“Whether you think you can or can’t, you’re right.” – Henry Ford
Who has ESP in the family? I do.
I schooled my daughter in the art of non-verbal communication last night. We played a game where she hid a glass pebble in one of her hands and asked me to identify the hand with the pebble. I went six for six until she got mad at me and quit.
At the point I was three for three, I hinted at how I was doing it by reading her eyes, facial expressions, and white knuckles around the pebble. However, revealing the magic didn’t help her fool me. And she did try to fool me by looking at the wrong hand on purpose, which told me to choose the other one.
It took awhile to get to six out of six because she threw little tantrums a couple of times and tried to fool me with no pebble in her hands, which I guessed she was doing, even though she fibbed she did have it in one hand. Then she got mad because I guessed she was fibbing.
Once she calmed down, I went through the techniques I used. I also explained to her that at the beginning of the game I said to myself “I can do it. I can guess the correct hand each time.” I was confident of success. I also visualized in my mind being able to guess the correct hand. Zip, right over her head that last point went.
I’ve used the Henry Ford quote with her many times when she says “I can’t.” I reply, “I guess you’ll prove yourself right then,” which makes her blow a gasket. She tries to prove me wrong by doing it, which makes me the Reverse Psychology King. (It’s always good to be king of anything, even when you make up the title yourself.)
The pebble game made me think about how clairvoyant I am at guessing which hand a pebble is in but how bad I’ve been at predicting the future. In the past, I have thought, my lung function is screwed forever, or I’ll never make it off this plane alive, or my bacteria will never be sensitive again. I have been wrong so many times.
Why is it easier to visualize the worst case scenario and not the best case? I need to do a better job of practicing my own advice by saying “I can” more often. I can handle what CF has in store for me. Oh, how I’d like to prove myself right on that one. We’ll see.
I have some very hip friends in Malibu who invited me over for a Fourth of July BBQ. Here are a few pictures of the day.
For those of you who think California is warm in the Summer, it’s not. Well, it is and it isn’t. The day I went to Malibu was a “it isn’t” day. I froze my tail off. You can see from the pictures that it looks like a winter day. However, it’s July.
Some of the warmest beach days I’ve enjoyed in Los Angeles have been in October and November. Go figure.
Clouds fill the sky and turn the day gray
In the picture above, notice the rocks. The beach in this location washed away. The rocks protect the houses and will help bring the beach back – they hope.
The view of the south shows the bluff and Zuma beach to the left
The water was freezing cold to humans. My chocolate lab pal had no trouble with his oily coat.
Lunch for a Fox
There’s nothing I love more than free food and beer. My friends provided the beer and I caught the food. I ate three of these seagulls. They’re quite tasty with a rum marinade and Cajun seasoning.
Who got crazy with a paint brush?
The lifeguard shacks in L.A were getting run down. Kudos to the people who gave them a bold makeover.
Let's roll on down to the surf shack, dude!
Now this mailbox tells me someone with imagination and a love for life and the beach lives here. Nice choice, Malibu person I don’t know.
Living on a hillside overlooking the ocean is the high life. Reminds me of someone I know in England.
Here’s a shot of the hillside and some homes. There are a few gems up there I would like to make my habitat.
At night, the dolphins return to the ocean
Even the gas stations in Malibu sport artwork with an ocean theme. The Chevron near my house has a bus bench with graffiti on it, not spitting dolphins.
A magical outdoor theater hides in the hills of Los Angeles. Though well-cloaked by the woods of Topanga Canyon, and unknown to many who live in L.A, Theatricum Botanicum thrives as a gem of artistic freedom and expression.
This outdoor theater hosts outstanding plays and music in the summer and fall. The area where it’s located is home to artists, writers and other successful L.A. humans. Foxes like me live throughout the surrounding hills, along with other mythical creatures who show up at night.
I recently grabbed UC and his family and treated them to a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. For a few hours, cystic fibrosis and the challenges of life faded away, and fun and mirth was had by all.
Thank you, Mr. Will Geer and Family. Thank you for maintaining this wonderful place and for sharing great art.
(CG, I hope to see you here one day with that crazy cat of yours. It’s your kind of place.)
Here are some photos from the day.
The year was 1973 and Theatricum started rolling. It gets better each year.
Buried deep in the woods, T.B. is a must see in L.A.
