So, I was thinking about this today, and have come to the conclusion that what is happening to my body is not so much a sad turn of events, or perhaps even some would say a tragedy in the making, but rather, a vast medical wing conspiracy.
It came to me this morning in the glorious cleansing ritual that the commoners refer to as a "shower". It is a Conspiracy of Pauls.
Exhibit A: My urologist is Dr. Paul K. He has been to Omaha, he owns a hunk of Warren Buffet's empire, please go to Dairy Queen today and support him.
Exhibit B: My General Practitioner is Dr. Paul G. He has never been to Omaha. He is Italian (I think) and there are lots of good Italian restaurants in Omaha. Watch the Sopranos tonight, think of Dr. G.
Exhibit 3: My favorite actor is Paul Sorvino. He is Italian, he sings Opera, probably likes ice cream, and I don't care if he has been to Omaha or not. Go watch "Goodfellas" tomorrow.
Can you see it?!?!?! It is all here in dark green and dots! Paul K. discovers the pain, Paul G. writes me prescriptions to treat the pain, and Paul S. plays the legitimate businessman who supplies the pharmacy with the drugs that "fell off a truck" to fill my prescription!
It is now that I will advise you of the fact that I inherited the Blanche DuBois gene from my mother's side of the family. Fortunately it is tempered with the Hakuna Matata* gene from my father's side of the family, so the majority of my hysterical rantings and dramatic license are literary.
Dr. K has already talked to a local laparoscopic surgeon at the Kidney Stone Center at Riverside hospital here in Columbus. He has agreed to take my case, and my information is being sent to him, I see him Tuesday.
We leave and take Buddy to school. We are late, and he managed to stop for one picture,
and then I got one more.
He pretty much left me in the dust.
We picked Buddy up at noon, came home. I made him his "first day of school" lunch, PB&J cut in triangles and arranged like NASCAR flags around the bottom of plate, red grapes in the middle and quartered strawberries across the top of the plate. I served this with a glass of "yellow juice" which is, ironically, Orange Juice.
He looks at the plate, and the side of yogurt served with it. "oh Nice!" He thanks me and proceeds to eat a package of Zesta Saltine crackers.
Buddy, don't you want to eat the lunch I made for you?
By now I'm bent over the counter, holding it for support, I literally cannot stand because of the pain.
"nope, it's too pretty"
Never again will I serve aesthetically pleasing food.
I convince him to come upstairs and play with his trains so I can lay down. After about 90 minutes, he is in the bed with me, and we are watching a very entertaining episode of Spongebob Squarepants, when I finally feel the meds winning out over the pain.
We go see Dr. G. I tell him of my Paul Conspiracy Theory. He looks suspiciously at me, and now I know I'm being watched.
He prescribes a Duragesic Patch for me. I put it on when we got home. I began to feel a gradual numbing of the pain a few hours later. It flared up again, but I was able to beat it back with Percocet and rest.
Narcotics do not make me sleepy. I don't get a "high" from them, so I don't understand why people abuse them. I guess if you aren't in pain, you get all euphoric with them, but not me. The Duragesic patch so far is great, except keeping it on. I'll have to find a better place on Sunday when I put the new one on.
Then I tried to go to bed. Normally, this is an exercise in futility. But I felt myself drifting off to a peaceful sleep....and I freaked out. Oh No! I feel floaty and light, I must be having a fentanyl overdose....ack! must consult internet immediately!
Anyway, I got about two hours of sleep in, when I was awakened by a smell. I got dressed and followed my nose to the source.
The bassets looked guilty in their crates. I was sure one of them had an accident.
I let them go potty and investigated the crates. It seems that Mr. Brutus had some really bad gas. So bad that when they came back inside, he immediately ran to bunk with Henry. It must suck to have one of the strongest senses of smell in the animal kingdom.
So I'll leave you with this. Hounds are the most burying type of dog I've ever seen. Give them a rawhide bone, they have to go bury it....to let it ferment or age or something, and then go dig it up a few hours or day later and enjoy it. This must be a useless "throwback" instinct, as they tend "bury" their bones in blankets, clothes baskets, couch cushions, etc.
Monday, Super G cleaned the litter boxes for me.
He found very little cat poo, (all dogs love catbox crunchies) but he did find a rawhide bone.
It is so very weird to live HERE.
* Hakuna Matata is a phrase from the Disney Movie, "The Lion King" which translates to "no worries"