I ran over a squirrel. I tried not to. I zigged, he zagged, and there he was, furry little tail twitching in my rear view mirror. I know I know I know they are nothing more than rats with decorations here in the big city, but I'm not from here, and I like squirrels. I grew up in campgrounds with gray squirrels and chipmunks when were were in higher elevations like Lake of the Woods. I watched Chip and Dale cartoons. I've delighted in watching them walk along the phone lines on Clinton Street out my bay window. I know they're a pain in the ass and they bury peanuts in my geranium pots, but shit. The little bump under the great big tires of my great big shiny red truck was not enough. There should have been body damage. But, he was on 122nd in rush hour traffic. Maybe he was suicidal. Maybe that was it. Poor little guy.
I went in for a CT scan of my gut. Something is wrong with me [other than that] and I had to drink a bunch of water and wait. That is not something I do easily. I have a bladder the size of a teaspoon and it waits for no man. I think I have been clear about my ability to pee anytime, anywhere. I've published articles about bathroom stalls of the northwest. I been around.
So there I was, about two hours into having to piss, and now its time to draw blood. This is not fun for me. I'm not exactly sure how much to say here... leave it to your imagination that my misspent youth caused me just ever the tiniest problem with phlebotomy -- thus the need to be fully hydrated. Well I was fully hydrated. I was afloat. So, I explain to the child who is about to stick pins in me that this isn't going to be easy. I always warn them and they always reassure me and I always leave the office looking like a junkie on a bad day. Which I am, but not just now.
Anyway, she ties me off and says, "Relax."
Now, I can relax, or I can refrain from pissing all over the CT scanner. As my good friend Dan used to say: clean body, clean mind. Take your pick.
I didn't die, she got her blood, and I didn't urinate on the equipment. That's the short version. I still don't know what's up with my body. I just don't want to need surgery again. (see previous posts) I can't live on Vicodin.
Well, maybe, just for a minute.
4 comments:
sorry to hear it. let me know. i go for annual mammogram. they will say can you step in a bit closer and I will say, as I always do, If I step in any closer the machine will puncture my ribcage. demoralization for all who thought mark eden would make the diff. i could use a bit of surgery for that, myself, but alas, one more vicodin and i am out.
To get on the transplant list, I had to get all sorts of pokes. eeuuuuoooo. I almost decided to just let time take its course and no more pokes. But who knows why I go in every month to do my blood work. My latest poker is the best. Hope she doesn't go anywhere soon.
Oh that doesnt sound so good. I hope it is nothing serious. When will you get the results?
l: thanks, I'll keep you posted. mark eden. Hah.
msb: I'm glad you keep going back.
asia: soon. they found nothing and now its time for the scope. Nothing is good.
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