The Obama Health Care Plan is comprised of two parts. The first part Obamacare was buried in the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009 (a.k.a. ARRA, a.k.a. the $787,000 million Stimulus Bill) which has already been signed into law by President B. Hussein Obama in February. The second part of Obamacare (H.R. 3200) is currently being debated in Congress and town halls across America. I’m sure you’ve all heard liberals who support H.R. 3200 say that there won’t be any rationing of health care or “death panels.” Even the President himself said, “Great Britain has a system of socialized medicine. Nobody is talking about doing that.” They’re fucking liars. Every one of them. As far as I can tell, rationing of health care will be done through a Council, equivalent to the National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence (NICE) of the British National Health Service. The name given to this panel is The Federal Coordinating Council For Comparative Effectiveness Research, or the “Council,” and has already been funded with $1,100 million (a big numbers way of saying $1.1 billion, with a ‘B’) from the Porkulus Bill. Here’s an official link introducing us to the grand gaggle of douchebags that make up the Death Panel, err, I mean the “Council.” It’s these motherfuckers that will use some super-secret government “formula of approval or rejection of treatment for patients based upon the cost per treatment divided by the number of years the patient will benefit from the treatment.” There’s far too much bullshit to cover here in my blog. I’d look like this typing pages and pages and pages and pages.

Is there any wonder why people are starting to oppose Obamacare in droves? When Americans started reading then opposing this polished turd, they started confronting the politicians at their town hall meetings, if they didn’t cowardly cancel their town hall meetings for fear of opposition. The Bill contains provisions that the sick, elderly, and disabled members of society could face the prospect of government bureaucrats determining whether they deserve health care. Of course, this brought old people out of Country Buffet and into the town halls. Suddenly, dissenters were being called all sorts of horrible things by the very people they elected! Stench trench of the House, Nancy Pelosi referred to honest, hard-working Americans who, in her eyes, are “drowning out opposing views” of Obamacare as “simply un-American,” “astroturf,” and said they were bringing swastikas into town hall meetings. Hey Nancy, I think demonstrating against issues we don’t agree with to be very American, indeed! It’s our First Amendment right to freedom of speech, so shut the fuck up!

Even in my own home state, Democrat Representative Brian Baird said the opposing behaviors of town hall members “was reminiscent of the kinds of things that drove Timothy McVeigh to bomb the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City…” Holy fuckballs! Really? I personally oppose Barry‘s health care reform plans. Does that make me a mass-murdering truck bomber? I don’t think so. When did it become un-American to stand up and oppose something you feel is wrong? Why does the pro-health care reform camp feel the need to call you names just because you don’t agree with them?

Back in November, just after the messiah won the election, I wrote in my blog that “many feel we’ve turned a corner on racism in the country by electing Obama, [but] I have a sinking feeling that we’ve begun a new chapter that will only widen the rift.” Unfortunately, I was right. The liberal left Kool-Aid drinkers have taken to calling ANYONE — not just white Republicans — who dares oppose King Hussein, a “racist.” Somehow, calling Obamacare a socialist plan is code words for “racism.” Attending a Tea Party protest makes you a “functionally retarded adult,” a “teabagger,” and a “racist.” I got news for you, Jeanane Garofalo, you puss-infected regurgitated cum bubble, opposing Obama’s policies has nothing — absolutely NOTHING — to do with his skin color. I don’t give two juicy squirts of goat shit if he’s black, white, Latino, Asian, or fucking purple. I don’t like the idea of a government-run health plan, insurance reform, co-op, or whatever the hell they’re calling it this day. Laissez-faire, morbleu! Laissez-faire!!

I’ve even had first-hand experience with this far left propaganda bullshit. A friend of mine on Facebook (who I’ll call “Liz”) pasted some anti-H.R. 3200 material from someone’s blog on her wall and pleaded that politicians read the bill before passing it. This lead to one of the people on her friends list to deride her for her opinions. I won’t use his real name; instead I’ll call him “Barney” (after a certain Massachusetts Representative, and the fact he really likes Fruity Pebbles, if you get my drift). “Barney” started by saying Liz “should turn off Fox News and read the entire document for [herself].” He said he was disappointed with her and remembered her being more independent.” What the hell?

I sarcastically fired back at this ass pirate in defense of “Liz,” saying she should stop watching FNC and start watching the socialist propaganda that the White House and NBC want us to believe. I made fun of the evil Glenn Beck and the un-American Fox News, and suggested that “Barney” read the bill himself. I told him to get off his elitist high-horse, stop looking down his nose at people with different points of view, and stop infringing upon “Liz’s” Constitutional right to watch and say whatever the hell she wants.

This is when the name calling started. “Barney’s” response was he had no problem with “Liz” expressing her opinion (which obviously he did), but didn’t want her “spewing the untruths that the racist-backwards-religious nutjob-rednecks of the country keep yealing,” [sic] then proceeded to say she didn’t seem too bright. Wow! Way to debate the issue, you ingrown sphincter hair! “Barney” continued by schooling me on my elitist comment, saying, “an elitist would want something only for themselves (healthcare for only a few), not everybody (universal and affordable coverage).” He obviously feels that the Goverment should just provide almost-free health care for all, and let our future generations pay the bill. Dickhead. “Barney” then insulted my intelligence level and told me to “go run a minority out of town before NASCAR comes on and leave the policies of the country to the adults.” Jesus, speaking of regurgitated cum bubbles. This guy’s a 55-gallon drum full of them! Suddenly I’m a racist for opposing Obamacare and defending “Liz’s” right to oppose the same? Unbelievable.

Again, I replied, being very cautious not to call him any names. However, I did call him a “typical member of the left cult, happily drinking [his] Obama fruit drink,” an indirect slam on his sexuality, which he was obviously too goddamn stupid (or drunk) to pick up on. I continued by telling him to watch and read news sources from both the liberal and conservative sides and form his own opinions based on truths, instead of insulting people. I proceeded to tell this puckering anus that his “paradigmatic views prove [him] to be the ignorant one,” then corrected his definition of “elitist” as belonging to a select or favored group. “Barney” tried to fight back, but couldn’t. Instead, he accused me of name-calling (which I didn’t), then said he’s never “seen a bigger group with more of a superiority complex than [Republicans].” Riiiight! It’s the Republicans that have the “we won get over it” attitude, trying to push two trillion (with a fucking ‘T’) dollars worth of government spending down America’s throat.

