I didn’t see this one. Yep, made it up. I suspect there might be a market for such a bumper sticker.
Tuesday’s Bumper Sticker
Measures Learned
We’ve been in coro self-isolation for a week. Not really isolation, but coupling. (Yeah, it’s not as sexual as that sounds; we’ve been married over forty something years.) I’ve gone out for walks; my wife and I shopped together twice in that period (keeping six feet away from others, not touching our faces, wiping down the shopping cart handle, wearing gloves), replenishing products and adding new items as we map out a longer term strategy and sort what we have. Some small matters have been learned.
I struggle to write fiction at home. I’m married to my walking-coffee shop-writing process. Like an old married couple, I feel it when the other isn’t present. A vacuum ensues.
I need to bridge it, and I’m working on that. Interruptions are the issue (which I’ve always known): cats visiting, wanting attention (sure, just shut the door, right? Ha, ha!), and the spouse speaking to me to share news or ask questions. Besides that, I developed the WCW process, deliberately training myself to shift to the writing mode.
I’m muddling through, sorting energies and times, trying to make my writing side work. I’ve wondered, though, if the muses haven’t also gone into self-isolation.
Beyond the writing issues, things are working out well. Our place isn’t gigantic, but it’s big enough for a couple and four cats (three residents and a perpetual visitor) that we’re not always on top of one another. We also have the yard, and can escape to it.
In many ways, we’re enjoying ourselves. The coro has united us in focus and intentions, providing structure. We’re working on a jigsaw puzzle together (it’s a good one) and have fun with that. We were doing that before coro struck, though.
I reflect on how our isolation is different from other times. I’ve gone through typhoons, where we stocked up but had a general idea that it would last only a week. Tornadoes were shorter and much more intense. We prepared for earthquakes (we have a disaster kit for fleeing) and wildfires (have N95 masks on hand) (and wish we could donate them to the med professionals because of the mask shortage, but they’ve been in our home for at least a year). We went through several years of drought here where we cut water use, and stayed inside (or went out for limited periods, wearing a mask) because of wild fire smoke. We lived through water rationing on Okinawa, and gasoline rationing in America.
This period, in fact, reminds me of our early married years. I was a young, low-ranked enlisted person. With little money, we were on a strict budget. We never ate out and saved money for treats (HoHo’s could be purchased for one hundred pennies in those days). We didn’t have a television (or a telephone) in the first few months. VCRs (and DVDs, etc) and the net, with its streaming options, didn’t exist. It was just us (with one cat) in the house, entertaining one another with card games, eating simple, inexpensive meals, and reading books.
So, this situation is somewhat better, if you discount the threat of getting sick and dying. We have the net. We have a phone, and several televisions (yeah, way too many, but when you buy one, getting rid of the previous is difficult; I’ve given away many working televisions…but anyway), and streaming options.
And we have money! And an extra freezer! And rooms! And toilet paper! And coffee! (And some wine, beer, brandy, and a few other things.)
We’re damned fortunate to have these things. (Yeah, nice not being poor and having a decent cash cushion.) (Sorry, not gloating just stating facts.) We have the net to entertain us (like reading others’ posts) (and writing my own) and a multitude of news sources (and entertaining animal videos). I love the humor I can find on FB and in posts (like MyDangBlog and “Signs of the Apocalypse”.) People’s comments on my posts, especially about Floofinition and floof rock, divert and amuse me. I love that they address these matters with the same tongue-in-gravity that I apply to them, building on the ideas and adding new material.
Although, alas, there’s not much good stuff to stream right now. Going from source to source last night (Prime, with access to HBO, Showtime, STARZ, etc), Freeform, Hulu, Acorn, and Netflix), it struck me that most streaming services are just like the old cable system that we fled. Lots of old reruns and syndicated old television shows on, and not much new (that we we enjoy) (yeah, we’re picky).
We also have a phone, and email. Jokes fly on email. So does good info. We hear from our extroverted friends and relatives, trapped in their homes, looking for an outlet. My wife handles those calls, except for my family.
Not bad, so far. Yeah, it’s early days, innit it? Hunker down, children. Fingers crossed.
Cheers
The Heart-Attack Dream
It began with me in bed, at night. Pain was rushing through me. I couldn’t see nor hear correctly. I thought, I’m having a heart attack.
