Love,
Up To No Good
27 July 2009
14 July 2009
The operative word here is "emergency"
I went to the ER on Saturday night.
Strictly speaking, it was Sunday morning. It was a little after midnight when my mother pulled the car into the ER parking lot at Banner Desert.
I had my choice of ERs. There's a hospital every few miles around here, I swear. But I couldn't go to Gilbert Mercy, because that's where the ambulance took my dad after his stroke, and I don't know much about Banner Gateway, and Baywood was too far. When I had gallstones three or four years ago, I went to the Banner Desert ER. They treated me pretty well. So I thought I'd go there this time.
I had a fever of 100.5, chills, and a sharp pain in my back. I told this to the woman at the front desk. She seemed uninterested and shoved a paper at me to fill out - their computer system had gone down or something like that. I filled in the blanks and gave it back. I was sent a few feet away to have a nurse (I think) put a little clip on my finger and ask me the same questions the first lady asked me. Then I had to sit in the waiting room. My mother had found two chairs apart from the rest, which was a good thing because the waiting room had sort of a leper colony feel. My skin was crawling just being in there, and if I hadn't been in so much pain I'd have just walked back out the door. The place was packed.
I sat and waited. And waited. I observed an interesting cultural phenomenon during this time, and if I have any Hispanic readers, perhaps they could enlighten me. But it seems like every Hispanic person that came into the ER had the entire family with them - no less than five people.
I waited. Finally, a nurse named Alvin called me back to a little curtained-in area. He asked me the same questions I'd already answered twice and took my vitals. I waited a few minutes more and an actual doctor came back. He asked me the same set of questions. I started to think that maybe someone should write my answers down, save a little time for the next person. The doctor said something about my appendix and my kidneys and wandered off. Alvin led me back to the waiting area.
About 45 minutes passed. The waiting room was filling up. Several people seemed possibly to have highly communicable diseases. It was getting harder to avoid sharing their air. Finally another nurse called me back into a corridor marked "Procedures." She said she was going to start an IV. She asked me the same questions I'd already answered.
I should mention that, in addition to being exceptionally pale, my skin is on the thick side. No one has ever been able to find a vein on the first try, and most of the time it takes a good 5 to 10 minutes. It took two nurses and an ultrasound machine to locate a vein for my IV. They got it going, put me on a saline drip and gave me drugs for pain, stomach acidity, and something else I'm not clear on. And then ... they sent me back out into the waiting room with my IV pole.
About a half-dozen or so people in the waiting room also had IVs in. My mother and I found a place to sit that seemed slightly less disgusting and were settling in when two orderlies wheeled two women into the area in hospital wheelchairs. One of them had a plastic bag she was vomiting into. And vomiting, and vomiting. I'm not sure what the volume of the average adult stomach is, but this woman had to be pushing it. I thought surely she'd run out of contents to vomit, but no such luck. And these were gut-wracking, 50-decibel heaves. I nearly threw up myself. I found myself wondering, shouldn't someone do something for this woman? Pump some fluids into her? Find a bed for her? And what about the rest of us with our IV poles? Why the wait? If I felt well enough to wait, I wouldn't have gone to the ER. But I did. I went to the emergency room because it was an emergency.
A nurse called me back into a little room. He checked my IV and asked me the same questions I'd answered already. He said something about a CT scan and a room but implied it might be a few hours. I was sent back into the vomitorium. This part of the waiting room was emptying, and my mother and I, too, went to the other side. Right next to an elderly gentleman who was hacking up a lung.
We'd been there three and a half hours, and I was in a great deal of pain. I whined to my mother for a moment, then went back to the nurse in the little room and asked him to remove my IV.
