“Happy New Year. Stay fit. Keep sharp. Make good decisions.” – Ghostbusters II
“Call me crazy, but I think it is possible for a Democratic president who spent his first term setting records for inflation, gasoline prices, and low approval ratings to win a second term.” – Jimmy Carter
Hiyas!
Apologies for the delay – for the last few days I’ve been riding vinyl in a hospital room while nice people poked, prodded, x-rayed, EKG’d, CAT-scanned (I think that they use cats instead of dogs because cats keep hospital hours), and measured in such detail that I’ve seen charts, graphs, percentages, statistics, and cross-sections of The Mrs. that I’ve seen at least three of her vertebrae.
People want pictures with women’s clothes off? I’ve seen pictures of The Mrs. with her skin and muscles off. At least in slices. Dang. That sounds like something Dr. Lecter would say.
Nevermind.
The chair in the hospital room was ungodly uncomfortable, and the vinyl couch was okay since we were at a hospital nearly three hours away in Modern Mt. Pilot. At one point, a woman I didn’t known came into the darkened room, gently lifted up my blanket, and started to lift up my shirt.
I said, as groggily as a human who only had two hours of sleep in the past 48 could, “Huh????”
“I’m here to replace the battery in your cardiac monitor,” she whispered seductively in my ear.
The Mrs. quickly marked her territory from the actual hospital bed: “I think you’re looking for me.”
In a hospital, there’s a flurry of activity at the emergency room, and people with amazingly expensive looking pieces of equipment come and stand in line to do amazing tests that provide lots of data so that the hospital doesn’t get sued. Then comes the long wait as recovery hits, and interaction with the hospital personnel happens only every six hours or so.
This is a good sign. They have much bigger problems elsewhere.
What’s best in life to get out of the hospital? Be boring. The Mrs. tried, but her lungs greedily ate up all the antibiotics the world has to offer and then called for more.
The good news is they booted her out of the hospital so they could give the bed to someone who needed it. The bad news is that her lungs have not adapted properly for our atmosphere, and we’ll have to seek a planet with more oxygen.
Just kidding, that’s silly. Why not increase the oxygen content of the Earth, instead? All we need is a volcanic island lair in the Pacific, the entire GDP of Japan for 30 years, and several dolphins that can play chess at the International Grandmaster level.
So, I filled all of her prescriptions in Modern Mt. Pilot while we waited for discharge. In one case, the pharmacist said at the consult that the antibiotic might make her poop turn blood red, which apparently alarms weak people who do not welcome the signal that Valhalla is calling.
“Well, that’s an Easter egg I’ll let The Mrs. figure out.” Sometimes I say what I’m thinking out loud. It’s usually more enjoyable for me than for others. The pharmacist gave me a look. The Look.
I said, “We’ve been married 26 years – I think I know how far I can push a joke.”
She smiled, and shook her head. “Just like my husband.”
We’re home now, and our Penultimate Day was spent doing precisely nothing. Pugsley stayed home and didn’t drink all my booze and injected Elderly Dog periodically with insulin, a process we call (in honor of Lisa Douglas, wife of Oliver Wendell Douglas) “Shoosting the dog.”
Now, we’re home. The Mrs. is touch and go on podcasting Wednesday (if you don’t show up for the livestream, you really should, it’s fun, free and if you have a beer I’ll chug one with you), but (I think) we’re back into that controllable portion of life where we manage the really unimportant things like bills and schedules.
Regardless, we welcome in 2024 with the idea that although we know life is finite, we should enjoy and live each moment with the virtue and faith that you would use in your last moment.
What will anyone pay for pictures of the vertebrae? We’ll call it Only Organs.
I’ll respond to comments and such tomorrow.
I’m tired.