I replied by saying he doesn’t know me, and told his holiness that I’m an agnostic Independent that sided with the liberals for decades. His only response was he got whiplash from all my “spin,” I should say ‘Hi’ to Satan when I see him, I “strike [him] as the worst type of person than can exist,” and he has “more respect for child molesters than the likes of [me].” Right, I guess the pillow-biting dumb ass missed the irony of calling me the “worst type of person than can exist.” Whatever, you vaginal blood fart. You’re the one that respects child molesters, then call me the worst type of person? See “Barney,” that is spin. Pull the black cock out of your balloon knot and pay attention!

I could go on, but I don’t want to give “Barney the cocksucker” any more attention than I already have. And yes, I’m fully aware that I called “Barney” all kinds of disgusting names in the above paragraphs, but I wasn’t doing it during the debate like some childish grade schooler. I don’t care, and my disclaimer gives me the right to say whatever the fuck I want on my blog.

It is a sad period in our Country’s history that we cannot debate the issues without resorting to name-calling and labeling. The problem is people see the names or labels that get applied, and don’t judge for themselves based on truths. As Americans, we are not only given the right to freedom of speech, but we also have the right to question our government and the ideals of others. In fact it is our duty to question our government and voice our opposition, for if we don’t, we are nothing but sheep being lead to slaughter.

Let’s hope that the Democrats pull their collective heads out of the ass, and that a government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

We surveyed three so-called doctors and asked, “How many needles have you jammed into Jim’s arms in the month of June?” The top answer is on the board. Survey said… 15! Yes, fifteen fucking needles! Holy Mother of Chris Chambers, my arms look like I’ve been speedballing! Over the past month, I’ve been stuck for allergy blood tests, intravenous contrast, an arterial blood gas test, phlebotomies, and numerous CBCs. It’s a good goddamn thing I don’t have trypanophobia, huh? Seriously, look at the size of a 16-gauge needle compared to a US penny. It’s fucking huge! Funny thing, though, the nurses that stick me with that railroad spike of a needle are professionals. They leave a small scab and slight bruising that disappears within a week. The lab techs, however, are amateurs! They stick me with a tiny 22-gauge needle to draw blood for a CBC, yet blow my vein out frequently leaving a giant hematoma. Look at this cell phone photo! Jesus, I look like a domestic violence victim!

Last time I told you that I had an abdominal ultrasound to check the size of my liver and spleen. Luckily I didn’t have hepatosplenomegaly, but we were no closer to finding the cause of the polycythemia vera my hematologist believes I may have. So, I was referred to a pulmonologist who put me through several uncomfortable tests.

The first was an Echocardiogram. Just like the abdominal ultrasound of my liver and spleen, the cardiac sonographer slathered me with conductive goo and jammed the transducer into my ribs and chest. I like it rough, baby! After the first pass, he injected me with two milliliters of a microbubble contrast called Definity. Did you know it only takes about four seconds for blood to completely circulate your body? I didn’t. Anyway, I guess the frequency of the sound waves bursts the microbubbles after a while, so he pushed another 2 mL to finish the job. Of course, it wasn’t until a few weeks later that I read Definity can kill. Awesome! Can you imagine being killed by bubbles which are smaller than red blood cells? We are such frail, gentle snowflakes. According to the pulmonologist, my heart is okay. Finally! Now I can have bacon on my Ultimate Cheeseburger!

Next on the “Let’s See How Much We Can Bilk From His Insurance” list of procedures was a couple of Pulmonary Function Tests; spirometric tests and a body plethysmograph. The spirometric tests measure a bunch of shit my lungs should be doing; like how much I blow, how fast I blow, how much I suck, and other headache inducing functions. For the plethysmograph, I was locked in a sealed glass booth that reminded me of the Grab-O-Lux that killed Kenny, and tried to suck air through a mouthpiece. Here’s a shitty cell phone picture of the booth. The purpose of this was to measure the volume within my lungs using Boyle's Law to determine if I have any disease or airway restrictions in my lungs. What did these tests prove? I have asthma! DUH!

Then I had an appointment for a polysomnogram, a fancy word for “sleeping in a strange bed with wires on my head as some creepy voyeuristic weirdo watches me with infrared cameras.” Here’s a frightening photo of me wired up for my session of peeping tomfoolery. The sleep study was ordered to determine if sleep apnea might be causing any breathing issues. I don’t think I have sleep apnea, but what the fuck do I know? I feel like I get restorative sleep at night, I don’t have daytime sleepiness, and Tina says I don’t stop breathing at night (she ought to know, she has insomnia and watches/listens to me sleep). I thought for sure I would never be able to sleep with all that gadgetry soldered to my cranuim. But four hours sleep the night before coupled with no caffeine for two days put me out like a… draining battery. Result of the sleep study? Doc says I have a slight touch of sleep apnea. Yeah, right.

After a follow-up with the pulmonologist, I was scheduled for a chest CT. This wasn’t going to be fun. A chest CT is equivalent to 58 chest X-rays. Holy shitballs! I was sure I was going to have gills, or a third nipple by the time I got home. Anyway, I had to drive to Everett for the CT scan. My paperwork said to show up 15 minutes early and expect the procedure to last an hour. My scheduled appointment time came and went, I had already stood in a hallway 15 minutes waiting to check-in while some casino indian fuckstain frustrated the admissions woman, who was obviously new. Finally, “Chief Sits With Hemorrhoids” was done, and I was able to check in. I wasn’t seated for a minute, before they called my name, and instantly my sphincter slammed shut like the blast doors at NORAD. They led me into a room where the CT scanner was and told me to lay down on “couch,” face down. Uh, excuse me? The couch? It was a skinny little table. I was somewhat surprised they didn’t make me empty my pockets, take off my shoes, or rub my belly and pat my head before laying down on the “couch.” They quickly told me to listen to the breathing queues, and began the scan, like they were late to a lunch date. What the hell? The couch lifted my fat ass up and positioned me in front of the opening. Then the couch moved me into the opening, then somewhat quickly moved me in and out, like I was a huge dildo being thrust into a giant radioactive minge. When the actual scan was taking place, the couch moved me in a few inches at a time, pausing to take a series of image slices as the X-ray tubes rotated around me. After two scans, they had me turn over face up on the couch and proceeded to irradiate me again. Bring on the freak tail! After the scan, they bum rushed me out the door and I was walking to my truck. Jesus! Did I step in shit and reek to high hell? The scan took less time than I spent waiting for Chief Takes Too Long. On the way home, I stopped and picked up a liter of Sprite, because I had a phlebotomy in Coupeville in just a couple hours. Here’s a cool picture of the unit of blood they drained from me.