My mother drove me to Gilbert Hospital on Power Road, where they say it's door to doc in 31 minutes. Only six or so people sat in the waiting room and none of them were losing bodily fluids. A kind, well-dressed young woman asked me a few questions and printed out a bracelet for me. No sooner was it on my wrist than I was taken back. One nurse took my vitals while another asked me a series of questions - and put my answers into the computer. Then I was taken back to a room. An actual room with a heavy wooden door. I changed into the gown they gave me and a nurse started an IV and took some blood. A doctor came in. Both he and the nurses knew my answers to their questions from looking at the computer. Fifteen minutes later I was getting a CT scan and an hour after I'd arrived, I had a diagnosis (a kidney stone and infection) and I'd been given an antibiotic shot. Then they sent me on my merry way with a prescription.
I don't have any funny points to make and there is no moral to this story (although it's obvious which hospital I'd recommend) but, seriously, vomiting in the waiting room? That was pretty bad. I'm just saying.
Strictly speaking, it was Sunday morning. It was a little after midnight when my mother pulled the car into the ER parking lot at Banner Desert.
I had my choice of ERs. There's a hospital every few miles around here, I swear. But I couldn't go to Gilbert Mercy, because that's where the ambulance took my dad after his stroke, and I don't know much about Banner Gateway, and Baywood was too far. When I had gallstones three or four years ago, I went to the Banner Desert ER. They treated me pretty well. So I thought I'd go there this time.
I had a fever of 100.5, chills, and a sharp pain in my back. I told this to the woman at the front desk. She seemed uninterested and shoved a paper at me to fill out - their computer system had gone down or something like that. I filled in the blanks and gave it back. I was sent a few feet away to have a nurse (I think) put a little clip on my finger and ask me the same questions the first lady asked me. Then I had to sit in the waiting room. My mother had found two chairs apart from the rest, which was a good thing because the waiting room had sort of a leper colony feel. My skin was crawling just being in there, and if I hadn't been in so much pain I'd have just walked back out the door. The place was packed.
I sat and waited. And waited. I observed an interesting cultural phenomenon during this time, and if I have any Hispanic readers, perhaps they could enlighten me. But it seems like every Hispanic person that came into the ER had the entire family with them - no less than five people.
I waited. Finally, a nurse named Alvin called me back to a little curtained-in area. He asked me the same questions I'd already answered twice and took my vitals. I waited a few minutes more and an actual doctor came back. He asked me the same set of questions. I started to think that maybe someone should write my answers down, save a little time for the next person. The doctor said something about my appendix and my kidneys and wandered off. Alvin led me back to the waiting area.
About 45 minutes passed. The waiting room was filling up. Several people seemed possibly to have highly communicable diseases. It was getting harder to avoid sharing their air. Finally another nurse called me back into a corridor marked "Procedures." She said she was going to start an IV. She asked me the same questions I'd already answered.
I should mention that, in addition to being exceptionally pale, my skin is on the thick side. No one has ever been able to find a vein on the first try, and most of the time it takes a good 5 to 10 minutes. It took two nurses and an ultrasound machine to locate a vein for my IV. They got it going, put me on a saline drip and gave me drugs for pain, stomach acidity, and something else I'm not clear on. And then ... they sent me back out into the waiting room with my IV pole.
About a half-dozen or so people in the waiting room also had IVs in. My mother and I found a place to sit that seemed slightly less disgusting and were settling in when two orderlies wheeled two women into the area in hospital wheelchairs. One of them had a plastic bag she was vomiting into. And vomiting, and vomiting. I'm not sure what the volume of the average adult stomach is, but this woman had to be pushing it. I thought surely she'd run out of contents to vomit, but no such luck. And these were gut-wracking, 50-decibel heaves. I nearly threw up myself. I found myself wondering, shouldn't someone do something for this woman? Pump some fluids into her? Find a bed for her? And what about the rest of us with our IV poles? Why the wait? If I felt well enough to wait, I wouldn't have gone to the ER. But I did. I went to the emergency room because it was an emergency.
A nurse called me back into a little room. He checked my IV and asked me the same questions I'd answered already. He said something about a CT scan and a room but implied it might be a few hours. I was sent back into the vomitorium. This part of the waiting room was emptying, and my mother and I, too, went to the other side. Right next to an elderly gentleman who was hacking up a lung.