Strange creatures live here and hide themselves in plain sight during the day. At night, this gas meter man comes to life and roams the canyon, hissing and smelling of rotten eggs.
While you're sleeping, I'll be standing outside your house measuring your gas usage
Here is the man who started it all.
The great man himself. AKA Grandpa Walton. At night, he comes to life and tells great stories to the wildlife.
Theatricum has introduced thousands of kids across L.A. to live theater. They give back to the community. Here’s a small performing area for kids to practice. It includes this cool bridge.
A wood bridge in a smaller theater for kids
Botanicum refers to the nature that surrounds the place, including the special garden where the bust of Will Geer and other native plants live.
Arrive early and you can picnic in the garden or other hidden nooks.
All kinds of amusing and interesting things hide in plain sight here and fill one’s imagination and heart. Where does this staircase go? No one knows because all who have gone up it have never been seen again.
Do I hear Led Zeppelin playing?
Here’s the stage in all of its glory. I would have loved to show you the actors on stage, but they frown on that. Plus, I drop the camera a lot trying to hold it my paws. My pal, Josh, tells me it has something to do with me not having opposable thumbs. At least my middle one still works.
All actors are invisible to the camera lens. That's how magical they are.
Here’s where the forest creatures hide during the day. Notice that there is no door.
Only at night does a door appear. They say those who see look too closely at the creatures become a creature
What exists at the top of the hill is unknown. Clearly, this is a sign a fox can ignore. And I did. However, I cannot speak of what I saw.
You do not want to know what's up here. Trust me, I'm a fox.
That was my adventure in Los Angeles. If you live here or are visiting, Theatricum offers the finest entertainment and acting. Not only that, your worries and troubles will gently be absorbed by the surrounding nature and the wonderful performance. You’ll leave smiling and relaxed.
I'm never going back again. Creative Commons, Ulybug
It’s Saturday night. I’m having a shit time at the Hard Rock in Vegas, and down over 200K. The dealer’s treating himself to 21’s like Ginger’s been treating herself to hotel shampoos, soaps and robes – one for me, none for you, Fox.
Dealer Jack from Montana is beating the crap out of me with every faceless card in the shoe, 3’s, 6’s 2’s. I’m thinking, you better, you better not bet, Fox.
I sign for 100K in chips. I’m feeling angry. Ginger’s counting cards in her crazy nurse way, whispering 100ml, 5cc, 50mg. WTF? How does she do it? I don’t know.
Dealer man thinks she’s nuts, not the PhD she really is. But her method works. She’s up 70 or 80K, which only makes it worse that my lucky lady is showing me up. I know she’s smarter than I am, but don’t Einstein me in public, Kid. The real me is sensitive.
It’s another tricky day all the way around – my fox ego pounded and dying on the floor. I’ve had enough.
Who's next for a beating?
But guess who sits down at my high-roller’s table? Baba O’Riley himself, the thunder-god of Rock n Roll, Roger Daltrey. My pal CG would have jumped him right there cause she hearts aging rockers; and Unknown would have wet his pants like the yellow lab pup he is.
So, Roger D sits down in the last position with Ginger sandwiched between us. The dealer flips me two 8’s, Ginger a Blackjack, and Roger a 16. Dealer Jack shows a 5.
Roger’s making all cute and cuddly and using his rock-star lucky charms with nurse Ginger, who is jumping up and down yelling “code blue to you, sucka” at the dealer thanks to her big win. Woo F’ing who, I’m thinking. I’m playing cards here, not the dating game.
I slide another 50K forward with my paw, all cool and fox-like. No words needed. Happy Jack knows I’m splitting 8’s. The two 10’s he drops turn my 8’s to 18’s. It’s about F’ing time. Let him chat it up with Gin if he’s turning coal to platinum.
I look at his 16 and pray to Athena that he makes the right move and stays at 16. But wrong, I am.
I don’t know how they play blackjack in the UK, but the way we friggin’ play it here is the US of A is when you’re last position, and dealer Jack is showing a 5 to your 16, you plant your ass on your rock-star hands.
But no, that’s not what Sir Who does. He scratches his finger on the table and calls for another card.
I can’t get the words “Fuck no” out fast enough. Dealer Jack tosses him a queen of spades, clubbing my beating heart, and turning his 16 to 26. He busts, then laughs about it cause he owns mansions made of gold.