That’s all I got for now. Sorry it took so long for an update, but y’all can eat me if I seem to be taking too long. Take it easy my gentle snowflakes, and hopefully I’ll have something more to post about before the end of July.

Finally, it was time. I hopped in the shower and spent a little more time than usual getting ready. No quick armpits, asshole, crotch, and teeth shower for this date. Once I was dressed, I gathered my keys, wallet, and cell phone, and jumped in my truck. I was to meet her at 1:15pm, and there was no way I was going to be late. It was 8 miles to town, and afternoon traffic on the two-lane highway that led to her office was heavier than I thought it should be for a cloudy afternoon on central Whidbey Island. I found a parking space on the far side of the small lot. I was hoping that the the grouping of trees and bushes nearby would hide me from the road so no one would recognize my truck. When I entered the building, the receptionist told me she was expecting me, and she’d be right out. I took a seat and started paging through a magazine that had a picture of a hot blonde woman on the cover.

After a twenty minute wait, I finally saw her. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, and maybe she had ten or twenty pounds too many. But who am I judge? I needed this, and I sensed she was more than willing to oblige. She called me by name and motioned for me to follow her. She led me through a set of double doors and down a hallway to her office. She stopped at the doorway and I walked past her. She closed the door quietly, dimmed the lights down real low, and told me to sit on the table. It was fairly dark in her office, and I wondered what was going to happen next. It was all so exciting yet somewhat unsettling. She told me take off my shirt, and I eagerly obeyed. The office had a slight chill, and I could feel the air conditioning on my bare shoulders. I watched as she walked into a brightly lit room off her office. She was only gone for a minute. When she returned I could only see her silhouette in the doorway, but she appeared to be carrying a cord, or maybe a whip. Her sandy blonde hair glowed like a halo around her head. She stepped next to the table I was sitting on, and told me to lie back. Again, I obeyed her wishes. As I tried in vain to prop my head up on my balled-up shirt, she applied lube to my stomach. The lube was not quite cold, but warmed up as she started to spread it around. All I could think was, “Don’t fart. “Don’t fart. No boners. No farts.“

Okay, both hands on your keyboard, you perverts! If you haven’t figured out I was at a doctor’s office, you don’t know me very well. Actually, I was at the hospital. The “affair” was actually a sonographer doing an ultrasound on my abdomen, and her “office” was the exam room. If you recall, I had my doctor draw blood for a cholesterol test in late March. That test showed my cholesterol level was fantastic, but showed my red blood cell count was elevated. Another CBC in early April showed the same thing, so my regular doctor referred me to a hematologist at Whidbey General Hospital in Coupeville.

My first visit with the hematologist was Tuesday. She’s a nice FOB asian lady, but has determined that I have polycythemia vera. I’m not so sure PV is the correct diagnosis… yet. To find the cause, she ordered even more blood tests on Tuesday, and an ultrasound and phlebotomy for Thursday.

I walked over to the Lab where a dykey-looking woman sat me down to tap another vein in my arm. I noticed the lanyard that held her hospital credentials had the Pittsburgh Stealers logo on it and listed their Super Bowl “wins.” I jokingly looked out the door over my shoulder and asked, “can I get a Seahawks fan to draw my blood, please?” She laughed, but I don’t think she thought my joke was funny. She stuck that needle in my vein, and she wasn’t too gentle about it. When she had the SIX Vacutainer tubes of my blood that the doctor ordered, the needle was extracted with a great deal of pain. It felt like she had rubber band around my arm, pulled it as far as she could, and let it go! The was so much pain that I instinctively jerked my arm away from her. I told her that really hurt, and she gave me some excuse of a self-retracting needle that leaves the vein “at warp speed.” Her words, “warp speed.” The next day, the crook of my left arm was all black and blue. Warp speed my ass, you goddamn Steeler-loving Trekkie cunt.

I left the hospital right after that, but had to return in two days for the ultrasound and phlebotomy. I was told to fast for the ultrasound, but they scheduled the phlebotomy first. When the phlebotomist asked how much I had to drink that day, she was shocked that I had nothing. I told her I was under orders to not eat or drink for 10 hours before my appointment. She called the imaging department to see if they could squeeze me in earlier than my appointment, and they could. So off I went to my “date” with the sonographer. The ultrasound was needed to check the size of my liver and spleen to determine if I have hepatosplenomegaly. Say that quickly five times!

When I returned to the clinic — with an umbilicus of conductive gel — the nurses started throwing all kinds of fluids at me. They gave me a tuna sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and had me wash it all down with four 7-ounce cups of water, two 10-ounce bottles of apple juice, and one 8-ounce can of lemon-lime soda. For those with weak math skills, I drank 56 ounces of fluids — eight ounces away from a half gallon — in about 15 minutes. Satisfied that all those fluids made my veins plump, the phlebotomist went to work.

She used a blood pressure cuff as a tourniquet and found a good vein in my left arm. She snapped some kind of alcohol swab that reminded me of a glow stick. She bent the swab breaking a small vial of fluid which seeped through the swab as she rubbed it all around the injection site. It’s supposed to sterilize and anesthetize. After that, she sprayed the site with a liquid that was very cold. This was also to deaden the the area so the gigantic needle doesn’t hurt as much going in. All the prep to lessen the pain was bullshit. A 16 gauge needle hurts no matter what you do. It’s a 1.65 millimeter steel spike being jammed into a vein, people! Call me a pussy, but it hurts! I’m okay with small needles, but ones that quite literally resemble 2d nails are a sonofabitch!

The hard part was done. The lumber fastener was securely in my median cubital vein and taped to my arm. However, my hemagravy wasn’t cooperating and the flow stopped almost as soon as it started. The nurse gently moved the needle around a little, trying to get the blood to flow again, but it was a no-go. So, it was time to start over. The nurse got a new bag and needle, and proceeded to stab me in the cephalic vein in my right arm. Yep, matching holes, one in each arm. After about 15 minutes the bag, which holds a unit of blood, was full. A unit of blood is about 450 milliliters. If you’ve ever had a Rockstar or Monster energy drink, imagine the can filled with blood. Drink up, queer!

The nurses made me sit for about 20 minutes before I could leave. They wanted to make sure I didn’t face plant in the parking lot and sue their asses off. I finally left the clinic and drove home. Having a unit of whole blood drained out of you really zaps your energy. Not that I’m energetic in the first place, but sitting here early Saturday morning and typing this blog entry is about all I can muster.

So, I get to find out what all the blood tests and the ultrasound say on May 19, when I go back for a follow-up appointment. Guaranteed they’ll take more blood. I’m hoping they don’t want to take it out in units! I have more holes in my arm than a heroin addict, and I’m more than a little tired of needles.