We'd been there three and a half hours, and I was in a great deal of pain. I whined to my mother for a moment, then went back to the nurse in the little room and asked him to remove my IV.
My mother drove me to Gilbert Hospital on Power Road, where they say it's door to doc in 31 minutes. Only six or so people sat in the waiting room and none of them were losing bodily fluids. A kind, well-dressed young woman asked me a few questions and printed out a bracelet for me. No sooner was it on my wrist than I was taken back. One nurse took my vitals while another asked me a series of questions - and put my answers into the computer. Then I was taken back to a room. An actual room with a heavy wooden door. I changed into the gown they gave me and a nurse started an IV and took some blood. A doctor came in. Both he and the nurses knew my answers to their questions from looking at the computer. Fifteen minutes later I was getting a CT scan and an hour after I'd arrived, I had a diagnosis (a kidney stone and infection) and I'd been given an antibiotic shot. Then they sent me on my merry way with a prescription.
I don't have any funny points to make and there is no moral to this story (although it's obvious which hospital I'd recommend) but, seriously, vomiting in the waiting room? That was pretty bad. I'm just saying.
01 July 2009
Pam's problems blow.
I recently read an article about how this summer has been bad for retailers, and how they’re not doing as well as usual, and how markdowns that usually take place in August took place in June. The article is here if you’re interested.
I’m sure it’s a fascinating article that makes a number of good points about … oh, I don’t know, the economy or the weather or something like that. I’m not sure, really. I got distracted when the article introduced me to Pam MacWilliams.
Pity poor pam. The economy has been tough on her family. Says the article, “She's spent only $200 this month on clothes for her family, compared with about $600 a year ago.”
Um, excuse me? $600 a month? Multiply that out and the woman spends $7200 a year on clothing. $7200. A year. On clothing.
Oh, Pammy. May I ask why? Why do you need to spend $600 a month on clothing? Does a new month necessitate a new wardrobe? Are January’s sweaters not good enough for February? Are your children taking growth hormones so that none of their clothes fit them from month to month? Does your weight fluctuate enough week to week that you need new clothing that often? Are you unable to pass by an item of clothing you like without buying it in every color? And where in the name of arse do you store $7200 a year worth of clothing? Is an extra bedroom serving as a closet?
Ah, but Pam doesn’t need to worry about storage space. Do you know why? She has a lake house. The article goes on: “She also hasn't loaded up her lake house with the usual summer accessories like blowup toys.”
I hate to repeat myself, but excuse me? A bloody lake house? You want to cut expenses, start with the lake house. And what happened to last summer’s blowup toys? The ones she loaded up the lake house with in 2008? Do blowup toys have an expiration date? Are last summer’s toys no longer fun or useful? Are her children (hopped up, perhaps, on those growth hormones) such terrors that they destroy a lake house full of blowup toys each summer?
The article quotes Pam. "I thought that the economy would turn faster," said MacWilliams. "I had high expectations. Now, I want to save more."
You want to save more? Sell the bloody lake house. Make your children wear something more than twice before buying them new ones. Something tells me that a woman who buys new blowup toys for the lake house every year and blows seven grand a year on clothing isn’t going to make her precious children wear the same swimsuit every time they swim. Her daughters probably have a swimsuit for every day of the week each, with a matching blowup toy.
You want to save more, Pam? You’re worried about the economy? Cry me a river. I’ve been unemployed since August. I spend less than $200 a YEAR on clothing. I’ve had the same swimsuit since I was twenty, and I haven’t bought any blowup toys since 2003. I don’t have a lake house. I live with my mother. And I can’t afford a vacation to Manhattan. Oh, did I not mention it? Pam is a tourist from Oshkosh, Wisconsin. She was interviewed during a trip to New York.
You know what irritates me the most, I think? Not Pam, although she irritates me plenty. What irritates me the most is that the AP reporter who wrote this story thought Pam was a good person to talk to about the economy. Pam, a woman who is not only gainfully employed but who is married to a man who is also gainfully employed. A woman with a bloody lake house. The reporter thought that this woman represented concerned Americans and their economic woes.
