I'm going to dig down deep within my inner psyche or whatever you call that thing inside you. I'm going to do something that's very painful, yes, even difficult for me to do. I'm going to reveal a secret I've kept hidden for lo these many years.
My name is Steve C. and, well, um, you see, I have IBS. Whew! I've said it. I've practiced this in front of the mirror for years, but never actually got to the point of revealing this most hideously hidden aspect of my pathetic little life.
IBS is fascinating. No, really it is. Stick with me here. By the time I get through, you may wish you were an IBS sufferer yourself.
It's an amazing thing really. IBS, that is. I just repeated a pattern that, alas, I'm sure I'm doomed to repeat many more times in my life.
What am I rattling about? I'll tell you. I went to my favorite restaurant tonight. It's a restaurant that has been around for years, but recently has taken a definite gourmet turn. It's a bit pricey, but let me assure you, even with IBS, it's worth every penny.
Perhaps you've been, yourself. Or, at least, you've surely heard of this fine West End dining establishment - it's Golden Corral. I love it. I mean, think about it...a filet and a baked potato for ten bucks. How about 5 filets and 3 baked potatoes for ten bucks.
The only down side is that my meal at Golden Corral is always followed by my rushing home and...well, it is Golden Corral, you do the numbers (one and two).
What I don't understand about IBS is how it can have an immediate impact. How can I eat and run, so to speak? It's somewhat impressive.
Anyway, now that I'm out of the IBS closet, I think I'll start some sort of telethon to raise money for IBS sufferers. Or start some sort of movement to raise funds. If I can raise enough, we IBSers can have our next meeting at Golden Corral, and we'd better have it on a Wednesday - that's Mexican Fiesta Night!
I would appoint myself the poster boy for IBS, but I'm not sure I could sit still long enough to have my picture taken.
Can you reach deep into your heart and give a little something to help fight IBS? At least buy a can of air freshener.
Okay, my wife has just informed me that this column is disgusting. So, before she pulls the plug on the computer, let me push the "publish" button. If you're reading this, you'll know I won.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
My Heart-Racing Experience
I spent a night in the hospital this past weekend. I hesitate to mention this because I'm sure it will upset so many of you who are consumed with my well-being, but, I'd expect you to tell me if you were in the hospital. Just joking. I wouldn't really care. Anyway, I'm not telling you all this for sympathy...money, yes...sympathy, no.
It's just that I have a heart that enjoys racing at up to 192 beats a minute on occasion, so once in awhile I get to go to the hospital. And, contrary to what I always was told when I was a kid, they don't give you unlimited ice cream there. One thing I have learned is that if you go to ER and mention you're having heart problems, it's like getting the wheel chair express lane at Disneyworld.
There was this woman in front of me in the registration line. She was pretending to be in great pain. Her body was contorted so as to give the impression she was trying to kiss her calf. She was telling the hospital check-in gal that she was in too much pain to sit down or stand up or lie down. Personally, I'd have just shot her...I mean with a pain relief medication. What, do you think I'm that violent?
Anyway, she was forced to go contort herself in a chair and I stepped up to the desk. I merely said, I'm having heart problems and it's like a NASCAR pit crew coming to my rescue. If I ever break an arm, I'm going to the emergency room and tell them I'm having heart pains. Then when I get in the little room, I'll just casually mention, "Oh yeah, while you're at it, could you take a look at my arm. I seem to have hurt it while I was trying to tie my robe in the back."
I kinda got off subject here. What I was going to say was that Miss Contortionist gave me the dirtiest look as they briskly wheeled me back to the examining area. I politely gave her a little thumbs up...you know like champions do when they make a public appearance.
Although my overall stay was somewhat enjoyable (I like people fawning over me), there were some aspects of the visit that were not so cool. For instance, when they put me in the hospital bed, they said, "Now we're going to weight you." Yep, they have a hospital bed that doubles as a scale. That's a pretty crumby trick. I couldn't stand light like I do on a regular scale.
They also asked me all sorts of personal questions, including had I ever lost my mind. I'm not kidding. The doctor, a really nice guy, by the way, looked right at me and asked, "Have you ever lost your mind?"
