Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Floofceuticals (floofinition) – Drugs and medicines meant for use on animals.
In use: “As with big pharma and human healthcare, the importance and cost of floofceuticals are rising for pet owners as animals live longer and require treatment for treat arthritis, cancer, leukemia, and other diseases and conditions.”
First, my buddy was there, Randy. Randy died years ago, colon cancer, just before his sixtieth birthday. He was two months older than me.
Suddenly, in my dream, he was still the hale and hardy southern boy I’d always known, a man without an ounce of remorse, but charming and polite, a rogue right out of a Faulkner novel. He was always an entertaining and generous man.
So he was in my dream, coming along as he did, naked, as he was, which was startling. Part of my conscious mind intruded, hollering, “Time out! Why is Randy, who is dead, naked in my dream?” Dream me just ordered, “Go with it, dude.”
Still, it was non-plussing to be visiting Randy at his house. Naked, he was talking and entertaining me, talkin’ about sports and music, while providing beer and hot wings.
Okay.
Sometime during the dream flow, the house spun, or I left, or Randy left. Maybe it’s just a dream gap. However and whenever, I was now out in a woods, on a hill, by a cave. I’d been walking and was sweating, so I stopped to drink some water.
I’d noticed the cave. Weeds and brambles were growing around the entrance. The entrance’s squared-off appearance made me wonder what was within, and enticed me to explore. Searching for what might be within the cave — is it a cave or an old mine? What makes me think it’s an old mine? — I entertained entering it but hesitated. One, it looked dark. Two, I didn’t have a light. Three, there might be animals within in. Four, it might collapse.
But it looked sturdy, tall, and wide. The entrance seemed to be reinforced with cut granite. Beginning to think that it was part of a train tunnel, or for cars, I looked for railroad tracks, a road, or some vestiges that could be evidence of its previous use.
While this is all happening, I’m suddenly aware a man is there. White guy, not particularly old in appearance, but still with a balding gray head and a tidy gray goatee. I thought he was was wearing a toga but then he seemed to be in a suit but without a tie. I think he was barefoot. I also wondered if he’d come out of the tunnel, but he was behind me, so I thought, no, that can’t be right. Was he there before?
I then saw a pile of railroad ties to one side, prompting, aha, this probably was built as a train tunnel. Thinking that encouraged me to want to explore the tunnel because a tunnel is safer than a cave, was the reasoning, partly because it’ll be open on the other end and lead somewhere.
The man and I hadn’t addressed one another. In fact, I had the impression that he didn’t want to be disturbed. Just something about his demeanor.
Now, though, he was approaching me. I turned polite, expectant attention his way. He was holding a gray mortar and pestle. As I took him in with some wariness, I had the impression that he was offering that to me.
Which he was. “Here, this is for you.”
“What is it?” It looked like off-white shavings. I was suspicious.
“Medicine.”
“Medicine for what?”
“For everything. It’ll cure everything. Take as much as you want.”
“Okay, don’t mind if I do.” I reached in and took with my fingertips, then pushed it into my mouth.
Randy showed up and said, “I’ll take some of that.” He then helped himself as the man shrugged and said, “Help yourself, there’s plenty here.”
The dream ended.
Had to give my cat his L-Lysine last night. Like many receiving treatments for something, he dislikes it. The better he feels, the more he dislikes it, and the more aggressively he resists.
Not alone in this, of course. Mary Poppins taught us that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. Likewise, many of us treat the situation with a carrot and stick approach – take this medicine, and I’ll reward you.
Talking helps, too. So, I was speaking with T.C., telling him that I know that it tastes bad, but this is medicine that he needs, and I’m only doing it because it makes him feel better, and I want him to feel better because I love him. That all got shortened to, yes, it’s bad medicine, but it’s given with love.
From there, it was an easy switch to Bon Jovi’s 1988 offering, “Bad Medicine”, with T.C. imagined as singing to me.
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.
I wonder, as many probably do, how my piss tastes. I also pondered whether I’d ever eaten my boogers as a child. Mom has never mentioned it, but many children do, and I was a child who did a lot of things because I was curious.
I’m not sure how I feel about eating baby feces.
This isn’t a gross-out post. Honestly. Perhaps it is, from your point of view. That’s why I bring it up, not to gross you out, but to bring the subjects into the light.