Well, you know what, Pam? You know what, Associated Press? My aging blowup toys and I spit in your general direction, and we don’t consider any of what you had to say as news.
I’m sure it’s a fascinating article that makes a number of good points about … oh, I don’t know, the economy or the weather or something like that. I’m not sure, really. I got distracted when the article introduced me to Pam MacWilliams.
Pity poor pam. The economy has been tough on her family. Says the article, “She's spent only $200 this month on clothes for her family, compared with about $600 a year ago.”
Um, excuse me? $600 a month? Multiply that out and the woman spends $7200 a year on clothing. $7200. A year. On clothing.
Oh, Pammy. May I ask why? Why do you need to spend $600 a month on clothing? Does a new month necessitate a new wardrobe? Are January’s sweaters not good enough for February? Are your children taking growth hormones so that none of their clothes fit them from month to month? Does your weight fluctuate enough week to week that you need new clothing that often? Are you unable to pass by an item of clothing you like without buying it in every color? And where in the name of arse do you store $7200 a year worth of clothing? Is an extra bedroom serving as a closet?
Ah, but Pam doesn’t need to worry about storage space. Do you know why? She has a lake house. The article goes on: “She also hasn't loaded up her lake house with the usual summer accessories like blowup toys.”
I hate to repeat myself, but excuse me? A bloody lake house? You want to cut expenses, start with the lake house. And what happened to last summer’s blowup toys? The ones she loaded up the lake house with in 2008? Do blowup toys have an expiration date? Are last summer’s toys no longer fun or useful? Are her children (hopped up, perhaps, on those growth hormones) such terrors that they destroy a lake house full of blowup toys each summer?
The article quotes Pam. "I thought that the economy would turn faster," said MacWilliams. "I had high expectations. Now, I want to save more."
You want to save more? Sell the bloody lake house. Make your children wear something more than twice before buying them new ones. Something tells me that a woman who buys new blowup toys for the lake house every year and blows seven grand a year on clothing isn’t going to make her precious children wear the same swimsuit every time they swim. Her daughters probably have a swimsuit for every day of the week each, with a matching blowup toy.
You want to save more, Pam? You’re worried about the economy? Cry me a river. I’ve been unemployed since August. I spend less than $200 a YEAR on clothing. I’ve had the same swimsuit since I was twenty, and I haven’t bought any blowup toys since 2003. I don’t have a lake house. I live with my mother. And I can’t afford a vacation to Manhattan. Oh, did I not mention it? Pam is a tourist from Oshkosh, Wisconsin. She was interviewed during a trip to New York.
You know what irritates me the most, I think? Not Pam, although she irritates me plenty. What irritates me the most is that the AP reporter who wrote this story thought Pam was a good person to talk to about the economy. Pam, a woman who is not only gainfully employed but who is married to a man who is also gainfully employed. A woman with a bloody lake house. The reporter thought that this woman represented concerned Americans and their economic woes.
Well, you know what, Pam? You know what, Associated Press? My aging blowup toys and I spit in your general direction, and we don’t consider any of what you had to say as news.
30 June 2009
Silence
I bought one of these and it saved my life. Also, the lives of several dogs that would have been shot. Or poisoned. Or a combination of the two, because I'm not confident enough in my math skills or my aim to leave it to one of those to shut the dogs up.
But I don't have to. Which means no jail time for me!
But I don't have to. Which means no jail time for me!
22 June 2009
Have It Your Way
I went to Burger King a few days ago.
My mother was driving, because I am morally opposed to speaking into a box and too lazy to get out of the car and go inside to order.
Where was I?
Right. Burger King.
The Kia in front of us seemed to be taking a long time. Like, three full minutes, which doesn’t sound like much, but if you were to stop and count to 180, you’d realize that’s an inordinate amount of time to spend ordering food.
“What’s taking them so long?” I asked. “This is Burger King. They sell hamburgers and French fries. How hard is it to order a hamburger and French fries?”
