasting while drunk on Gin Ball Twisters fun to me. Gotta get me some of that stuff for tonight’s g-string martini “fiesta of love.”

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

Another bad day

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It’s hard fighting cystic fibrosis. It’s harder making mistakes of your own doing fighting cystic fibrosis.

I should have stayed at the ER and hospital on Friday. I felt better, really well, on Saturday. Then late Saturday night I had a few mild chest and shoulder pains and the entire cycle started again and has continued into Sunday.

I’ve been beating the living crap out of myself for leaving the ER.  Once again, I found a way to make life harder and more painful for myself. I always think I can’t find a way to do it again, but I continue to astonish myself with my boneheaded decisions and stupidity.

I hated the doctor. He didn’t give me enough information to go on or call my doctor. The longer I stayed at the ER, six hours, the more wound up I got. I thought of staying overnight at that hospital, which is isn’t up on cystic fibrosis infection control, sharing a room with someone unfamiliar with a 90-minute coughing session to clear my lungs.  I couldn’t do it and wasn’t thinking straight.

I realize now that part of my panic disorder forces me to flee the situation I’m in. I fled.

I’ve been in full panic mode all day, sucking down Xanax, with a light dull pain in my chest – just enough to make me aware it’s there. I call it discomfort.

So, I now I debate what to do. Had I just stayed, this would have all been resolved by now. I knew it, but I got overcome with frustration and panic and had to flee the ER. Now who knows, maybe I’ve caused more damage to my heart and I have to wait longer to find out that potential bad news, which is only made worse by the fact I made it worse.

The strange part is the overwhelming feeling to end it all. The mental agony crushes me. The decision making and trying not to make the wrong decision is agonizing. It makes me want to die. Yet, my frustration also comes from the fear of not living – quite a paradox. Even the decision to live or die confuses me.

So, here I write this, tonight, completely spent, wanting to give up, yet also wanting to find a way to fix things. I have my evening treatments coming up. My current decision is whether to go to the ER tonight after I’m done with them or stay home and go to the doctor in the morning. I’m not sure what I’m going to do.

Argh.

Fundraising, regrets, and Lewis Black

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[NOTE: This post discusses CF warriors no longer with us. You may want to skip this post or skip to “LEWIS BLACK” below if the subject makes you uncomfortable.]

I once served on a committee for a local CF event for six years, probably more. I forget the exact years, but it was an honor. The team of individuals I worked with, well, they were amazing people. One was a CF parent who lost his child back in the day when there were few treatment options. He and his wife continued to fight CF after their loss. Friends of this couple joined the event committee to support them.

I learned a lot about courage and strength of character on that team.

Another family that sponsored the event had a daughter in her teens fighting CF when I joined the committee. She graduated college during my tenure on the team. I never met her, for reasons we all know well – stay away from each other, just one more nasty twist of having CF.

Their daughter passed away in her early 20s. I felt terrible for the family, and a little odd because here I was, living proof of someone older surviving with CF. There was nothing I could say or do to make it any better for them. I tried many times to write a letter, but the words weren’t mine to give. I’ve always regretted not penning it. I just couldn’t.

The event ended soon after that and the family, showing great courage, kept fighting CF with another event. I tried to write them again to thank them for that. Again, I could not do it. I don’t know why.

LEWIS BLACK

Helping to fight CF

One highlight of our events was seeing Lewis Black perform live. He did a great job and brought humor to a serious subject. He is a giving individual and still involved in the battle to cure cystic fibrosis. I saw him recently in a CF Foundation video, which is excellent. Here’s the link.  http://www.cff.org/aboutCFFoundation/Publications/Videos/MyDream/

If you’ve never heard of Lewis, please check out his work at http://www.lewisblack.com/ or watch his videos on youtube. He’s in the middle of a tour that may come to a city near you soon.

Stay well.

Monday Musings – Tightrope Walking and Cystic Fibrosis

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What would it be like to be a tightrope walker?