"No," I replied, "but you must have lost yours to be asking questions like that." I mean really. If you have lost your mind, are you going to go around telling every doctor you see about it. He asked iabout my mind kinda casually. He probably thought I would be too preoccupied with my deteriorating heart to have time to think about the question. You know, it's like police interrogators do.
They start off simple..."How's the weather? What sort of work do you do? Are you married? Did you kill anyone last Saturday?"
Before you know it, you're admitting to it.
But, I was too clever. I looked that doctor right in the eye and told him, "No. I had never lost my mind." And, the neat part is...I think he bought it hook, line, and sinker.
They also asked me if I had any skin blemishes. I told them no more than the average guy in his mid-fifties. The nurse said to me...get this..."You look pretty good for a guy your age." Gee, thanks. I almost blushed.
Isn't that pretty much like telling someone, "I thought you'd be very, very ugly, but you're only very ugly"? At least that's the way I took it.
One more thing that I kind of took as an insult, although I will have to say it was delivered in a nice way...on the doctor's report he described me as a "well nourished man." At first I was feeling rather proud, then it dawned on me that what he was really saying was "Mr. Cook is a fat slob."
So, there you have it. As nice as the hospital was, I really just ended up paying thousands of dollars to be insulted, and, to add injury to insult, I didn't get any ice cream at all.
It's just that I have a heart that enjoys racing at up to 192 beats a minute on occasion, so once in awhile I get to go to the hospital. And, contrary to what I always was told when I was a kid, they don't give you unlimited ice cream there. One thing I have learned is that if you go to ER and mention you're having heart problems, it's like getting the wheel chair express lane at Disneyworld.
There was this woman in front of me in the registration line. She was pretending to be in great pain. Her body was contorted so as to give the impression she was trying to kiss her calf. She was telling the hospital check-in gal that she was in too much pain to sit down or stand up or lie down. Personally, I'd have just shot her...I mean with a pain relief medication. What, do you think I'm that violent?
Anyway, she was forced to go contort herself in a chair and I stepped up to the desk. I merely said, I'm having heart problems and it's like a NASCAR pit crew coming to my rescue. If I ever break an arm, I'm going to the emergency room and tell them I'm having heart pains. Then when I get in the little room, I'll just casually mention, "Oh yeah, while you're at it, could you take a look at my arm. I seem to have hurt it while I was trying to tie my robe in the back."
I kinda got off subject here. What I was going to say was that Miss Contortionist gave me the dirtiest look as they briskly wheeled me back to the examining area. I politely gave her a little thumbs up...you know like champions do when they make a public appearance.
Although my overall stay was somewhat enjoyable (I like people fawning over me), there were some aspects of the visit that were not so cool. For instance, when they put me in the hospital bed, they said, "Now we're going to weight you." Yep, they have a hospital bed that doubles as a scale. That's a pretty crumby trick. I couldn't stand light like I do on a regular scale.
They also asked me all sorts of personal questions, including had I ever lost my mind. I'm not kidding. The doctor, a really nice guy, by the way, looked right at me and asked, "Have you ever lost your mind?"
"No," I replied, "but you must have lost yours to be asking questions like that." I mean really. If you have lost your mind, are you going to go around telling every doctor you see about it. He asked iabout my mind kinda casually. He probably thought I would be too preoccupied with my deteriorating heart to have time to think about the question. You know, it's like police interrogators do.
They start off simple..."How's the weather? What sort of work do you do? Are you married? Did you kill anyone last Saturday?"
Before you know it, you're admitting to it.
But, I was too clever. I looked that doctor right in the eye and told him, "No. I had never lost my mind." And, the neat part is...I think he bought it hook, line, and sinker.
They also asked me if I had any skin blemishes. I told them no more than the average guy in his mid-fifties. The nurse said to me...get this..."You look pretty good for a guy your age." Gee, thanks. I almost blushed.
Isn't that pretty much like telling someone, "I thought you'd be very, very ugly, but you're only very ugly"? At least that's the way I took it.
One more thing that I kind of took as an insult, although I will have to say it was delivered in a nice way...on the doctor's report he described me as a "well nourished man." At first I was feeling rather proud, then it dawned on me that what he was really saying was "Mr. Cook is a fat slob."
So, there you have it. As nice as the hospital was, I really just ended up paying thousands of dollars to be insulted, and, to add injury to insult, I didn't get any ice cream at all.
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