I mean, there are only so many variations on a burger and fries. Even if the car’s occupants wanted crispy chicken and onion rings, that would only account for an extra five or six seconds as the order-taker looks for a less-familiar button on the register.
Still, the Kia sat. I stared at the picture of the Angry Whopper on the menu board. I began to empathize with the Whopper. I was getting pretty angry, myself. And hungry.
“Maybe each burger is special-order,” my mother suggested.
I couldn’t argue there. You are supposed to be able to have it “Your Way” after all. Of course, my way involves a lot less time burning ever-more-expensive gasoline in the drive-thru, but I digress.
Finally, the Kia pulled forward, and we pulled up to the box. The previous order was still on the screen. I expected to see a long list of food, each item special-ordered, but was surprised to find that they’d ordered only about five things – burgers and fries all.
“Well what the heck took them so long?” I asked.
My mother knew better than to answer me.
After a moment, a man’s voice came out of the box.
“Welcome to Burger King, would you like to try a value meal today?”
“Yes, I’d like a number 4, no cheese, ketchup only,” my mother said slowly and carefully. I always get a number 4, no cheese, ketchup only, but sometimes this falls beyond the comprehension of the average fast-food employee. “Large size, with a root beer.”
There was silence.
“Okay, that’s a number 1. Would you like cheese on that?”
Huh?
“No, a number four, no cheese,” my mother corrected.
Silence. Then, a woman’s voice. “Okay, what size and what to drink?”
Sigh.
I always find it a bit disconcerting when a man takes my order and a woman repeats it back, or vice versa. I always hope that they’ve been communicating with each other. They didn’t seem to have been.
The car behind us inched closer to our bumper, apparently in the hope that if he hit us, we’d get a move on.
My mother repeated the order. It had become abundantly clear why the Kia had taken so long to order.
We pulled up behind the Kia at the window. The fact that the Kia was still at the window sort of worried me, considering how long as it had taken us to order. I wondered if, inside, they were still peeling potatoes for the fries.
The driver of the Kia was handed a large sack. I could see the driver digging through the bag. I can’t say I blamed him. Finally, he pulled away and we moved up to the window.
They had our total right, that was reassuring. Then the woman who opened the window spoke.
“You wanted a Coke, right?”
My mother was driving, because I am morally opposed to speaking into a box and too lazy to get out of the car and go inside to order.
Where was I?
Right. Burger King.
The Kia in front of us seemed to be taking a long time. Like, three full minutes, which doesn’t sound like much, but if you were to stop and count to 180, you’d realize that’s an inordinate amount of time to spend ordering food.
“What’s taking them so long?” I asked. “This is Burger King. They sell hamburgers and French fries. How hard is it to order a hamburger and French fries?”
I mean, there are only so many variations on a burger and fries. Even if the car’s occupants wanted crispy chicken and onion rings, that would only account for an extra five or six seconds as the order-taker looks for a less-familiar button on the register.
Still, the Kia sat. I stared at the picture of the Angry Whopper on the menu board. I began to empathize with the Whopper. I was getting pretty angry, myself. And hungry.
“Maybe each burger is special-order,” my mother suggested.
I couldn’t argue there. You are supposed to be able to have it “Your Way” after all. Of course, my way involves a lot less time burning ever-more-expensive gasoline in the drive-thru, but I digress.
Finally, the Kia pulled forward, and we pulled up to the box. The previous order was still on the screen. I expected to see a long list of food, each item special-ordered, but was surprised to find that they’d ordered only about five things – burgers and fries all.
“Well what the heck took them so long?” I asked.
My mother knew better than to answer me.
After a moment, a man’s voice came out of the box.
“Welcome to Burger King, would you like to try a value meal today?”
“Yes, I’d like a number 4, no cheese, ketchup only,” my mother said slowly and carefully. I always get a number 4, no cheese, ketchup only, but sometimes this falls beyond the comprehension of the average fast-food employee. “Large size, with a root beer.”
There was silence.
“Okay, that’s a number 1. Would you like cheese on that?”
Huh?
“No, a number four, no cheese,” my mother corrected.