No one else seemed present. The heart attack would come and go in waves. I tried calling for help but couldn’t. I decided that I’d work through it by thinking of what I was feeling and experiencing, and then countering those things with my mind. That seemed to work, as the pain faded and the heart attack passed.
The lights came on. A large spider, I’d say two feet tall, was to my left. I acknowledged its presence and left the room.
I’d survived, I decided. Outside the bedroom, in another room, were my wife, a few friends, and a dead cousin. As I looked around, familiarization flowed in. I knew where I was. We need to go home, I announced to the rest. They talked about this, objecting, how are we to do that?
But, I judged, the weather isn’t bad, so I’m walking. It’s only a few miles and it won’t take long.
They didn’t believe that I was serious. Shrugging them off, I left. My wife and a few others joined me.
The road was a rough, one-lane, dirt and gravel road that rose, fell, and wound through sparsely populated, wooded countryside. As we went, we’d see a car coming, call out, “Car,” and then step off the road until it passed. Impatient to continue my journey, I announced that I’m running.
At that point, I realize that I had a foot injury and had been limping. I thought, I’ll have to push myself through my foot’s pain and stiffness. Behind me, the others said, “He’s not serious, he’s not going to run.” But I started running, gritting my teeth against my pain. Soon I found a stride.
The others started running behind me, but I was well ahead. Seeing the road, I’d call, “Car,” as a warning to them, and step aside until the car had passed us all, and then resume running.
I reached home. Uncles were there. They offered me wine, but it was white wine and I turned them down. Dad arrived with a girlfriend. He offered me some white wine, but I turned him down. I wanted some wine, though. I was getting ready to go somewhere.
Passing into another room, I saw Dad’s girlfriend asleep in the living room. I went into the adjacent kitchen. I found a bottle of white wine but kept looking for red wine. As I didn’t find anything except white wine I thought, maybe I will drink some.
Dad came in. While talking to me, he produced a bottle of white wine in a light green bottle in a clear plastic bag, like a gallon-storage bag, and showed it to me. It’d been opened, but had a cork put back into place. “That’s what you’re drinking?” I asked. When he said that he was, and offered me some, I answered, “Well, pour me a glass, I guess.”
As he did, his girlfriend awoke in the other room. She came in and introduced herself to me, which annoyed Dad. We talked for a few minutes. Then we talked about cars, and who was using what car.
The dream ended.
Is It…?
He was coughing, a dry cough from the bottom of his throat’s well.
Is it the coronavirus, or just the flu?
His nose was running (it hadn’t been this morning).
Is it an allergy (spring is in the air), or just a cold?
He was embarrassed because he couldn’t stop coughing (though he drank lots of water and sucked on a cough drop), thinking that the others were eyeing him (and several people had left).
Is it because of him, or is all of this just in his mind?
Always That Way
When he came in, none noticed him. He drifted from table to table, touching others’ food and drinks with impunity, giving them little “Boops” on their noses like he was playing with children. He hung around awhile as others came and went, not doing anything but loitering, and not taking up much space.
They didn’t know him then but they soon learned who he was. It was always that way with a virus.
The Smells
Once again, we’re faced with some lies being spread. This time, it’s being claimed that Bernie Sanders said that he thinks black people smell.
First, WTF is off with our society that we carry the whole smell thing so far? We’re so aghast at gas from a fart, appalled by BO, etc.
Bad smells coming from somebody can be signs of things gone wrong, like emotional problems, economic strife, and health issues. Besides, as others have noted, everybody farts; everyone has odors. Eating black beans (which I love, damn it) (and pinto beans) will guarantee that I’ll fart. So will grapes (which I also love).
One lowpoint in my military career came about because of another’s body odor. A large white man working in another section and suffered from excessive sweating, which carried a pungent odor.
He came to me one day asking for advice, explaining his problem and breaking down in tears as he did. He’d been dealing with this, and with the taunting and bullying and looks that came with it, since he was a child. While talking with him about the multiple possible causes, I referred him to medical assistance. He’d already been there, of course.
The young officer who supervised him visited me a few weeks later, asking about the same problem. I pointed out at that time that the issue wasn’t really that the man had a sweating and odor problem, but that we had a problem dealing with it. I wasn’t forceful enough, though, looking back.