I can see for miles what’s coming next. Dealer Jack flips his hold card and shows 15. The 10 that Tommy Boy just asked for, that cost him 100K of his walking-around money, was supposed to go to the dealer to bust him. He took the dealer’s 10, damn it.
Tommy himself
Now Jack from Montana looks at me, the corners of his mouth raise like an alley cat’s, all wicked-like. Even he is clairvoyant enough to see my bad luck coming. He’s chuckling inside, knowing what Princess Pinball Wizard just did.
But I’m too late. Here comes the trick of the light, as the four of diamonds falls flat, giving the dealer a 19, beating my two 50K 18’s. I’m crushed by the man who sang Sister Disco.
That’s about when I hear Who Boy start singing “mama’s got a squeeze box, Daddy never sleeps at night” to Ginger.
One of the remaining Who geezers is singing the creepiest of songs to Gin thinking it’s the magic bus to her heart. He slides his room key across the felt all-stealth and old-guy creepy like.
I only know what happened next because the police were playing the tape when they paw-printed me. Laughed their asses off, they did.
In the video, I jump on the table and go mobile. I nail Roger right in the nose. After that, there’s five minutes of me hanging on to his face as he tries to shake me off. Tables, cocktails, everything goes over. He’s screaming just like he does in concert. Then he grabs my tail and uses his microphone twirling skills to whip me across the casino. I land against a Wheel of Fortune slot machine, where security takes me down.
I have blue eyes that are sad. Where's my billion dollars in royalties?
Ginger has seen this show before. I yell out that she led him on and there goes my bail money. She says she won’t get fooled again and runs out.
In court, he judge says, “Who’s next?” and looks like he’s ready to give me life. I want to give him the slip, Kid. I can’t explain my actions, but I can tell him what Sir Behind Blue Eyes did. And after hearing the story, the judge dismisses all charges. He agrees that’s it’s illegal to hit a 16 when the dealer is showing a 5. It’s a crime, he says, and lets me go.
I’m free.
That’s my side of the story. Ginger won’t return my calls. Unknown sits in a hotel room somewhere. I look in the mirror tonight and wonder, Who are you, Fox? Who are you?
Fox here. I’m hung over and irritable because I loaned my nurses to a blogging buddy and he’s not returning my calls. I hope my team comes back in time for my midnight dose.
I’ve spent the day deep in thought about Unknown’s problems in the hole last week. I’ve boiled it down to communications, meaning crappy verbal skills on the part of Unknown.
So, I thought I might share a lesson I gave his highness on how to communicate better with RTs. Here are the role-plays I designed for him.
Lesson 1: “It’s all in the wrist”
RT gives you a med you don’t take
RT: Hi. I’ve got your Pulmozyme. Fox: I’ve got your Pulmozyme, too. RT: What? Fox: Yeah, I got it right here.
[Fox sticks paw in pocket. Pulls paw out flipping the RT the bird] Fox: See, here it is, and it says F U Pulmozyme on it. RT: How dare you. Fox:How dare you, SIR, for bringing me a medicine I don’t take. RT: It’s in the chart. Fox: That chart needs to go up the person’s ass who added Pulmozyme to it. RT: There’s no need to speak like that. Fox: Since when is “ass” a bad word? Is it because there’s a chart sticking out of the ass? Does that make it bad? It’s because of the image it creates, isn’t it? Chart hanging out of ass, that sort of thing. Would it be better if the Pulmozyme was sticking out of someone’s ass? RT: [leaving quickly] You’re crazy. I’m leaving. Fox: You go ahead and do that. I’ll be here hyperventilating because you almost killed me with the wrong medicine.
Lesson 2, version A: “Liar Liar, pants on fire”
RT shows up late with your morning meds and you’re caught red-handed doing your own
RT: You’re already doing your meds? Fox: Yep. RT: Where did they come from? Fox: [lying] The other RT brought them RT: The other RT? Fox: Yeah, the other one. He looked like you, but different. He was bald RT: When was this? Bald? Fox: Not too long ago. No, he had blonde hair. RT: You said he was bald. Fox: I was wrong. He had black hair. RT: What?Did you get his name? Fox: Whose name? RT: The other RT. Fox: What other RT? RT: The one that just brought you the meds. Fox: Oh, that one. I don’t know. I don’t work here. Don’t you guys know each other? RT: I don’t know who it could be. Fox: He had a limp. RT: A limp? We don’t have anyone with a limp. Fox: [holds the neb away from his mouth like poison] You have me worried now, man! This could be rat poison delivered by a bald guy with one leg. Who brought me these meds? Was it a real RT? Are these the correct meds? I’m feeling light-headed. RT: It’s okay. No need to panic. I probably missed it in the chart. Fox: Oh, okay. Yeah, it’s probably in the chart. RT: I bet it’s in the chart. Fox: Charts are never wrong. [crying] Would you mind leaving me alone now? This has been very stressful. RT: Sure. Sorry about the confusion. Fox: Okay. I probably won’t file a complaint this time. RT: Thanks. Fox: [stops crying] Do me a favor, would ya? On your way out, slide my beer keg against the wall. People keep bumping into it. Thanks. You’re the man.