Silence. Then, a woman’s voice. “Okay, what size and what to drink?”
Sigh.
I always find it a bit disconcerting when a man takes my order and a woman repeats it back, or vice versa. I always hope that they’ve been communicating with each other. They didn’t seem to have been.
The car behind us inched closer to our bumper, apparently in the hope that if he hit us, we’d get a move on.
My mother repeated the order. It had become abundantly clear why the Kia had taken so long to order.
We pulled up behind the Kia at the window. The fact that the Kia was still at the window sort of worried me, considering how long as it had taken us to order. I wondered if, inside, they were still peeling potatoes for the fries.
The driver of the Kia was handed a large sack. I could see the driver digging through the bag. I can’t say I blamed him. Finally, he pulled away and we moved up to the window.
They had our total right, that was reassuring. Then the woman who opened the window spoke.
“You wanted a Coke, right?”
16 June 2009
“How exciting to be present at the birth of a new phobia.” – Niles Crane
Ladies and gentlemen, I just got even more lovably neurotic. I have developed a delightful new phobia.
You wouldn’t think such a thing was even possible, considering I have about thirty-seven phobias already. What more could I possibly have to worry about?
Barking dogs.
I don’t know if it’s because the weather’s been in the double digits lately, or if there’s been a rip in the space-time continuum or if there’s a disturbance in the force. I don’t know why, really. But I do know that in the past week I have heard more barking than I have heard in the past … oh, year or so. All of a sudden, the dogs in my neighborhood can’t keep their yaps shut.
My neighbor, Zippy the Pinhead, has two or three of those nasty little fuzzy crap machines – pomegranates or whatever they’re called. I’m not sure why. I’ve never seen him or the vampire chick that used to live there or Bobby Hill or the ugly beer-drinking chick go anywhere near the dogs. No one walks them. No one pets them. No interaction. And every so often, perhaps in protest, one or more of them will start yapping.
The yapping I can handle. My father had them trained, Pavlov-like, to run into their house when our back door opened (he spent months using a powerful spray bottle full of water shooting each dog when the noise got bad). They don’t do that anymore, but I’ve found that they respond rather well to me shouting “Shut up!” at them. Also, I know the exact address of next door so if the dogs don’t shut up I can always call the police.
The booming bark is new.
A few weeks ago at 11:15 it started and didn’t stop until my mother called the police. The next morning it started again. The police were summoned again. The barking stopped. I didn’t hear any barking for about a week. I thought perhaps the police had put the fear of God into the dog’s owner. But a few days ago it started again. At 3am. And again at 4am. Then this morning at 6:30. This dog barks whenever it wants, for as long as it wants to, and the owners seem to neither know nor care.
I can no longer relax.
I spend an unprecedented amount of time worrying that barking is going to start at any point. I dread coming home from stores and events because I think, I’m going to sit down to relax and then the barking will start. I dread going to sleep because I think, as soon as I’m mostly asleep, the barking will start. I’ve been wearing earplugs but I don’t know how much I trust them to keep things quiet in my head. I realized a few days ago how fixated I have become on the possibility of barking and I decided to keep track of it. I made a note of the time each time the paranoid fear hit me. Here’s a sample day:
11:36am
11:41am
11:51am
11:57am
12:12pm
12:17pm
12:46pm
1:15pm
1:24pm
1:37pm
1:45pm
1:53pm
1:58pm
2:13pm
2:17pm
2:32pm
2:45pm
2:57pm
3:01pm
3:07pm
3:14pm
3:27pm
3:31pm
3:46pm
3:49pm
3:53pm
3:58pm
4:19pm
4:37pm
(out of house for a while)
6:12pm
6:16pm
(out of house)
7:34pm
7:41pm
7:48pm
7:53pm
7:56pm
8:05pm
8:09pm
8:20pm
8:24pm
8:30pm
8:36pm
8:46pm
8:49pm
8:55pm
8:58pm
9:12pm
9:26pm
9:30pm
9:36pm
9:42pm
9:58pm
10:00pm
10:06pm
10:11pm
10:15pm
10:21pm
10:25pm
10:47pm
10:57pm
11:01pm
11:52pm
11:59pm
12:01am
12:04am
12:10am
12:15am
12:21am
12:26am
12:31am
12:35am
12:42am
12:47am
12:52am
12:56am
1:06am
1:12am
1:21am
1:29am
1:35am
1:38am
That is, I believe, at least 70 times. And that was just when I had a pen and paper handy.
