Keriosity

Those of you who attended Sunday School way back when may remember learning that Satan can take on many forms. Yesterday, he took on the form of a Chiropractor.

I woke up in the morning in a pretty good mood. Milhous, my kennel-cough stricken dog, had his first cough-free night in 24 nights. Therefore, I was able to sleep uninterrupted for the first time is a very long time. I was so grateful when I woke up, that I thanked him. (To which he coughed.)

My plans for the day were to meet my friend Jen in downtown LA in the morning, then go to my horseback riding lesson in the afternoon at a brand-new barn with fields and trails and other wonderfulness. (The old barn was crowded and plain.) In the evening, I was meeting another friend for drinks in my neighborhood. Sounds like a nice day, huh?

Well I don’t have nice days like that. Something always happens.

My neck decided that the time was right to have a major spasm. I guess I shouldn’t really complain, since I used to have them quite frequently and I haven’t had one in about 6 months. But this one was really bad and I had to cancel my whole day.

After making the necessary phone calls, I tried to lie down and while doing so, I sort of fell into a lying down position and I sounded like someone who has both Tourette’s Syndrome and a megaphone. Luckily, my neighbors were having their house fumigated so they weren’t home to hear all the profanities - but actually, maybe it wasn’t so lucky because once I lay down, I became stuck that way. And it wasn’t at all comfortable. You know in Star Wars when Han Solo gets frozen in carbonite? That’s what I looked like - but with cursing. Lots of cursing.

I managed to reach my cell phone and I called my husband. No answer. I called my mother. No answer. (Not that either of them would be able to do much since they were 3000 miles away.) I called the doctor and left a message. And then I just waited. (For what, I don’t know.) Soon I had to pee. Of course. My bladder and my neck have a secret plot against me in which they always choose the exact wrong time to demand my attention.

I started to cry because I knew that one of two things was going to happen. Either I was going to die of a ruptured bladder and no one would know about it until Emil came home two days later. Or, he would come home in two days to find me alive but lying in my own excrement. I just had to hope for option #1.

I discovered that the remote control was within my reach and I turned on The View just in time to hear about that lady in France who had the face transplant. I knew that her injuries were a result of a dog attack, but now I was learning that the dog was her own beloved pet Labrador who had done this awful thing to her while she was passed out from sleeping pills! I looked over at Milhous, remembering how rough I had been while trying to get cough medicine down his throat and how he’s still mad at me and I thought “Oh HELL NO you don’t!” And I forced myself up. It was excruciating! But I least I still have my face.

I was able to get a 3pm appointment with a chiropractor. Of course, I could not drive, so I took a taxi. Why is it that taxi drivers can never stop at the exact destination?

Taxi Driver: Where is it?

Me: It’s there on the right. #12467

Taxi Driver: Where?

Me: There - that red building with the numbers on it - 12467. (I point at the building.)

Taxi Driver: Here? (He slows down at the corner, 500 feet from the building.)

Me: No, up there - that red building on the ri- whatever, here is fine.

Taxi Driver: Here?

Me: YES! Stop the car!

It must really suck to be illiterate and color-blind.

Once inside the doctor’s office - I was hopeful that relief was moments away. The doctor tried his best to act casual and put my mind at ease. He looked at my posture - with my head hung low and turned slightly to the right, my right shoulder practically touching my ear, my eyes awkwardly looking as far up as they can go just to make eye contact with him.

“Wow, are you stuck like that?!” He asked.

“Yes,” I sighed. “Can you fix me?”

“Of course - I see this all the time. You have acute [something-itis]- and with an adjustment or two, you should be much better!”

“Okay.” I said feebly. I wondered how he could do an adjustment on someone in my present condition of “stuck.” I’ve had adjustments before (sans spasm)- it’s such a moment of “OWOHMYGOD - aaaaaahhhhh!” but with all this muscle tightness, would I get that satisfying “aaaaaahhhh!”?

He felt my back and neck and declared that several vertebrae were askew. After 15 minutes of electric stim on my back and shoulders (which I hate - I don’t like that twitching sensation!) I was eager to get this visit over with and be normal again. I had a little fantasy playing in my head of a quick adjustment and it would be like there was never a spasm. I would be completely back to normal. Surely the initial pain of the adjustment would be nothing compared to the previous 7 hours of agony!

Enter Satan.