Lesson 2, version B: “Message from a friend”
RT shows up late with your morning meds and you’re caught red-handed doing your own
RT: You’re already doing your meds? Fox: No. RT: What? Fox:[throws the covers over his head and tries to hide] RT: [pulls the covers off]You’re doing your meds. I see you. Fox: No, I’m not. And you don’t see me. RT: You’re not? But I’m talking to you? Fox: I’m not and you’re not talking to me. RT: What are you doing? Fox: Being invisible. RT: But you’re still inhaling meds. Fox: You call them meds. I don’t. RT: Aren’t they? Fox: No, it’s beer. RT: You’re inhaling beer? Fox: Yep. Yes, I am. RT: Are you kidding? Fox: Nope. Would you like some? I’m seeing two of you right now. RT: You can’t inhale beer. Fox: I can’t. Sure tastes like Old Milwaukee to me. Ring, ring, ring. Hold on, someone’s calling. [pretends to pick up and answer an imaginary phone with his paw] Hello, CG. Yes, the RT is right here. [to the RT] It’s Cystic Gal. RT: Who? Fox: Cystic Gal. And she has a message for you. RT: What message? Fox: She says, “Suck it, UPS driver. Suck it.” That’s classic, CG, Dude. What a mouth she’s got when she’s pissed. And she’s pissed at you, lucky fella. [laughs his fox ass off]
I'm CG's cat and I say "Meow it."
That’s it for tonight. These examples should help old Unknown communicate better the next time he blows a gasket.
Fox here. Unknown is on my shit list again after yesterday’s “I’m lucky” post. I asked him if he wanted to write another one of those sugar fests while he’s coughing up a lung doing his treatments. Judging by the two birds he flipped and red face, he’s not feeling so happy-go-lucky right now. My turn to write a post.
I attend concerts because that’s the kind of thing I do. I grab my nurses and roll to where good music is playing.
Each week the Valley Cultural Center hosts a free concert in Woodland Hills. Desperado, an Eagles tribute band, played and rocked the house, and we danced like animals.
The band played one of my all-time favorite songs: “Hotel California.” Here is the Eagles’ original version on youtube.com. Feel free to play it while you look at the pictures. You’ll feel like you were hanging with us.
It was a packed house tonight, which meant I signed a lot of autographs.
Lots of people, great music and great fun
I seek out places where hunting is easy. This park has one of my favorite places to eat. As it reads on the side of the trailer, “All American Cooking.” That pig looks like he doesn’t turn away until his plate is cleared.
A truck full of meat. It doesn't get better than this, my friends.
Here’s my tri-tip sandwich. Meat and bun. Simple for a fox. Not too much fun for a vegetarian, but they do have grilled corn on the cob to chow down.
Juicy meat I didn't have to chase down and skin. Loving it.
This place has strange places to visit. You couldn’t pay me enough to go in the tiger’s mouth. Kids went in, but they didn’t come out.
You can consider yourself tri-tip for the tiger when you walk in its mouth.
The event got out of hand when a giant rat ran through the park. I chased him off.
Nothing creates havoc like a giant rat with a cheese belt
When I hang in public, I get attention. People don’t see many foxes. The cameras come out and autograph hounds run over to visit and talk. Some even sketch a picture of me. Here are two of my favorites of the night.
I love the taste of hen. It really does taste like chicken.
Here’s another one done by a young fan. She just sat there and stared at me like she’d never seen a fox before.
Fox is popular with young fans, too. They know I'm a gamer and hold the record in Super Mario.
Here I am. The most handsome of foxes.
I am more handsome than you are - by far. No comparison. And I'm 100 times better looking than Unknown. No need for a bag over my head. I'm foxy.