I’m not sure what to call this new phobia – the fear that sometime soon a dog will start barking – but I think I’ve got enough empirical evidence here that it does in fact exist. If you can think of a good name for it, let me know. But speak loudly – I’m wearing earplugs.
You wouldn’t think such a thing was even possible, considering I have about thirty-seven phobias already. What more could I possibly have to worry about?
Barking dogs.
I don’t know if it’s because the weather’s been in the double digits lately, or if there’s been a rip in the space-time continuum or if there’s a disturbance in the force. I don’t know why, really. But I do know that in the past week I have heard more barking than I have heard in the past … oh, year or so. All of a sudden, the dogs in my neighborhood can’t keep their yaps shut.
My neighbor, Zippy the Pinhead, has two or three of those nasty little fuzzy crap machines – pomegranates or whatever they’re called. I’m not sure why. I’ve never seen him or the vampire chick that used to live there or Bobby Hill or the ugly beer-drinking chick go anywhere near the dogs. No one walks them. No one pets them. No interaction. And every so often, perhaps in protest, one or more of them will start yapping.
The yapping I can handle. My father had them trained, Pavlov-like, to run into their house when our back door opened (he spent months using a powerful spray bottle full of water shooting each dog when the noise got bad). They don’t do that anymore, but I’ve found that they respond rather well to me shouting “Shut up!” at them. Also, I know the exact address of next door so if the dogs don’t shut up I can always call the police.
The booming bark is new.
A few weeks ago at 11:15 it started and didn’t stop until my mother called the police. The next morning it started again. The police were summoned again. The barking stopped. I didn’t hear any barking for about a week. I thought perhaps the police had put the fear of God into the dog’s owner. But a few days ago it started again. At 3am. And again at 4am. Then this morning at 6:30. This dog barks whenever it wants, for as long as it wants to, and the owners seem to neither know nor care.
I can no longer relax.
I spend an unprecedented amount of time worrying that barking is going to start at any point. I dread coming home from stores and events because I think, I’m going to sit down to relax and then the barking will start. I dread going to sleep because I think, as soon as I’m mostly asleep, the barking will start. I’ve been wearing earplugs but I don’t know how much I trust them to keep things quiet in my head. I realized a few days ago how fixated I have become on the possibility of barking and I decided to keep track of it. I made a note of the time each time the paranoid fear hit me. Here’s a sample day:
11:36am
11:41am
11:51am
11:57am
12:12pm
12:17pm
12:46pm
1:15pm
1:24pm
1:37pm
1:45pm
1:53pm
1:58pm
2:13pm
2:17pm
2:32pm
2:45pm
2:57pm
3:01pm
3:07pm
3:14pm
3:27pm
3:31pm
3:46pm
3:49pm
3:53pm
3:58pm
4:19pm
4:37pm
(out of house for a while)
6:12pm
6:16pm
(out of house)
7:34pm
7:41pm
7:48pm
7:53pm
7:56pm
8:05pm
8:09pm
8:20pm
8:24pm
8:30pm
8:36pm
8:46pm
8:49pm
8:55pm
8:58pm
9:12pm
9:26pm
9:30pm
9:36pm
9:42pm
9:58pm
10:00pm
10:06pm
10:11pm
10:15pm
10:21pm
10:25pm
10:47pm
10:57pm
11:01pm
11:52pm
11:59pm
12:01am
12:04am
12:10am
12:15am
12:21am
12:26am
12:31am
12:35am
12:42am
12:47am
12:52am
12:56am
1:06am
1:12am
1:21am
1:29am
1:35am
1:38am
That is, I believe, at least 70 times. And that was just when I had a pen and paper handy.