The three subjects, tasting urine, eating boogers, and eating baby poop, are part of a larger subject, the human body, and trends. Thinking about them came from conversations and reading. I finished reading An Instance of the Fingerpost this week. Book One is about a doctor. He mentions tasting people’s urine as part of the examination process in the sixteen hundreds. Yes, I remember from other reading, doctors tasted urine when they were examining patients long before the sixteen hundreds.
I don’t think many doctors do that these days. Most people are probably horrified about it, but I dipped my finger into my stream this morning and gave it a lick. I thought, why not? I’ve tasted my blood, sweat, and tears before, because I wanted to know how they tasted, so why not my pee?
I have ideas about how urine should taste, based on statements like, “This coffee tastes like piss.” I’ve read a few things about it, and we’d discussed it once while talking about survival training. Today’s piss reminded me of a bitters beer. I don’t know if that’s normal. An ongoing cold and head congestion are sabotaging my taste experience this week.
That done, I turned to the question of eating boogers. A friend, talking about his grand-daughter, mentioned that she often picked her nose and not infrequently ingested her boogers. Another friend present, a retired doctor, talked about that and said that some booger eating can be beneficial.
That second person is also the one that talked about eating baby feces. He and I had read about probiotics in infants’ fecal matter, and he’d read other periodicals about how a small amount of baby poop could be therapeutic restoring digestive systems. I pondered what kind of beer or wine would go with baby poop.
Well, I didn’t eat a booger, and I haven’t sampled baby feces yet, that I know. Tasting my piss was my step forward today.
Just what the doctor ordered,
none of them could say.
He said a lot about this and that,
if and then, but and why,
adding, “It depends on what the insurance pays.”
Then he bounded out of the room,
as he told them, “Have a good stay.”
Just what the doctor ordered,
became more bewildering throughout the day.
a twinge
becomes an ache
an ache grows into a throb
the throb develops as a relentless pain
the pain
becomes a fear
the fear grows into a concern
the concern develops as a constant worry
the worry
becomes a visit
the visit grows into a routine of meds
the meds develop as a constancy of life
the life
becomes a bore
the bore grows into apathy
the apathy develops as a decision
the decision
becomes a moment
the moment grows into a goal
the goal develops as an ending
It’s five thirty A.M., and cold and dark. Even the cats are all curled up and asleep.
The telephone connection is amazingly clear. The tension in the hospital room seems as substantial as the phone against my ear.
“She’s gurgling, and sounds wet,” the speech therapist said. “I’m going to see what she can swallow.”
Her voice becomes louder as she speaks to the elderly patient. “I’m concerned about your ability to swallow. Can you lick you lips? Can you lick your lips?”
Holding the phone, I lick my lips in response to the orders on the other end and urge the patient to do the same.
“No? You can’t lick them? No saliva?”
Damn.
“Okay. I’d like to give you an ice chip to see how you swallow. Would you like an ice chip?”
“Yes,” the patient says in a low, weak gravel.
“Yes, I bet you would,” the speech therapist says. “You’re probably pretty thirsty because you haven’t been able to swallow anything for a couple days.
“Can you stick your tongue out for me? Can you put it out a little further? There we go. Good, that’s good. Now, I’m going to put the ice chip on your tongue, okay? There we are. Good. Now take it in your mouth and let it melt. Feels good, doesn’t it? Yes, I bet it does. Don’t let it run out of your mouth okay? Keep it in your mouth.
“Okay, are you ready to swallow? Swallow it for me. Let me see you swallow. Okay, that’s good.”
I hear an odd sound and listen, trying to understand what it is. I imagine the process it takes to let ice melt, and the muscles and passages used to swallow.
The speech therapist’s volume drops to a normal conversational level. “She couldn’t swallow, and I can hear wet gurgling.”
That was probably the odd sound that I heard.
The speech therapist says, “The fluid is going down into her airways. Normally, when that happens, we violently cough. That’s a normal reaction. But she lacks the strength and energy to cough.”
My sister-in-law speaks. “She’s in advanced stages of Parkinson’s, and hasn’t had her meds for several days, because she’s had the flu and pneumonia, and hasn’t been able to swallow. They’re going to insert an NG tube and begin her meds again.”
“Yes, we’d expect to see an improvement in a Parkinson’s patient with their meds, so we’ll try the test again after the NG tube is inserted and her meds are given.”
Thanks are given, and comments about things that will be done later are made. I listen and absorb it, but I remain thinking about the importance of a melting ice chip and swallowing.
Michael Seidel, writer 