That’s my adventure in Los Angeles.
A quick shout out to Josh at Welcome to Joshland. He’ll know why. 🙂
Fox here. And I’m a bit irritated with my yellow labrador of a creation, Unknown. Here’s what went down.
Are my eyes dilated? Ginger, help. I can't get up.
I’m standing by the poolside of my buddy’s Malibu Mansion tonight and feeling good about life again. Ginger, god bless her nursing heart, has just given me my fifth dose of poison dart frog. We’ll all laughing because my fur is standing on end and I look like I stuck my paw in a wall socket.
Not to mention that I’m wearing Ginger’s panties, which say “I love foxes” on them. They feel comfy, but they’re riding up my ass, but I can’t do anything about it because my paws aren’t listening to me and because they’re paws. Nobody’s lending a hand, they’re just snapping pictures and laughing.
So, I’m pretty messed up. I have to use Unknown’s Xopenex just to breathe again. My tail is stiff as a rock and I’m knocking glasses in the pool every time I spin around. The pool is where we have that damn ER doc that made Unknown wait six hours. Couple of my pals, Badger and Skunk, have tied him up and are dipping the dope upside down over and over. Six hours is the goal. After that we’ll give him the bill and kick his ass out of here.
Great times, right?
Yeah, that’s what I thought. That’s until Bambi comes strolling out with her MacBook Pro open. She’s screaming something in French or French-like, but I can’t tell her to speak English because the dart frog has paralzyzed my vocal cords. So, she holds the screen up for me to read.
Holy $$*#*#*$. What has Unknown done now? Unknown has gone and written the post of the century for total wimpiness. WTF is he doing to my blog. I’m pissed. I can’t speak, and trying to type with paws ain’t exactly easy when ya got all your faculties in place, which I clearly don’t.
The gang can see I’m upset. Ginger loses her mind when my eyes start cartooning out of my head. She knocks me down on the mat and goes all Pulp Fiction on me with a syringe the size of an Old Milwaukee bottle right to my fox heart. I spring to life and feel like I just traveled through a worm hole to reality with that ER doc screaming every time they let him up for air. Skunk gives him a blast of bad air, which ends the party on the spot because we gotta evacuate.
Here I am in action. Photo by Neil Phillips. Creative Commons.
Now it’s 12:30 at night and I have to apologize to all my readers for Unknown. I’ve put him back in his kennel. How’s he expect to fight this f’ing disease if he’s going to cry like a baby. He better dig deep and stop the whining or an ass-kicking the size of the moon is coming his way.
I’m sending him off to my pal @onlyz for a few days of Camp Onlyz’s Grow a Pair, where they’re going to surgically repair the two chicken nuggets he’s sporting. He’ll come back a a rabid Akita.
And I say this to cystic fibrosis for the number you’ve done on my pal Unknown this week, one day I’m going to catch you. And when I do, I going to hurt you, and then I’m going to hurt you again. Then me and my pals are going to reenact the final scene of Braveheart, the one with the creepy tools and slab. Except it won’t be Mel Gibson screaming “freedom” this time.
Unknown is tired after his jail time this week, screaming for the Lakers tonight with his daughter, and no McGriddles in the last three days.
He asked me, humble Fox, to post in his absence. I’m feeling pretty tired too after my quick jaunt to Vegas last night with a couple of gal-pal nurses. Rum Jungle was rocking. I got thrown out again, but that’s not unusual. What can I say? It’s my nature to cause trouble.
Tonight, I’m going to share a few photos from my vacation. There should be more, but Unknown panicked and forgot to grab a fresh camera battery before leaving the casa. Slim photo pickings thanks to that boneheaded error.
The photo below is the first room Unknown stayed in – for 45 minutes. Then he cried like a little lab pup about chest pain and they took him straight to a lower grade room. Learn from Foxy on this one, folks, never talk your way out of an upgrade. They’ll snatch it from you if you do.
Now this is a room for a hospital party!
Here’s the hole they sent Unknown to after he complained.
Welcome to the garden view, Mr. Unknown
Remember when they strapped Unknown to a table and scanned his heart? This is the badboy itself. Those are the two blue straps they used. 20 minutes of hell for Unknown. 20 minutes of napping for me.