Take one of the most famous, Philippe Petit: What’s it like to stand that high in the air, suspended between two buildings, knowing that you are completely alone? Should you lose your balance, no one will be able to help you. You can’t Google a solution or tweet your tweeps. Your cell phone rests out of reach.

Tinkertoy Tightrope Walker by moi & daughter

It’s you and the wire.

And that’s the obvious connection to cystic fibrosis – those moments when it’s you alone on the wire. You’re walking the tightrope with no doctor, no friend, no loved one, no tweet, no phone. It’s you and the disease connected and suspended without a safety net.

It doesn’t matter whether you have CF or you’re the parent of a CF child. At some point, you have a moment when you find yourself out there, above the street, deep in thought about your predicament. What can I do? What do I do?  The decision rests squarely on your shoulders.

But there is a deeper connection of tightrope walking to CF. It’s that moment when you look down and rediscover the true situation you face. You remember that you spend three hours of your day doing treatments and coughing up mucus that makes others jump back in disgust, and you take more drugs in one month than most take in a lifetime. Or, when you arrive at your hospital floor, they welcome you by name.

Some days, it is best not to look down at the street below. You can’t turn back, and looking forward doesn’t help either. The wire is long and platform ahead shrouded in fog. Surprises, wind, and close calls line the way. Your past experiences play back in your head, especially the ones that do not help.

How did I get here? Is this really my life? What do I do?

So, what do you do? Yes, you can take one step forward at a time. We all do that. However, there is another choice.

This is where Petit’s actions on the tightrope over New York City provide a possible course of action – lie down on the wire and look up. That is exactly what he did while suspended above the streets of NYC. He looked up, not down – the opposite of one’s instinct at those heights. And that is the true connection of the tightrope walker to living with CF – sometimes it’s best to live in the moment and not worry about what’s below, behind or in front of us. Block it all out and look up at the sky.

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

Saturday Funhouse – Four Things You Didn’t Know About CF

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Win one for Unknown

@seanset requested a Saturday Funhouse post today. So, as it’s Saturday, its seems like his timing is on the mark. Plus, next Saturday’s post will be a recap of Team USA’s thrilling 2-0 World Cup victory over England. Go Red, White and Blue.

Let’s get started.

The Internet provides a great deal of information on cystic fibrosis. You name it, we discuss it. However, some facts get lost in the sticky web of the Internet. So, I cracked open the archives of Cysticpedia today and dug up the following facts about CF that many may have missed. All true, BTW.

75 cents per load

Vest invented by a mom? One Saturday morning, Mrs. Jones of West Palm Beach FL found her young son, little Unknown, sitting atop her old, out-of-balance, vibrating Kenmore washing machine. Cute, she thought, until she noticed the secretions everywhere. She told friends the story at a dinner party that night. One of the dinner guests was the engineer who went on to invent the Vest. Coincidence? To this day, grown Unknown prefers the unbalanced, bouncing washer. True.

We have alien DNA. If you know the story of Superman, then you know he has super powers on Earth. We CFers are aliens on Earth, too, but our powers are neutralized here. However, on our home planet, only people with our unique combination of DNA are super and can fly. And our mucus is a weapon that can eat through steel and take down super villains. Oh, and we live to be 1,000 years old and never get sick. Where’s the ship that takes me home? Hello, Cyslandia? Can you read me? Beam me up, please.

Just like the candy ones I used to smoke. My parents let me smoke candy cigarettes when I was growing up. Now you know what I was up against, don’t you? Which is why I was dumbfounded to discover this controversial new invention scientists are working on. It’s an eFlow-like nebulizer that looks exactly like a cigarette. This way we can do our treatments in the car and look just like smokers on a commute. It also helps us explain our coughing at work. “Maybe you should give up the smoking,” our co-workers will say on their way to lunch, as we stand outside the building smoking our TOBI Lights. “Yeah, kiss my ass. I’ll live to be 95 because of these,” we’ll shoot back, smiling, knowing the truth. At least people will stop thinking they can catch something from us.