“Ok, Keri. I’m just going to do some small adjustments and you’ll be back on track!” I couldn’t help but notice he didn’t say “good as new.” Hm…

He pressed his hands on my spine. “Ready? Take a deep breath. Now let it out!”  He made two forceful pushes.

Now, from what I can piece together, I think I died upon the first push and that the second push restarted my heart. I know I made an awful sound of some sort. Kind of like a primal guttural death moan.

“You okay?” Satan asked.

“Wha? Uuuuhhh..” was all I could manage through the nausea.

After three more adjustments I guess my screams were loud enough for the other patients to hear, because he decided to stop.

“How do you feel?” he asked. I was lying on my back, hugging my knees to my chest, panting, with a look of shock on my face. “I guess you can’t say right now - that’s okay,” he offered. After a moment, he held out his hand to help me up.

“Owowowowowow!” I winced. And what was his response? He laughed. The chiropractor laughed at me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh - but you’re just so pathetic right now!” he smiled.

Now I have as good a sense of humor as the next person - even better than most, actually. I find humor in the most bizarre and morbid situations - so if anyone should understand inappropriate uncontrollable laughter, it’s me. But I did not find this torturous visit to be funny at all - and the only person who is more inappropriately amused than me has got to be Satan.

“I know today was brutal, but hopefully you will feel better tomorrow. You may need to come back Friday for another adjustment though - you’ll let me know.”

I thought, You are never touching me again, you hateful mean sadist!

I crawled out to the waiting room to pay for my visit to Hell, and signed the credit card slip almost illegibly due to the new tingling sensation that had developed in my right arm. I had a fleeting thought that the pen I pulled from my purse is silver and would that be equally as lethal to the devil as a silver bullet? If it weren’t for the tingling and weakness in my Stabbing Arm, I might have found out.

I actually do feel much better today. It may have been the work of Satan, but I’m guessing the bottles of Ibuprofen and muscle relaxants helped a bit too. (And I’d like to apologize for any nonsensical comments I may have posted on anyone’s myspace page last night. Also, I’d like to apologize to Milhous for continually calling him a “nice horse” while in my ultra-relaxed state.)

We have gone too far in this country.

If people from either the past or the future visited this moment - the past people would be terrified of what was to come and the future people would be angry at what our mistakes have done to them. Of course they would have to go to Staples to fully appreciate the magnitude of this marker in our history.

Specifically, the pen section. (I meant “marker” literally!) While I was searching for a new purple pen the other day, I noticed a recent advancement in the world of pens. The “share guard.” Sorry, what? I picked up a box and read closer: “New! Antibacterial Share Guard Technology!” and there was a diagram of a close-up of the pen with little germ-dots being deflected off of it.

Oh joyous day! The world is safe again for SHARING PENS thanks to the Nobel Prize-worthy engineering feat of this rubber Share Guard!

I had to shake my head in shame for our country. Antibacterial pens? Pens?! We have crossed a line - a line that was probably drawn with a diseased pen.

We are seconds away from having fully functional hazmat decontamination showers at the entrances to our homes. It’s coming soon. I already know people who have antibacterial handiwipes on tables inside their front doors.

Now I have taken both Microbiology and Parasitology classes as recently as 5 years ago. I may not be an expert, but I know a thing or two about germs and bugs. Unless some kind of super-bacteria has risen up and formed their own nation in the past 5 years, I think the following lessons of survival are still valid. If you can stick to these main points, you will probably go about your everyday activities without contracting anything really terrible. These are the 5 things you need to remember:

1. Public toilet seats will not give you diseases since the ass cheeks are among the cleanest parts of the body and urine is sterile. You are more likely to pick up something from the lock on the stall door. Stop freaking out about the toilet seat. (So ladies - you can stop hover-peeing. You get pee on the seat and those of us who can’t hover don’t appreciate this. Even though, as I said, urine is sterile - I don’t want to have to wipe yours off the seat. If you must hover, please wipe the seat afterwards. It’s just bad manners.)

2. Don’t eat the lettuce in airplane meals. Ever.

3. Don’t walk barefoot on a farm (you’l get hookworm) but out in your yard and on your sidewalk is generally ok. (not the sidewalks in NYC. Ew.)