(Of course, our whole thing about smell is probably a defense mechanism carried to an extreme; smelling foulness off of another probably harkens back to diseases and are encoded in us.) (That’s just my speculation.)
Second, no one group smells more or less than another.
I’ve been with a number of races. None seems to smell better or worse than another to me. Nor can I declare that one sex or one political group or religion smells better or worse than another, as a group. It’s an individual thing. I, a white man who sweats often (and farts after eating certain foods) and walks several miles a day, can be the odor in the room, despite regular showers, clean clothes (well, they were clean when I put them on), decent health, and deodorant. Deal with it.
Third, Bernie Sanders never said that he thought black people smell. The race card is being played, once again, and it’s a lie, once again.
OBG
They called him OBG, because he’s the old guy who goes to the bathroom at least once an hour.
How old? They struggled with that; they were young. How young? In their early to mid-twenties, that period before things cease functioning (peckers, prostates, lungs, heart) and start dropping (breasts, butts, faces, and arches).
(They knew, intellectually, but still (and really, on the periphery of their awareness) that they were conditioned with a sense of the ideal and normal. They knew that others had body failures before they were twenty (they’d seen it on the web), but none (of those types) came to their coffee shop or university classes, and none (that they knew) were ever seen. Out of sight, out of mind, you know. Although, to be fair, they were self-aware enough to know that they were experiencing health privilege (although it wasn’t thought of that way). (Hey, you were either healthy, or you weren’t.) They were unaware (as the young and healthy often are) of the many changes quietly being made beyond their control in their young, healthy bodies.)
OBG knew (from his casual observance) (hell, it wasn’t hard) that they’d noticed his habits. With that shrugging air of one who’d lived and survive, he dismissed whatever they thought. Into the bathroom he went, first blowing his nose (damn sinuses) (he hated blowing his nose in public) (just didn’t want to bother others), and then stretching (because that fucking sciatic nerve was getting inflamed again and despised sitting in those chairs too long). (Yeah, he shouldn’t sit in those chairs so long, reading his Kindle and browsing the net, habits that he’d started when he’d retired, ten years before, which, in turn were begun by habits he cultivated in his twenties, when he was in school, like these servers who watched.) (Do you see the circle that he sees, the circles of behavior and culture, and how linked they are, like the Olympic logo?)
Then, because he was there, he went ahead and sat down and pissed (not that he had to go, but he was there, so…), flushed, and washed his hands. In all, four minutes of his life had passed, but it all adds up, you know?
Saturday’s Theme Music
So, you know, grocery shopping, and hungry. Lunch had been a few hours before, and light and healthy, and maybe a little sparse. Browsing the aisles, doing our standard shopping circuit, sampling foods, eyeing others’ carts to see what they’re buying, and judging them and ourselves for what we’re buying and not buying.
I’m hungry but skinny me is in charge of shopping today, along with healthy wife, two idealized versions of ourselves who examine everything with eyes and mind toward weight and good health. It’s a good thing, innit?
Meanwhile, unhealthy me is noticing, look, they have cake! Look at that cake! Oh, and that cake. And suddenly it seemed like everybody in Costco had a cake in their cart. I escaped Costco without a cake, though. On to Trader Joe’s. Back to get some healthy non-fat yogurt! See, it’s right there, by the CAKE and DONUTS. And breads.
We ogle the cake and donuts and talk about Trader Joe’s need to sell single donuts back there, that you can buy and eat, right there. They’re not, so we pass, moving on to the breads, which we fondle for freshness, sniffing them through the package while talking about good how they are.
I don’t speak of my cake desire to my wife the entire time. The cake desire has acquired the specific shape of carrot cake. Yeah, it’s my favorite, especially if it’s spicy with raisins. That’s like, yeah, orgasm. But I don’t pursue cake, don’t speak of it, etc.
Of course I dream of it. There’s cake everywhere in my freaking dream. I’m in a hallway with cake. I’m being offered cake, being told by a woman wandering, “Take whatever you want.” Every time that I go to get a piece, some event diverts me. I awake wanting cake for breakfast.
Which, while thinking of yesterday, talking to my rumbling stomach today, and reviewing my dream as I pursue my healthy oatmeal breakfast, brings the musical group, Cake, to mind, so here’s “Long Skirt/Short Jacket” (2000) just cuz I like it.