Evil spirits begone

Blow this. Some demented MoFo invented the Flutter a few hundred years ago as a device to cure witches and those possessed by evil spirits. When anyone was suspected of being possessed by an demon, they were forced to sit and blow the evil out. It lost its popularity because it was a terrible spectator sport watching someone’s face turn red and puffy until they passed out. Instead, torturers turned to drowning witches and those possessed, as it provided the excitement the crowds desired. And it sold more cotton candy and rats dipped in chocolate. Still, the torture lives on in my house every day. “Out with ya, Green Demon from Hell.”

There you go @seanset. Just for you.

Stay well.

A Poem for Cystic Gal

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My blogging pal, the charming and talented Cystic Gal, is back in jail. Argh, *&%&**. So, I decided to deliver some cheer, arguably, by writing this poem for her. Poetry is one of her great loves in life, along with small, cute animals, buff rock stars and a special two-word saying. Here’s a poetry example she can use with her future students to show what not to do in verse. BTW, everyone can start making fun of me now.

Feel better, CG. Feel better.

Two Words Only She Can Say

When you’re feeling light blue,
fat needles jabbing, stinging you,
fuzzy baby animals failing
to drive away the hail
of cutting cold infuses,
painful, not so lovely news.
Resort to these two words
to lighten dark days,
slice the thick green haze,
and give CF two pink-polished birds.

Pitch it all away
with, “how do you say?”
two words for models
who think thin is so May
and dine on tic tacs and hay
these babes that lack back-
bone, your style and brains
or boyfriend Bret in the sack.

Pink flowers again will rain,
your mood lifted, brighter
your gentle tongue lighter
when you share a catch phrase,
plucked brows quick to raise,
from the two words you love
that fit thee like a glove.

Two words that kick and blast
relationships not meant to last.
Two words with slapping power
barbed like a leather flower.
Your two words to fend off
the nasty therapist’s cough.

Let them rip
from your lips –
two words

Suck it.

Suck it.

You’ll feel happier,
smiley, with a wit snappier,
a funny story to tell
about the nasty red face
hit by the shotgun shell
disguised as your verbal mace

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Saturday Funhouse: Rejected CF Therapy Ideas

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I Stumbled Upon a confidential CF Foundation file today. It contains ideas for potential cystic fibrosis therapies that were rejected or failed in testing. Here are a few from the dozens listed. [Warning: Adult Content, perhaps.]

Good in chocolate, too.

Tabasco Flavored Albuterol. According to the document, the heat of red peppers causes coughing, making secretions fly out. This product only reached Phase 1 testing, which lasted about 30 seconds when “volunteers started collapsing from the pain of the Tabasco” in their lungs. “Sounded great on paper,” one researcher wrote. Though the medicine was cancelled, researchers discovered it still worked great on scrambled eggs and burgers.

Cat, cat, cat, cat, cat

Jogger’s Portable Compressor. This product made it to phase-two testing. The concept was simple and designed for CFers who like to jog. A battery operated compressor in a backpack was strapped to a dog, allowing the jogger to do treatments while running. It worked out just fine in early testing until Rocket, a two-year old black lab, spotted a cat. Unfortunately, the jogger lost eight front teeth, quite painfully, the report adds, “when the nebulizer followed the dog across the lawn.” Product cancelled; dentist visited.

Add one LC Plus and you're good to go

Beer helmet and nebulizer holder. It gets tiring holding a nebulizer in your hand or teeth for hours each day. Plus it’s not easy to drink your favorite beer and type inane posts all at the same time. The answer: combine the tasks. Adding a nebulizer holder to a beer helmet allows users to inhale one drug, then take a swig of their favorite beverage – all hands free. The product was cancelled when drunk subjects nebulized beer and drank TOBI.

Don't miss

Spit the bullseye. This game-like therapy was designed to give patients incentive to cough up their secretions and spit them at a target five feet away. Points were awarded based on the accuracy of the shot. Several problems occurred during testing. First, not everyone is good at spitting. Second, it was a really unpleasant clean up job getting the junk off the wall, not to mention the carpet, furniture and curious pets. And Home Depot doesn’t make paints designed for CF. This failure killed plans for the spinning target in development.