Wafwot’s Note: As usual, I either didn’t have the time (or energy) to finish this entry when I started it on May 9… so it got published on May 31. I’ll try harder next time. I see a pulmonologist in Everett on June 1, 2009… so I should have some shit to say about that. Stay tuned.

They asked us to fast the night before, and I did. By 9:30 the next morning, I was in our conference room, surrounded by women in latex gloves. While that might sound like something you’d pay someone in Belltown an extra fifty bucks for, these women were armed with pipettes, lancets, SpongeBob SquarePants band-aids, and apple slices.

First it was blood pressue. What is it with blood pressure? Everywhere you go, someone wants to know your blood pressure. The doctor’s office, the dentist’s office, the drug store, Wal-Mart. It’s only a matter of time before we’re ordering quad Venti skinny whip caramel Macchiatos with our arms shoved in a sphygamajigometer cuff. Whatever. As usual, my pressure was 138 over 86. In the United States of Expensive Health Care, my blood pressure is in the prehypertension range. In the United Kingdom of Fucked Up Teeth, my pressure is in the normal range. Maybe if I wasn’t so amped up over some mystical cholesterol numbers that will more than likely change my life as I know it, my blood pressure wouldn’t be 138 over 86. It’s always high when I’m surrounded by people in white lab coats. My wrist-mounted, battery-powered, ninety dollar blood pressure sphydoohickeymeter machine says I’m normal… and that’s US normal, not UK normal.

I got up from one chair and sat in another, next to a phlebotomist in latex gloves. She swabbed my finger and stuck me with a lancet. As expected, blood oozed from the hole in my finger, however, not enough to fill the pipette. She felt pretty bad that she had to prick my finger once more. And again, my blood started to clot and denied the pipette. One of the other women got a bowl of warm water. My desk is under a ventilation duct, and my fingers were a little cold. As I was doing my Madge imitation, a more experienced phlebotomist decided to try her luck with my stingy sausage fingers. She had me hang my hand at my side and really pressed that lancet against my finger in order to get a deeper hole. This time, enough blood flowed for the test. They kicked me free with three holes in my fingers, as I refused to put cartoon band-aids on my fingers. Who am I, Corky Thatcher? I didn’t get to wait for the results; everyone’s results were to be revealed, privately, at a cholesterol seminar on April 8.

As I was enjoying my apple slices, saltine crackers, and glass of water, one of the Blood Girls (who has a really nice ass) came back to my desk and informed me their machine spit out my sample as unreadable, and asked if I’d be willing to subject myself again. This time, they pricked my thumb, and just as with the third attempt, the fourth provided enough blood for the test. I wasn’t leaving the room this time until I knew the machine liked the taste of my blood. While we waited, I sweet talked the women into giving me my results right away. It was more like guilted them, after four holes and enough DNA in the sharps container to keep William Petersen happy for a week. But, it wasn’t to be. Again, their fancy cholesterol and glucose sniffing machine spit out my alien blood like a four year old spitting out asparagus spears. They offered suggestions for the failure, telling me that fouled hematocrit levels, iron deficiency, or lack of oxygenated red blood cells could cause the machine fits. Fucking excellent. Now I’m like my old Mustang… in need of an oil change, or some such shit. I don’t need this worry.

I asked them if we could try again, after everyone else had gone. This time, I took a walk down the hallway and back before the test to get my asthma-riddled lungs sucking on some oxygen. I sat down and they poked a fifth hole in yet another finger. This time, blood flowed easily, and the pipette filled quickly. With my blood dispensed onto the cassette, we waited another five minutes only to find the machine still thought I was alien… or dead.

Since I was at work, I had Tina call my regular doctor and make an appointment for some blood work. My Dad was diabetic and died of ESRD and/or MG, my paternal grandmother was anemic when I was a youngun, and I haven’t have had any blood work done since I started seeing this doctor about two years ago. I now know I’m flagged in my doctor’s computer as “near death” or “hypochondriac,” because they scheduled me for the very next day. My bosses don’t like giving time off without warning, but begrudgingly granted it. Hey, it was YOUR idea for this fucking wellness hoopla. I’d rather plant my ass in front of a computer while eating cheesesteaks than have some blood-thirsty medical student shove a spike in my arm.

The next day, LDriver and I left work at one o’clock so I could get home and take another shower before going to the doctor. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like going someplace that might require me to disrobe after spending nearly five hours (2+ in each direction) in leather seats. I’d rather go to the doctor knowing that the note-taking in his laptop was merely symptom entry, and not “he smells like swamp ass and foot funk.” I can’t have that.

I arrived promptly at 3:58, and checked in with reception. The place was packed for a Friday afternoon, but I only had to wait a couple minutes before they called my name. As soon as I jumped up on the exam table, a temperature probe was shoved under my my tongue, and a goddamn sphyhoochamabobometer cuff was strapped to my arm. Again with the fucking blood pressure! When the doctor came in, he asked what he was seeing me for. I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of what you just read above. After a few more questions about my genealogy, I was off to see the phlebotomist. He wrapped a tourniquet around my upper arm, jabbed a hypodermic into my vein, and filled 3 vacuum tubes. The lab sheet said they were performing a CBC, a lipid panel, and a CHEM-7. I paid my $20 co-pay, as my doctor said he’d call me Monday with the results… and to yell at me some more. Sweet.

Monday morning, they called the house, and it went to voicemail. I played voicemail tag with their office for 30 hours, literally, before I finally got to talk to the PA. I was barreling up I-5 at 79 miles an hour at the time, too, and didn’t have anything to write with. She told me my cholesterol was 104, which is great, but my red blood cell count appeared high. She informed me the doctor wanted to do more blood tests to find out why. When asked where I like to get my blood drawn, I told her my arm is acceptable. She laughed, but I don’t think she realized I was kidding. I got the feeling she hears that joke a lot, or other people answer in that manner out of stupidity. I told her having their office draw the blood is fine, and an appointment was made. Of course, I had to cancel that appointment after some bullshit at work would have had me and LDriver driving down in separate vehicles… The new appointment is Tuesday.

One hundred and four? I used my phone to look up what the cholesterol ranges are. Wikipedia indicates that the optimal cholesterol range is 100 to 129… and I’m 104? Whoo hoo! My blood isn’t mostly bacon grease. Wow. My diet consists almost entirely of butter sticks and hamburger fat, washed down with cooking oil. Ya got to love genetics! Since the PA didn’t say my glucose was high, I’m guessing my blood isn’t mostly HFCS, either! I guess I’ll find out why the red blood cell count is so high sometime next week. Doing some cursory homework, it’s probably due to chronic lack of oxygen. This asthma crap kicks my ass during the winter months. LDriver says I should move to Arizona. I would if I could find a job down there… or even had the time to look for one.