Don't move or you'll have to repeat the test
Someone thought it would be funny to erase the hospital information board below. I am Fox, after all. Everything worked out great and the nurse thought it was cute until she read “patient goals.” The smile fell off her face. Ouch, you nasty boy.
Fox out. Picture below. WARNING: Adult language
You got in trouble, you got in trouble. Ha, ha, ha.
I, humble Fox, King of the Vulpes vulpes, received the accolades I am due in @CFFatboy’s blog extraordinaire. Here’s the link so you can read all about me.
I’m honored. Anytime someone stays up until 1:30 in the morning writing about you, with a hot fox named Beautiful at his side, well, how nice is that? Thanks, CF Fatboy, you’re a stand-up guy kicking CF’s green ass. May you live a long life and write about me a dozen more times. I’ll send you some adventures that Unknown is afraid to add to the blog.
Remember, I created Unknown. He sprang from my animal imagination one day while I was taking a beer piss. What a puss I invented, too. Never look up to a cartoon character, my blogging friends, especially one who is a complete fool.
Speaking of her highness, let’s see what unwound in Unknown’s imaginary world today.
First, this is how normal people look to Doctors: Picture a 24-piece Dora the Explorer puzzle:
Easy to solve
This is how Unknown looks to doctors: Picture a 5,000-piece puzzle of a tiger.
It may bite you.
Now you know why doctors start backing out of the hospital room when Unknown starts talking. Here is what the doctor thinks when Unknown speaks: Too confusing. Where does this piece fit? Is this a piece from a different puzzle? Holy crap, there are a lot of pieces. I’ll start with the sides. Oh, screw it. I didn’t go to medical school to solve complicated puzzles like this nut job. I see the world in black and white, as in my black Porsche 911, and my model girlfriend’s white bikini filled with her 100K chest and hips.
I am Fox, hear me growl.
So, some good news. Unknown’s Labrador heart ain’t too bad. He passed the dart frog test. Though he can’t figure how, as he guesses a missing beat every two seconds counts for passing. Jerky Unknown, you lived through it. That’s a passing grade. Get back in the F’ing casino – you got a movie to finish.
Here’s why Unknown ain’t talking tonight. The cardio docs came by and gave him the green light and told him to stop eating chocolate, which makes no sense whatsoever cause he’s been eating chocolate for many months without problems. They played the “blame it on M&M’s” card. But that’s not why he’s pissed.
He’s upset because the cardio docs didn’t fill out their damn report and now he has to stay in the hospital one more night because the main doc won’t kick him lose without their kiss of approval. When doctors own a hospital, don’t expect an early release. There are yacht payments to be made.
Unknown is a sucker on a stick. I would have ripped out the I.V., crapped on the floor and scampered out of there with August and Tiffany at my side, and a few shots of that poison frog they shot him up with yesterday. Here’s your report, doc, I’d say as I flip him the paw. I’ll email you photos of tonight’s Rum Jungle party in Veg-ass.
Something funny did happen today. The nurse came by and said the pharmacy wanted to know if Unknown had a Symbicort with him or had it gone back by carrier pigeon?
This is two days after he checked into this hotel of hell. Two days. Was he supposed to call in his order for a Symbicort ahead of time, like a chicken fajita at Baja Fresh?
So, the nurse had to take Unknown’s contraband Symbicort to the Rx and they had to place a little sticker on it: Approved by someone who didn’t read a printed list two days ago. What about the other five meds Unknown hid in his carry-on bag? When do the federales break down the door and bust his chicken ass? Let’s see you serve a “nickel” in a real prison, pretty boy. You’ll be begging like a chocolate Labrador pup to return to the hospital and your private “isolation” room.
Last of all, why are the light switches in the hospital room painted red? Shouldn’t a red switch always blow something up? “Pop,” on come the lights. Where’s the fun in that? Now if it caused Unknown’s bed to blast up to the ceiling, well, that would be a good reason to paint a switch red. Eat acoustic tile, UC.
Day 2 in Lock up, Lock down, Lock Sideways – it’s all a matter of perspective
I woke up on the wrong side of my plastic bed this morning. Reality smacked me with where I was and why I’m here. I can serve the “nickel” of the normal CF prison sentence. This stay has rattled my nerves and tested me. Escape plans fill my mind.
I swear I heard Fox partying in the hallway last night. I have never slept in a noisier hospital wing than the one I am in now. Loud talkers on a cell phone can’t match these people for volume. I miss the quiet floor I usually stay on.