How do I disinfect this?

Bong-shaped Nebulizers. Here’s the failed advertising copy: It’s hard to look cool when your friends come over and you have inhaled meds to do. Introducing the nebulizer that looks like a bong. Now instead of feeling uncomfortable with a PARI LC Plus hanging from your mouth, your friends will marvel at your amazing ability to smoke weed continuously for an hour or more at a time. Who’s the Ganja King or Queen now, pal? Share a hit with them. Then wait until they get that albuterol buzz going, complaining that they feel wound up not down. “Who sold you this crap,” they’ll ask. Smile and say, “this is pharmacy grade stuff, man. Pass the chips, I’m starving.”

Stay well.

The Language of CF – Battle Stations

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I read a fantastic blog essay by Tiffany Christensen, aka Sick Girl Speaks. She discusses the use of the “battle metaphor” with cystic fibrosis and whether it’s time to drop it. I recommend reading her point of view. You can find it by Googling “Sick Girl Speaks blog.”

I hesitate to place the link here because I use the language of battling and fighting all the time. I’ve even personified CF into a hulking form that I drag behind a yacht, or chop into pieces or simply beat up. So, with respect to the author possibly not wanting a link on my site, I give you the information you need to find her excellent post.

I do, however, want to discuss my viewpoint on the language of war and battle with CF. Not to debate Ms. Christensen, as there is no right or wrong here. For me, it’s a “Whatever gets you through the night” situation. “War” and “battle” against my enemy, CF, get me through the night and day better than any other weapon I have.

Over the course of my life, I have compared fighting CF to that of fighting a great war. It has served me quite well and I can say that without it, I would probably not be here now. I would not have had the strength to make it through some close calls or, more importantly, the day-to-day routine of treatments, especially that f’ing flutter, which is a daily battle of its own, my face red, curse words attacking and insulting CF and telling it to leave my lungs.

The battle analogy, or metaphor, depending on your definition, allows me to generate a higher level of anger that manifests itself in added power to blow into that flutter for 30 minutes, or cough harder to get the junk out three times a day, every day. Anger is an important element of battle, too. And, there is science to support it. Weight lifters and some athletes use anger for added strength when lifting; and testing shows anger does generate additional power. Many sports teams, especially football, use the language of war for motivation to win the championship.

Anger and battle go hand in hand for me and if I can direct these at CF and the bacteria in my lungs, all the better. I believe it has made a difference in my ability to fend off this disease. I believe a positive attitude helps, too. And yet, I don’t mind anyone who doesn’t believe this, as it’s all about personal choices. I’m not the guy who is going to beg the jumper to back away from the ledge. That’s their decision to jump, not mine.

Yes, war implies one side loses, but it is CF that is losing right now in my world, not me. I am winning. I am maintaining lung function. But I am lucky, too. My defective genes gave me an advantage many others with this disease have not had. And, many may have “lost their battle to CF,” but I don’t look at them as having lost anything. I look at them as great fighters and heroes who fought an impossible war, but battled anyway. And yes, despite having a positive attitude and fighting, sometimes there is nothing one can do to prevent the inevitable with CF. The question is whether not having a positive attitude and a fighting spirit shortens a lifespan. I can tell you that it would have in my case.

When you’re in a war or battle, you are alert. There is danger. And if you let your guard down, bad things happen. It’s the same with CF. What would happen if I skipped a treatment or two? In this blog, I’ve transferred my anger to the page and felt a renewed energy to fight CF – a renewed confidence that there is hope that this fight will end one day in the death of CF. Some days, it just helps to lob “prose grenades,” whether humorous or sarcastic, at a clearly defined enemy that is causing me so much trouble.

I truly thank Ms. Christensen for her thought-provoking post. She has elevated the level of discourse about this disease. Truly, I believe she is stronger than I, knowing that I probably could not withstand two lung transplants as she has. That is mental and physical toughness of a higher level. I need the talk of the battle to get me through the night. Obviously, she has something else that drives her. And I applaud her for sharing that with us.