I wasn’t feeling much better by Tuesday night, but waited until it was time to wake up and get ready for work. I was still coughing, my fever was better but still over 101°, and my head was turning out more snot than a school bus full of crying 5-year olds. I felt miserable. So, out went a couple more text messages saying I wasn’t making it to work… again.

I stayed in bed, covered to my neck in blanket with a roll of Charmin (ran out of Kleenex) and DayQuil within arms length, watching TV all day. After The Price is Right and news, television is teh suck during the day. Luckily my TiVo had recorded I Am Legend earlier in the month, so I watched that. Wasn’t impressed. I tried getting some sleep, but could only string together about 60 minutes worth before ol’ rattly would cause a coughing fit and throw out a slimy wad of lung butter. This went on for the rest of the day and night Wednesday.

Even though I was coughing to beat the band, I was feeling better. The fever was down to 98.9° (after being over 100° for more than 48 hours), and my nose was no longer teeming quarts of liquid snot. So, I thought I’d give going to work on Thursday morning a go.

Our normal carpool vehicle needs rear bearings, so I picked up LDriver in my newly-maintained, newly-braked F-150 and we headed to work. I was still coughing, but wasn’t feeling too bad. I spent the day at work eating Halls cough drops like they were M&Ms and answering all the “how are you feeling” questions. My manager asked if I’ve been to the doctor, to which I said no. He said go. I said okay, and Tina got me an appointment for the very next morning. In fact, the appointment was in less than 24 hours if you can believe that. They either had a cancellation, or I’m flagged as “near death” in their computers. Sweet.

In the doctor’s exam room, he couldn’t even get a good listen to my lungs. Every time he said “deep breath,” I’d start to cough. I’d be funny if it weren’t so true. Influenza and asthma don’t mix well, so when my lungs start filling up with Satan's semen, walking and breathing, taking deep breaths, even sleeping, take on a whole new complexity.

Doc said I have acute bronchitis. Yay, again? I’m still getting over all this happiness as I type this. He put me on Prednisone and Azithromycin to kill Fry's worms, and changed one of my inhalers when I told him the Qvar doesn’t seem to be preventing asthma attacks. He has me on Advair now. In fact, the picture above of that Ortho Tri-cyclen-looking diskus on steroids is my Advair inhaler, and is sucks! It’s a dry powder that makes my mouth feel like I licked a chalk board. I’ve done about 8 or nine hits off that nasty dust disk, but it seems like it’s helping a bit. We’ll see how it does after a month.

Sometime around the time several terrorist camel jockeys decided to land their hijacked airliners in buildings, I bought a 19-inch ViewSonic CRT. The price was $300, but 19 inches of glass was cheaper than 15 inches of LCD. ViewSonic makes great monitors, and my new 2001 CRT was awesome. Over time, however, that monitor started getting dodgy. By late 2008, early 2009, the focus was so poor, it was like trying to read the screen through a thick fog… or semen smears. And the contrast was crappy, too. It was time for a new monitor. Of course, I didn’t want just one. I needed two. I’ve been using two monitors at work for years, and it’s such a time saver. Although, ever since they upgraded my system at The Company, I haven’t been able to get my dual monitor setup to work properly. I can get the big desktop across the two LCD panels, and the mouse tracks in all of the 2540×1024 pixels, but the one monitor plugged into the analog connector bounces an “Out of Range” message, which is generated by the monitor, similar to the “No Signal” message when it’s not connected to the computer. Yay for run-on sentences!

Anyway, enough about work’s monitors. I spent many weeks looking over all the monitors and reviews at newegg.com. Did my homework on the type of panel, whether I wanted widescreen or standard, HDMI, 1080p, DVI, VGA, USB, E-I-E-I-O. It was tiring. I eventually settled on two Acer H213H 21.5″ widescreen LCD panels that had a lot of positive reviews, and were voted for a Customer Choice Award.

After three days of waiting, a guy in brown shorts plopped my new babies on the front step, like a stork from the Teamsters. It was just before lunch, and I was on my telecommute day, so I quickly set my jabber client to away at lunch, and disconnected the old 19″ ViewSonic CRT, and an even older 17″ CRT. I opened each new LCD monitor, and removed an assload of protective plastic from them, then plugged them in… and nothing. WTF, “No signal?” Great. I sat for 5 minutes thinking about it, getting a little frustrated. Then it dawned on me. Duh, X windows! A three finger salute to Ctrl-Alt-Backspace, and xorg was reloading. Of course, my xorg.conf didn’t jibe with the new monitors and xorg wanted to reconfigure. That worked, kinda. At least I had ONE monitor working so I could manually run some commands. And, after about 90 minutes of trial and error, I finally got both 21.5″ widescreens working as one big desktop of 3840×1080.

I can watch a DVD on one panel in 1080p high definition, while working on the other monitor! There’s so much screen real estate, I honestly can’t fill it all. It’s totally balls! I spent the weekend playing with wallpapers, and making one that would work and look well across both monitors. Tina said I needed boobs, one on each screen. Those would be some big boobs. Not that I’m opposed to big boobs in my face all day! LDriver said I should have a desktop of some chick with a leg on each screen… and that was a pretty good idea. An hour search of some porn forums turned up a nice picture that would work out well. Of course, I didn’t want the small gap and the monitor frames between the two screen to make the chick look… “wide,” so I trimmed out a 100-or-so-pixel gutter down the middle and stitched the two halves together. Then, believe it or not, shrunk the width down to 3840 and cropped to a perfect 1080 height. A screenshot doesn’t do it justice, so here’s a photo of my two new monitors with their new wallpaper. Of course, the two screens are so wide, I couldn’t get them fully in the shot, but you get the idea. For those of you reading this at work, or some other semi-public location, the image is SFW, but barely. Enjoy!

Fuck the “Stealers.” That’s all I have to say about that. But I’ll write about another topic that’s near and dear to my past later in February… I promise.

On Thursday, July 3, I was supposed to work from home, but didn’t. I went to the doctor about my knee then spend the rest of the day with ice and heat on it. More on that later. On Friday, I drove around and took some pictures with a friend’s camera. It’s been a long time since I used a quality SLR camera, and I was having a blast… even though I knew I would pay for it later (again, more on that later).