Yesterday’s nurse princess transformed into a nasty, bossy four-foot troll who woke me up for blood pressure around dawn. No sweet kisses on the forehead here to awaken me from my slumber. Just a nasty lady mustache atop grinning wart lips.
Hospital communication breakdowns are my favorite. I give them a printed list of my meds but somehow they find a way to f**k it up. They cannot process the fact I take two nebs of hypertonic saline in the morning and two in the evening. They write down what they think it should be. READ THE LIST, people. I will be placing a special note on future lists: “Yo, it’s two, I repeat two HTS in the morning and two in the evening. That’s not a typo.”
Then there is the “surprise test of the day.” Today, I wasn’t supposed to eat breakfast, yet breakfast showed up. Luckily, I had treatments to do and didn’t eat it right away. The nurse stopped me in time. What if I had eaten it and couldn’t complete the tests? There’s another day in the hospital and another 10K all because of a three-dollar breakfast being delivered by accident.
It’s getting harder to hide CF from my managers at work. It was easier to do it years ago when I only went in once a year or every 18 months and I could depend on having a new boss every year. Now, it’s tightrope walking and juggling at the same time. It’s getting technically more difficult to hide the truth. I’m not sure how much longer I can do it. I want to work as long as I can, but CF is screwing with that plan.
Tests, tests, and more tests
My insurance company will look for ways to get rid of me after today. These doctors love tests. And they delivered big time with that love today.
First up was what I call the Survivor test. They injected radioactive Thallium into me, then strapped me to a table so I couldn’t move. Three large boxes circled me, taking images of my Labrador heart. It seems strange to say 20 minutes being immobilized feels like a long time, but it does and did. Holy crap. I have new respect for Survivor games where they have to stand on a stick for 6 hours. The tech made it a constant point to tell me not to move. I didn’t and couldn’t thanks to his strap-down job.
From there I went for the poison dart frog venom test. In this one, they placed me on a table and the same guy who shot me up with radioactive material 30 minutes earlier, dosed me with what must have been poison. All of a sudden it felt like I had just chased Fox out of a downtown L.A. bar and down the block. My chest tightened and I couldn’t breathe. SOB. SOB. SOB. Alert. Alert. Dying here. Shoot the f’ing frog that humped me, damn it.
The techs acted like it was normal to feel like you just ate bad blowfish. FU. Normal this, dudes. The bad guy just poisoned me like James Bond in Casino Royale. But I don’t have an Aston Martin with a drug kit in it. Why are you standing there? Give me the antidote. I’ll tell you what I did with the “Nurse, Nurse, Nurse” guy from last night. He’s duct taped to a gurney on the top floor of the parking garage. Antidote, please.
It’s no wonder I have a splitting headache tonight. It took me 10 minutes to come down off of that joy ride to heart stretching heaven.
From there, I enjoyed the Fast Pass to my 50-minute echo test. The three guys working it were cool and Fox had some x-rated guy conversations with them, but it was still painful.
Lunch came after the tests, which was a cheeseburger and fries with three ketchups and no salt. I get the no salt part. I’m in the heart ward. But three ketchups for all of that food? Are you kidding me? Who do I kill?
I got to repeat the Survivor test after lunch. It was just as fun as the first time. Try it yourself sometime. Lie on your bed, with arms at your side, hand clasped over your groin, and don’t move. 20 minutes. Start now.
The rest of the day I worked, barely. But I did eat more M&Ms in one sitting than I’ve ever eaten in my life. They’re monitoring my heart – WTF. Let it race.
Stay well.
Fox’s day in hell.
I thought it was a dude that woke Unknown for blood pressure. It was the lady stache that fooled me. I’ve woken up next to a few whiskers in my day, but this one was thick, black and greasy. I jumped on top of the TV and waited until she dragged her club foot out the door.
I partied hard last night with the nurses. Loud, lively honey babes charmed by moi. Bambi and Ginger helped me tape up the dude next door who couldn’t master the call button. We laughed our asses off to his duct taped, muffled “nurse” yelps. Press the button next time, dude. Press the button.
The docs punished Unknown for “chest pain” today with more chest pain. Whatever they shot into him is something I want a bottle of. That looked like 10 minutes of rollercoasting while drunk on Gin Ball Twisters fun to me. Gotta get me some of that stuff for tonight’s g-string martini “fiesta of love.”
The Unknown Cystic 