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@onlyz’s Fun Friday – Five Fun Pranks To Play at the Hospital

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[Disclaimer: Each of these pranks has the potential to go drastically wrong and harm people, including you. Please remember that this an entertainment site and it is strongly recommended that you do not follow anything that is written or said here.  You may end up in a car trunk with hospital workers debating how they’re going to chop you up. It could happen. Don’t say you weren’t warned when you’re searching around in the dark for crowbar to defend yourself.]

[Disclaimer #2: THIS POST IS VERY ADULT, or childish, and you should skip it if this isn’t your cup of tea. So, perhaps, you may want to return to something not written by an insane person who is tired of quarterly hospital stays.]

Prank You Very Much

Ah, there’s nothing like 30 or more hospital stays to bring out the humor. So, today on @onlyz’s Fun Friday, I celebrate that joy and happiness with five fun pranks to play while enjoying your vacation at the hospital.

This can't be good

  1. What does the color of your sputum say about you? This is an easy one to start your life of hospital pranks. You’ll need an extra sputum jar. Take some food coloring and put a little in your next sputum sample. You’ll have the nurse looking at it like an engagement ring from a rock star as she walks headfirst into the door.
  2. Privacy Please. When you absolutely need to be left alone for that conference call or quiet moment with your spouse, putting a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door is about as effective as inserting your own PICC line. Here’s a sign that will make anyone check their courage meter before coming in: If the van’s a rocking, don’t come knocking – massage therapy session in progress. For added authenticity and  confusion, print it on paper with the hospital logo.

    Hello? Anyone there?

  3. Big Brother Is Watching. Place a fake security camera in your room (available on eBay). When someone notices, and they will notice, say “yeah, I thought it was strange when they installed it. Who do you think is watching?” Then stand up and pretend to look in it, making crazy faces and acting like a monkey. Finish by mooning the camera. “Let them tape that bitchin’ backside,” you say laughing.
  4. Pump yourself up for the big game. Sometimes its hard to take the sixth blood draw from the guy whose piece of fruit in phlebotomy class couldn’t scream every time he stuck it with a practice draw.  My suggestion: have a football helmet next to your bed and every time someone comes to stick you, put in on, do a motivational pump me up dance and cheer: “I’m ready – BRING IT ON!” For extra effect, spike a football after they’re done.

    Have you been a bad boy in the hospital?

  5. I hearted stewardesses. Nothing says party and drunken flight attendants like empty mini-bar alcohol bottles lying around. You won’t believe the doctor’s face when he sees the bottles, United Airlines flight attendant blazer, lacy undergarments and lipstick marks on your sheets from the previous night’s romp. If the doc puts up a fuss and lectures you, it’s time to pull out the greatest excuse known to us CFers. “Doc, I have cystic fibrosis. What did you expect me to do, say no?” Likely, you’ll get a wink and an approving “don’t let me catch you doing that again” look. Offer to show him the video when he’s cowboy enough watch it.
  6. I.V. Hell. This one is a classic, needs to be done early in your stay, and works best with residents. And you’ll need the help of a nurse. Have the nurse dress your neck like there’s an IV inserted in your jugular vein. When the doctor comes in and says, WTF, keep a straight face and say: “Yeah, I was surprised, too, but they said it was there or [point to your private area]. Not much of a choice now was it, Doc?”

    It's hard to find ruby slippers in an 11

  7. The Wizard of Oz. This trick will require some money and a trip to the costume store, but it’s well worth the investment. Each day you’re in, wear a different Wizard of Oz costume. Think of the fun you’ll have growling at people as the Friendly Lion, and making a hay trail as the Scarecrow. When you’re the Tin Man, here’s your line: “I hope you brought a strong needle today, babe, cause I’m 100 percent pure tin made in OZ.” Always wear the Dorothy costume on the final day, as nothing brings about a psych consult like cross dressing in Oz costumes. Also, don’t forget the stuffed Toto for that added detail.

BTW, @onlyz can’t count. Have a good weekend.