The camera was a Nikon D80 digital single lens reflex camera, and it works exactly like the Old Time SLRs I used to used back in the Before Time, but better. Total control of the aperture and shutter equals full manual mode. A reflex mirror and real viewfinder! OMG, what fun! I could take long exposures with a small aperture for a greater depth of field which means everything is in focus. Nothing like the point and shoot cameras you can get at the Wal-Marche, with their tiny useless flashes and shitty LCD displays.

After a rude filter-shopping encounter with an old shrew (read: shriveled cunt) at the Oak Harbor Ritz Camera, I decided to download a PDF of the Nikon’s owners manual. I started playing with the settings, and put it in black and white mode with a red filter effect. This would allow me to take black and white photos where reds were lighter and the blues darker — like Ansel Adams photographs. For my first attempt with a borrowed camera, I don’t think the pictures turned out too bad. Take a look at the gallery.

When I got home from shooting black and white, it was dinner time. After dinner, I re-adjusted the camera back to color images with no filtering in order to take pictures of the town’s fireworks display.

Speaking of fireworks, my neighbors are complete fucking retards. They were having a barbecue, and had about 700 people jammed in their house. I may be two or three people off on that estimate, but let’s say there were a lot of people next door. Christ, one of their waterhead kids had a fanned mohawk haircut. Really, a mohawk? Mr. T from the 1980s called; he says he pities your drunk ass for shaving your kid’s head that way! Be a parent and tell the kid no at least once before he grows up into a total cocksucker!

Anyway, including the two front yards and gravel driveway, the door-to-door distance between the front of my house and the front of one of my neighbors is about seventy feet. The gravel driveway is slightly wider than three cars widths. Think of a one way street with cars on both sides, the remaining space is about a car width and a half. There’s basically the width of a car left in the driveway, and the vehicles parks along the edges of the yards are newer, no more than 5 year old cars. So what do my retarded fucking neighbors do? Before the sun goes down, they drag a hunk of plywood into the middle of the driveway and light off Class B fucking fireworks! The so-called “safe and sane” fireworks you buy at the stands in town weren’t good enough for these fuckstains. No. They had to have the biggest, loudest fireworks available at the Swinomish indian reservation. For those of you not familiar with the area, those are casino indians, not Slurpee indians.

I knew, just fucking knew, that my new truck was being showered in burning embers of black powder, and I couldn’t have that. At 8:45pm — with the sun still shining — I grabbed the camera and my tripod, and I peeled out of the driveway, which was the best white boy show of disgust I could muster. I drove up to Barrington Drive west of the Wal-Marche, where it was an all-out block party.

The streets were lines with cars, and people had set up lawn chairs on any semi-level plot of land they could find. One group of people even had a bonfire going, which I thought was highly illegal. The police had better things to do, I guess… seatbelt quotas must be low. People had their dogs with them, kids were screaming and running around with sparklers, moms were snapping pictures with cell phones (!), and dads were showing off their testicular size with fire and explosives. God Bless America, dammit!

I found a grassy knoll and set up the tripod — hanging my backpack o’ socket wrench set from the stabilizing weight hook — and placed the camera atop it. It was still quite bright outside, but at least I was ready for the show… albeit more than an hour early. When the show finally started around 10:15pm, I started taking pictures with the remote trigger. The pictures, most at 6 second exposers, turned out better than I thought they would. Check ‘em out in the gallery.

It was 11:00pm when I got home, and my jackass neighbors were still huddled about their plywood pyrotechnic platform swilling beer. They acted like Geordi LaForge from the Star Trek TNG episode “Identity Crisis” in all the foot-candles my fog and headlights threw at them. Drunk fuckers. Tina had turned on the floodlights out front in hopes they would give up, but no such luck. They continued to light off fireworks until 12:30am, when I finally got fed up and told them to knock it off. Washington state law was on my side after midnight; next step would have been to call the sheriff. Luckily they went inside to sleep off their stupor.

I mentioned my knee. I have no idea what the fuck is going on with my right knee, but I know it hurts. The amount of time I spend at my desk and the long 200-mile round trip commute from hell has often left my leg stiff and sore. But after a few steps and an hour or so of being straightened, things were basically back to normal.

However, in early June it really started to bug me. I got up from my desk to go home, and could barely walk. I couldn’t put any weight on my right knee. I finally stretched it out and was able to hobble to the car to get home. Once home, I slapped a heating pad on my knee and gobbled Tylenol like they were potato chips for the pain. Nothing helped… until I made an appointment to see my doctor. Days before I was supposed to go in, I was walking around like I was Michael Johnson, only whiter… and slower… and fatter… and breathing a whole lot more. I was upright, at least!

I canceled my doctor’s appointment, and when my knee got that confirmation, it started hurting again. Getting old sucks a fat one, so I made another appointment and finally saw the doc on the 3rd. He twisted my foot, pulled my leg, and pressed down on my knee cap while telling me to tighten thigh muscles. When he was done, my knee hurt more than it did going in, but he said that was good. He said that there’s probably no physical damage, that the cartilage is bruised, and my knee is “pissed off at me.” He used those words, “pissed off at me.” The official problem is Patello-femoral Pain Syndrome (but I think it’s more like Retropatellar Pain Syndrome). They’re both very similar.

The doc showed my a cool model of the knee, and explained my thigh muscles (quadriceps) aren’t pulling my knee cap (patella) evenly through the groove (trochlear groove) of my thigh bone (femur) when I walk or straighten my leg. It’s that uneven pull that is causing my knee cap to inflame my knee. He sent me home with instructions to exercise my quads, and take 400mg of Advil and 1000mg of Tylenol — at the same time — for pain and anti-inflamation. That’s not working. It’s been more than 10 days since I saw the doc, and I’m still in the same amount of pain I was when I saw him. The next time I see him, he’ll probably stab me with a large needle full of cortisone… or send me somewhere for an MRI. Fucking excellent.

Well, that’s all for now. I’ll keep ya up to date on my knee, ’cause I know how everyone loves other peoples’ pain. You bastards.

Before I go any further, don’t get the wrong idea. I don't get my ass slammed, I never have had my ass slammed, and I hate “professional wrestling.” I just used the name for the cultural reference. If I had said Olympic gold medalist Rulon Gardner, would you have understood the reference? Yeah, I didn’t think so either… hence the lowbrow direction I took.

Anyhow… instead of waiting until this annual virus wrapped it’s cold black hands completely around my lungs and squeezes nearly every bit of oxygen from me then going to the ER, I went to see a doctor. Alright, I was cajoled and badgered into seeing a doctor. It seems the fuckers at The Company don’t really care about me, they just don’t want to do my job for five or more days while I’m convalescing in the hospital. How touching.