4. If you ever buy clothing or bed linens from a second hand store, wash them in HOT water and dry them in a HOT dryer before you put them on your body or let them touch anything you own. Or get them dry-cleaned. (Body lice can live in clothing and linens for a week)

5. Don’t put your shoes on the coffee table or any place else where you might later put food.

Those 5 rules aside, if you create too sterile an environment, you are going to get sick. Germs are like those “obligatory friends” we all have - we really don’t like them but we have to come in contract with them every so often because avoiding them causes more problems in the long run. Our immune system needs the practice of everyday germs or we’d be completely out of shape when the nastier ones come around. All of this antibacterial gunk we slather on ourselves kills GOOD bacteria, you know. We need good bacteria. They are the “buffer friends” we bring along to dinner to help make the “obligatory friends” more bearable.

This antibacterial campaign makes me suspicious anyhow. Who is behind it? The drug companies - betting on our weakening immune systems and subsequent need for more and more drugs? Terrorist groups - hoping we will become too scared to leave our hermetically sealed homes - leaving the streets empty and ready for an occupation? Or IS there a super-bacterial race that has come to power in this country. (Come to think of it - bacteria multiply using binary fission. For example: We had one President George Bush - now we have two President George Bushes! Hm…)

Personally, I don’t share my pens much anyway. I have always had my own pen at work and I have girly purple pens at home that Emil won’t use. It’s not that I’m afraid of pen germs; I’m just stingy.

I also don’t use antibacterial soap. I don’t get flu shots. And I don’t carry handiwipes or bottles of hand sanitizer in my car or purse since I generally don’t touch things that would require me to immediately scrub and disinfect my hands. I mean - I live in the suburbs and I run errands during the day. I’m not stealing bodies from cemeteries or rummaging through the county dump. Are you? Why the hand sanitizer? What did we do BEFORE hand sanitizer came out? Were people dropping dead in the streets after shopping in the grocery store? Were there outbreaks of childhood leprosy from petting strange neighborhood dogs? And how did we ever think it was possible to have a snack at the beach without benefit of a full-arm handiwipe bath?

I’m livin’ on the edge, I tell ya! It’s risky to wash one’s hands with regular soap and get by sans air purifier in an otherwise really clean home. But, I also don’t have allergies and I rarely get sick.

And I always know where my pen is, germy as it may be.

Some of you may be wondering why there were no blogs written last week. That’s because I was very sick. Emil and I were both very sick. Since we don’t have a new doctor yet, we had to go to the Urgent Care Center, where I didn’t really see a lot of “urgency” going on. Emil went on Tuesday and I went on Wednesday. The doctors diagnosed us as having sinus infections but I think my diagnosis was based more on Emil having one than on me having one because I wasn’t even congested. I just had a raging fever that wouldn’t quit, so I’m pretty sure I had the flu. We spent the entire week and weekend on the sofa watching TV and drinking gatorade, waiting for our mega antibiotics to get to work. Having a fever for 5 days straight is to be in complete misery. It hurt to move my eyeballs. The air hurt my skin.

I have often said that being sick is very lonely. There you are, alone in your suffering, laying on the sofa, unable to make others fully appreciate how awful you feel, and there’s nothing to watch on TV. Being sick WITH someone, on the same sofa, now that was interesting. I don’t think that’s happened to me since grade school. But this time food and juice didn’t magically appear. One of us had to go to the store and get it. And one of us had to walk the dog every few hours. Normally this sort of thing would be decided by a rock-paper-scissor competition (best 2 out of 3), but we were even too sick for that. We decided the fair thing would be that whoever had the lowest fever at that moment would go. This usually worked out in my favor, so I liked this system. As it happens, last week was also the beginning of spring-like weather here - which means it was sunny and in the 70’s-80’s every day. We felt like kids with broken legs in summertime. We couldn’t go outside. We couldn’t go to the pool (but we could hear other kids in the pool from our apartment.) Torture!