And, you know, cake. It’s a humorous video, listening to people’s comments about the song as they listen. Cheers
Foley Memories
I’ve had two Foley catheters installed in me in 2019. The Foley has a long tube that’s snaked up your urethra and into your bladder. A balloon filled with fluid in the bladder keeps it anchored in place. Meanwhile, the catheter extends from the tip of my penis to a clip on my leg that holds the catheter in place. Another tube is connected to the catheter’s exposed end. That tube is attached to a collection bag. The installed Foley let me pee, so the bag is emptied when it fills. In essence, I was just about always peeing when the Foley was in, which amused me. I liked to drink a beer and say, “Look, I’m multi-tasking. I’m drinking and peeing.” I thought it was hilarious. Nobody else did.
As background, I had the first Foley installed because I couldn’t pee. My prostrate gland had enlarged (BHP), blocking my urethra’s access to my bladder. That meant that I couldn’t urinate. The result was a medical emergency.
The second Foley was installed after a cystourethroscopy and direct vision internal uerthrotomy. Essentially, scar tissue from the first emergency was blocking about ninety percent of my urethra. While I was still peeing, because I’m now on Flomax (Tamsulosin), the cysturethroscopy was a proactive measure to prevent another medical emergency. It has a fifty/fifty chance of working. We’ll know more in a few months.
While I was conscious during the first time a Foley was installed, I was unconscious under deep conscious sedation for the second. That was mostly because the cystourethroscopy required them to delicately cut the scar tissue in my urethra until they reach healthy tissue. There would be pain.
The procedure went great. After fasting, reporting in, being prepped, and waiting, I was wheeled into the OR, given the anesthetic, and was gone. I woke up a second later, it seemed like, and it was all over, except the aftermath. That’s where the Foley came in.
Like the first time, I had two bag options for the Foley. One is a bag that attached to my leg. That let me walk around more freely. It’s not a big bag, and had to be emptied several times a day. It also couldn’t be worn at night. The leg bag had to be worn below the knee, which meant I had to loop the tube around the leg but leave it loose enough that it didn’t pop free of the catheter, and had enough give to move.
The larger bag, which hangs separate from my body, must be worn at night. It also must be dragged around. That makes it inconvenient. I kept it in a clean plastic garbage bag and hung it inside a small waste basket. No, we didn’t put any trash in with it. It was only used to hold my urine collection bag.
I did need to discourage the cats from investigating. They were always walking up to the waste basket and trying to look into the bag with a “What the hell is this?” attitude.
I appreciated the smaller bag and the flexibility it allowed, because it freed me up. I admit, though, walking around with felt like someone was using a saw on my pecker’s tip. Every once in a while, too, a little blood could be felt squirting out. I monitored the blood levels through the days, watching as it decreased. The first day’s blood, after the surgery, was about a quarter cup. Ruined my underwear, but I was wearing old underwear which really should’ve already been tossed. By the last day, it was very light spotting.
Opiates had been prescribed for me for pain management after the surgery, but I just shrugged the pain off. It was mostly mild discomfort, at first, like someone was trying to pull something up out of my pecker. Sometimes, there was also light stinging. Not of it was a bad as a bee sting for me, though.
I sometimes fantasized about having a longer tube attached to the big bag. Although the big bag meant that I was tethered in location, the leg bag wasn’t that comfortable. If I was wearing the big bag with a longer tube, say twenty feet, I could leave it hanging in the waste basket in a central location while I walked around. I also speculated about putting wheels on the waste basket or putting it on something wheeled, but it was only five days, and I’m lazy. Walking around with the big bag meant picking it up every time that I moved more than three feet. Oh, the inconvenience.
Each morning and night meant a routine of cleaning off blood, showering, and then switching bags before dressing for day, or getting into my sleep clothes. The first time that I had a Foley, I went into the hospital and a nurse deflated the ball and ripped it out. The second time, I did it myself, per their instructions. Just grab hold and yank, right?
But first ensure you deflate the ball holding it in place, right?
Right.
All went well, and I thank the doctors and nurses who took care of me. All were friendly and professional. Sometimes, the system works as designed. I’m one of the fortunate ones, because it did.
Michael Seidel, writer 