I went to the doctor last week, and he did the standard weight, height, temperature, blood pressure, ears, nose, throat thing like all doctors do… then asked what’s wrong. “Duuh, I’m sick.” I told him that the first cold of the season hits me like a Rosie O’Donnell fell on my head from the Skydeck of the Sears Tower. He broke out his stethoscope and asked me to take several deep breaths as he listened to my back. Is it me, or do they keep those things in liquid nitrogen before they’re needed? Jesus fuck, that thing’s as cold as a brass toilet seat in the Yukon!

Sure enough, my lungs were crackling like a California wildfire, and a pot-smoking Iron Maiden headbanger with an ’82 Volkswagen Rabbit that fell of its jack onto his chest could inhale more air than I could. Goddamn. What a long way to go for a joke that wasn’t that funny. My writing skills are rusty.

So, the doctor fired up the nebulizer and gave me a healthy dose of the same old medicine I’m used to — Albuterol. After hittin’ that mist for five or so minutes, I was breathing much better. I was as jittery as a meth-addicted chihuahua after a quadruple-shot latté, but I could breathe. Again the icy cold stethoscope was on my back and I was being asked to take deep breaths. The doctor said I sounded much better, then told me the news…

He says I have asthma.

Asthma. Can you believe that shit? I’ve been going to that ER in Coupeville for five years, and they only ever treated the symptoms. Never once did they even think I might have asthma. I questioned it. I asked the doc why I only had problems in the winter. He told me that asthma can be triggered by cold weather, or the common cold. Color me astonished! When I questioned why the ER never diagnosed asthma, he said that by the time I went to the ER, the symptoms of influenza were bad enough and there was enough lung butter (not his words) in my chest that a correct diagnosis was nearly impossible. Maybe I should have made those follow-up appointments with my doctor after the ER visits, huh?

I was sent home with a prescription for ProAir HFA (Albuterol sulfate, a picture of which is seen above), instructions to keep treating my cold with over-the-counter medications, and an appointment for chest x-rays at the hospital. Two days later, I went and had my close-up with the x-ray tech. I was in and out within an hour, but had to wait all weekend long for the results. I got a call from the doctor’s office the following week; he said my lungs were “normal.” Whatever normal is, the doc didn’t see anything to be concerned about.

After nearly two weeks, I feel much better. I still get as winded as West Virginia coal miner running the New York City Marathon, but… that might have something to do with my fat ass. I’ll find out more at my followup appointment on November 15.

Previously on Battlestar Galactica, I wrote about The Company moving into a smaller office space at the Active Voice because the Westin landlords needed more space for the evil telcos. Well, I’m here to show you some pictures of my little (and I do mean little) workspace in Seattle… here, here, and here. That’s it. A nice step down from my office in the Westin, eh? I’ve even caught myself peering around the cubicle walls a couple times. Will the similarities ever end?.

Over the “walls” are techs that answer calls, laugh, talk, eat, fart, tap pens, ad nauseam. Behind me at my “seven o’clock” is LDriver and his “I don’t need no stinkin’ headphones” overly loud LiveLeak videos (thankfully not all the time since he’s too fucking busy). Phones ringing all around me… I’m constantly checking to see if my phone is ringing. It’s like I’m watching a tennis game or something — back and forth — monitor to phone, monitor to phone, monitor to phone. I swear it gives me a headache! It’s a good thing I have my Sennheisers to keep out all the noise.

Okay. That’s enough for now. Happy Halloween. More to come in November.

At least he asked politely.

I should apologize for being so lazy and not updating my blog for more than 2 weeks. I do have a good goddamned excuse though. I was busy dying of pneumonia. Once again, I contracted “the pneumonia” and it landed me in the hospital. I couldn’t fully breathe, I was coughing more than a Volkswagen Rabbit burning ARCO gas, and was running a temperature that was a degree or two below the surface temperature of Venus. The picture here is of my digital thermometer two tenths lower than my highest temperature of 103.1°F (39.5°C).

I went to the ER of Whidbey General Hospital, where they took my temperature, blood pressure, hooked me up to oxygen, connected me to a heart monitor, and drew what seemed to be a gallon of blood for testing. After the sixth vial of blood, I joked with the vampire tech, “If you take any more, I might need a donut and a glass of juice.” He didn’t think that was funny at all. He didn’t even crack a smile. What a great bedside manner.

After a bunch of waiting, and waiting, and waiting, an X-ray technician named Vu came to take me to the X-ray department. He wheeled my hospital bed down the hallways like he was driving his rice burner down I-5. If I had hair, it would have been a blowin’ in the breeze. They have a new digital X-ray machine at WGH, so after a two quick snapshots of my lungs, Vu pushed my bed back to the ER like he was in the M*A*S*H Olympics. (Remember that episode?)

Six days later, or what seemed like six days later, Nurse Dave came in with two pills and a needle. The pills were 500mg each of Zithromax, and the needle was a pint of pudding. Okay, maybe it wasn’t pudding, but Nurse Dave jabbed that thing in my right arm and injected some thick-ass antibiotic into the muscle. That needle was in my arm for a long time. When I got home later that night, I was bruised to hell around the injection site, and it felt like a there was a golf ball under the skin. Fuck!

The doctor finally came back in and said he was going to send me home only because the hospital had no open beds. They sent me home with an oxygen tank. Yes, like some old cigar-smoking septuagenarian, they wanted me to tote around an oxygen tank with one of those nasal cannulas wrapped around my ears and stuck up my nose. Who am I, Mick Jagger? Pass the Geritol.

When I went into the ER, my O2 saturation was 84%. Pretty low. They put me on two liters per minute, and my sat level went up two percent to 86%. They pushed the rate to four liters per minute and it didn’t really help. So why would they send me home with a tank prescribed at two liters per minute? Maybe I’m a cynical fucker, but I think they just wanted to jack my final bill up. My insurance is good, but not that good. I took the tank home, but didn’t turn it on. I had the home medical supply company take it from the house as soon as they could. I need to get the phlegm off my lungs in order to get more oxygen and breathe easier. And they call themselves doctors…

I also took home a nebulizer, and a prescription for Zithromax and Albuterol. The nebulizer is basically an aquarium air pump on steroids. It pumps air into the inhaling apparatus which turns the liquid Albuterol medication into a vapor, which is inhaled… like some medication bong… which is not nearly as much fun as a real bong. The Albuterol gives me the jitters and makes me a little ill. The Zithromax was no fun either. I had to take another 1000mg the day after leaving the ER, and 500mg a day for 5 days after that… and it also made me feel a little sick and turned my poo a nice consistency of chocolate pudding.