I’m not sure what to call this new phobia – the fear that sometime soon a dog will start barking – but I think I’ve got enough empirical evidence here that it does in fact exist. If you can think of a good name for it, let me know. But speak loudly – I’m wearing earplugs.
10 June 2009
Nine months
Yesterday (the ninth) marked the nine-month anniversary of my father's death.
I can't believe it's been nine months. Some days it feels like it's been years since he's been gone. Other days it feels like hours. I can still remember everything very clearly - the day he died, and the eleven days before it. The day he lost consciousness (August 29th) is especially clear in my mind. In some ways it feels like he died that day. His brain did, I suppose. He had the stroke on Friday. When my mom and I saw the MRI on Monday, we knew he was gone. The doctor said the white areas were dead spots. The image was blanketed in white spots.
I knew earlier, though. On the 29th, when we couldn't wake him up. We called 911 and the ambulance came, sirens blaring. I met the EMTs in the driveway. They came in. They took his blood pressure. It was 60/40. When I heard those numbers, I knew then and there he wasn't going to wake up.
The EMTs had my dad strapped to a stretcher. They asked if we had a hospital preference. They took him away. That was a Friday. One week later, in the hospital, the nurses took out his breathing tube. Again, an ambulance came. They took him to the hospice we'd visited earlier that week.
On Tuesday, September 9th, another ambulance took him away. They didn't use sirens that time.
How has it been nine months already? Where did the time go? I've done so little with it. I've had so little energy.
I bought my dad a Homer Simpson card for Father's Day last year. I feel the strange compulsion to buy a card this year. Why? What on earth would I do with it? I don't know, but the urge is there just the same. Habit, I suppose. I've bought one every year that I can remember. It seems strange I don't need to buy one this year. That I'll never need to buy one again. I think my dad's birthday will be hard, too, especially since it'll mark two years since the initial diagnosis.
Brain cancer, I'd thought. Who the hell gets brain cancer? It seemed unfair. Why did it have to be my daddy? He thought differently.
"Why not me?" he'd say. "Am I so special that I can't get a brain tumor? I'm no better than anyone else."
But he was, in so many ways and for so many reasons.
I miss him so much.
I can't believe it's been nine months. Some days it feels like it's been years since he's been gone. Other days it feels like hours. I can still remember everything very clearly - the day he died, and the eleven days before it. The day he lost consciousness (August 29th) is especially clear in my mind. In some ways it feels like he died that day. His brain did, I suppose. He had the stroke on Friday. When my mom and I saw the MRI on Monday, we knew he was gone. The doctor said the white areas were dead spots. The image was blanketed in white spots.
I knew earlier, though. On the 29th, when we couldn't wake him up. We called 911 and the ambulance came, sirens blaring. I met the EMTs in the driveway. They came in. They took his blood pressure. It was 60/40. When I heard those numbers, I knew then and there he wasn't going to wake up.
The EMTs had my dad strapped to a stretcher. They asked if we had a hospital preference. They took him away. That was a Friday. One week later, in the hospital, the nurses took out his breathing tube. Again, an ambulance came. They took him to the hospice we'd visited earlier that week.
On Tuesday, September 9th, another ambulance took him away. They didn't use sirens that time.
How has it been nine months already? Where did the time go? I've done so little with it. I've had so little energy.
I bought my dad a Homer Simpson card for Father's Day last year. I feel the strange compulsion to buy a card this year. Why? What on earth would I do with it? I don't know, but the urge is there just the same. Habit, I suppose. I've bought one every year that I can remember. It seems strange I don't need to buy one this year. That I'll never need to buy one again. I think my dad's birthday will be hard, too, especially since it'll mark two years since the initial diagnosis.
Brain cancer, I'd thought. Who the hell gets brain cancer? It seemed unfair. Why did it have to be my daddy? He thought differently.
"Why not me?" he'd say. "Am I so special that I can't get a brain tumor? I'm no better than anyone else."
But he was, in so many ways and for so many reasons.
I miss him so much.
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