It’s a really bad thing for your psyche to be so sick on the same week that Terri Shiavo and the Pope die in what turns out to be, as horrible as this sounds, a long, drawn-out media death-watch. This does not make you want to rally and set your mind-over-matter to overcome your diseased body. It just throws your into a depressed state of waiting for the inevitable. In my fevered delirium, I connected with these two comrades a little more so than 98.6 degreed people I think. I found myself sending telepathic messages to the pope “Go towards the light, John Paul. Do you see the light? What’s it like in heaven? Can you move your eyeballs? Oh that must be so nice.” At one point, after watching all the protesters and the pilgrims and the speculation and waiting to see if lights went out in the vatican windows, and the endless videotape of hospital rooms and sickbeds and 5-year-olds getting arrested - I almost called Larry King to say “Please, can’t the media just leave us alone to be in peace?! We’re human beings, not circus freak-shows!” And I was grateful to have updated my completely non-legally binding handmade living-will just the week before, although I never really specified what to do with me in the event of a high fever that leaves me irrational and begging for mercy. I’m not sure “put me down old-yeller style” is a medically accepted procedure anyhow.

I don’t recommend getting this flu. It’s not your usual flu where you may stay home for 2 days but you’ll return to work still feeling sick because you can manage. You won’t manage with this flu unless your job doesn’t require you to think, move, or look to the side.

Two blogs entries in two days - crazy, I know!

This one will be quick.

Here’s the latest reason why I am going to hell:

My sister, Meg, had a doctor’s appointment and they warned her that it would be an unusually long wait since it was the week before the holidays. I offered to go with her to keep her company, catch-up, chit-chat, etc. When we walked into the crowded waiting room, we immediately heard this grunting noise and discovered that there was a person in the waiting room who was in a wheelchair and must have that same illness that “TIM-MEH!” has on South Park. I’m not sure what that illness is. But I’d like to first say that I am a kind and compassionate person and, despite my disparaging comments on carnivores in my last blog entry, I love all humankind and never want to see anyone suffer and wish for nothing more than love and health and peace throughout the world. And please don’t hate me or think I’m a terrible person. Here’s what happened.

Ok, so we see this person and hear the loud “grunt, grunt. GRUNT! grunt grunt!” which seemed to be a constant thing and knowing that we will be waiting about 45 minutes, I say “Meg, I can’t do this.” She agrees but we decide to stick it out and try to find chairs way on the other side of the waiting room because as you may already know - I love all of humankind, but I have a hard time controlling my facial expressions and I have a staring problem. Not that I was laughing or making fun - that was NOT the kind of reaction I was having AT ALL. But sometimes I just stare and mimic other people’s faces without realizing it and I have no idea why. Or what I’m thinking is very clear by the look on my face and I can’t help it. “Grunt! grunt grunt grunt! GRUNT!” This was going to be disastrous.

But then it occurred to me: I know this noise. “grunt grunt” It is very familiar. This is going to drive me crazy! I asked Meg if she knew the noise, but she did not. “Grunt! grunt!” Every 5 minutes of endless grunting passed and I’d whisper in exasperation - “I know this! What is this noise!” “GRUNT!” It’s from a cartoon. Was it an animal on South Park? No. Was it something from the Simpsons? “GRUNT! grunt grunt!” no. Family Guy? no. Ugh! I can’t stand it! I need to remember! “Grunt! grunt grunt!” FINALLY! 30 minutes later. The lightbulb! “Grunt grunt grunt!” I say, a little too loudly “Oh my god. It’s BEAVIS AND BUTTHEAD!”…and the door to hell creaked open ever so slightly wider. Gasp! Did I just say that? Three women in my vicinity bored holes in my skull with their glaring eyeballs of disgust. Yeah I guess I said that. I instinctively put a hand to my mouth, closed my eyes and said quietly “I’m going right to hell.” I tried to recover by moving the hand down to my heart and saying loudly to Meg, who was dumbstruck and embarrassed for me, (and highly entertained I think) “But really, it’s just so sad! I mean, God bless! And that caregiver! Tsk! Oh!” Too late. Damage done. Satan is clearing a spot on the sofa for me now, right next to Beavis and Butthead (who make me homicidal, by the way. I HATE that show.)

Seriously, I am NOT making fun of this person in the wheelchair. At all. They showed more dignity than I did. I am making fun of myself for being an idiot who has a staring problem and can’t compose herself in a doctor’s waiting room for all of 30 minutes, and whose uncontrolled facial expressions and outbursts are going to get her beaten up one day.

But I will say this - as far as the people within my proximity are concerned - all they heard from me was “Oh my god. It’s Beavis and Butthead!” If they deduced what I was referring to - then (a) I was right and (b) they knew it and agreed. That had better be a big sofa, that’s all I’m sayin’.