I missed 7 full days of work, and did a lot of sleeping. I didn’t even look at my laptop during my convalescence. I’m feeling much better, but I still get short of breath just walking down the hall. It’s going to take a long time to heal completely…

Two thousand and four started out okay. Galaxynet had just finished building its new Internet Cafe, and celebrated by having an Open House with the local Chamber of Commerce. By the beginning of 2004, I had been working for Galaxynet for nearly 7 years. The addition of an Internet Cafe was a big deal. There were at least four new employees, and management “reorganized,” (for lack of a better word).

By the end of the first month of 2004, the year had turned to shit. On January 26, my Dad wound up in a Casa Grande, AZ hospital. In addition to End-Stage Renal Disease and dialysis every other day, he was diagnosed with Myasthenia Gravis (MG), a nuero-muscular nerve disorder. Things weren’t good. He was placed in a medically-induced coma, and air-lifted to Good Samaritan Medical Center in Phoenix in early February.

By February 7, I was on an airplane from Seattle heading to Phoenix to help take care of Dad’s house. I spent nearly two weeks in Arizona, paying Dad’s bills, talking with doctors and nurses, and driving the hour each way to visit Dad in the hospital. By the time I left Arizona, Dad was getting better and stronger. But he still had rehabilitation to go through. It was early April before he left the Hospital in Phoenix and got back to his home.

On leap day, Februay 29, 2004, my paternal grandmother passed away. I was really saddened by this news, but knew her health wasn’t the greatest. I had been talking to her while in Arizona with my Dad, and struggled with a decision to inform her that her remaining son was in the hospital. I eventually told her Dad was in the hospital, but only after I knew he was out of his medically-induced coma and would be okay. It’s my opinion the old girl just gave up. She lost her husband of 40 years in July 1979, her first son in January 1998, and I don’t think she wanted to survive her entire family. Telling my Dad that his mother passed away while he was in the hospital was probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do.

Back in Washington, work had become a hostile place to work. Management, in my opinion, was micro-managing the cafe part of the business. Since I was in charge of Technical Support, the front counter, and the public computers (in addition to my duties as Network Administrator), I was almost always in the cafe. The new cafe manager and the employees were really unhappy with the way things were being run from “upstairs.” By late April, the cafe manager had resigned, and “upstairs” had taken over managing the cafe. Everyone seemed to be butting heads, and in my opinion, that spelled the beginning of the end.

In mid-May, I didn’t see any way I could resolve the differences between management and myself, so I started weighing my options. My best friends worked for a competing ISP, and told me that I should appy for a position. I did, and was offered a position working in the Hosting department. I was asked to not burn any bridges… to be mature and leave Galaxynet on good terms. I agreed.

I spent about 3 days writing my letter of resignation. It was a very dificult process, but after sharing my rough drafts with Tina, my friends, and my Dad, I was assured it was a great letter. I submitted it to Thom on May 25, 2004.

Things were quite cold at Galaxynet for the remainder of the week. By Friday, May 28, my keys to Galaxynet were confiscated. This wasn’t a good sign. I had given my last day as June 5, but taking my keys away after 3 days just told me I was being shut out. I was told that the girls behind the cafe counter would have copies of the keys so I could get into my office. I found this to be untrue.

On Saturday, May 29, 2004, I went to Galaxynet with a friend to gather my personal belongings from the office. The office was locked. There was no key with the girls behind the cafe counter. So, I made a poor judgement call. I forcibly opened the door to my office, putting a small hole in the hollow door just above the knob. I was able to get my belongings, but when management found out I broke into my own office, they called the police. I was arrested and charged with Malicious Mischief in the Third Degree.

Through July and August, I appeared in court, defending my actions. Since it became their word against mine, and my attorney thought that a trial by Jury would be bad, I plead guilty on September 8, 2004. My sentence was 365 days in jail, with 365 days suspended, $5,000 fine, with $4,700 suspended, and $305 in restitution for damages to the door. But, since Galaxynet put a stop payment on my last paycheck, and sent a letter saying that my final paycheck would be adjusted to cover damages to the door, a hearing was set for 6 months from September 8 for restitution. So, I’m on unsupervised probation until September 8, 2005. If I stay out of trouble, the charges should be expunged… at least that’s what the Judge said.

By the end of July, Galaxynet couldn’t manage the Cafe and the ISP customers on their own, and sold the customer base to the company I started working for after I left Galaxynet. It was bittersweet. On one hand, I hated seeing Galaxynet fall apart. I worked for seven years with two different owners to keep Galaxynet alive in the face of emerging technology and competition. But on the other hand, their failure to keep the company a viable ISP without my skills only puncuated the fact it was my efforts that kept Galaxynet going.

During all the court appearance bullshit, my Dad suffered an exacerbation of his MG. By mid-August, he was back in the Casa Grande hospital. He wasn’t as critical as he was in February, but once he was stable enough to be transported, he was moved to a long-term care facility in Mesa, AZ. While the MG wasn’t as bad as it was in February, his health was going downhill. His vision was gone, only being able to see for 20 minutes or so in the morning, before being completely blind for the rest of the day.

There was no way I could go to Arizona this time. I didn’t have the money, nor could I take any vacation time from work. I had only started in early June, and hadn’t accumulated any vacation time. A couple of my Dad’s close friends really helped out, getting a power of attorney to handle my Dad’s finances and taking care of things for him while he’s in the hopital. Mary and Michelle are angels, and I appreciate all their help more than they know.

The rest of 2004 was fairly uneventful. I did have some car troubles in September, and got a used 1979 Ford LTD from a friend. That car also suffered some troubles after six weeks or so, so I had to figure out how to get my 1968 Mustang back on the road. It needs a tuneup, but the ‘Stang is working again.

The start of Autumn brings illness. Two years ago, I had bronchial pnuemonia that I never really got over. Eventhough I had antibiotics and an inhaler, each winter since I’ve been stricken with a respitory problem that causes me shortness of breath. This year is no different. I’ll be going back to a doctor again as soon as my new medical insurance kicks in at work, because I’m still dealing with this respitory problem.

As 2005 begins, my father is still in the hospital since August 2004. I really hope he gets stronger soon, but I afraid he’s not going to be able to return to his beloved house in the desert if he’s blind.

So, fuck you, 2004… and let’s hope 2005 is a far better year.