When I think of carnival sideshows, I think of the strong man. The humongous man who can single-handedly hold an enormous weight atop his index finger. I've never actually seen a man like this but I know someone who for a couple weeks a few months ago tried very hard to be this character.
Back in April, I was working from home when my husband approached me saying he was not feeling well. I could not say he looked his best so I asked him what he was feeling. He said that he felt a sharp stabbing pain on the right hand side of his stomach. Having had a very similar pain many years ago and based on his description, I began to diagnose. I asked him if the pain radiated towards his back and he said it didn't. He decided to take a nap and a number of hours later, upon awaking, he said he felt better. I wish I could have concurred that he looked better. If seeing a ghost is supposed to make you look blanched, then my husband looked as though he saw a whole family of ghosts.
As the day progressed, he was sweating profusely. I decided to check for a fever and he did have one albeit not too strong. I happened to mention to my husband something a doctor once said to be (in a very similar situations as his), that a sharp pain and a fever are two things you shouldn't take lightly. Despite my saying this to my husband, he went to bed and woke the next day claiming he felt better.
Looking at his face told me otherwise. His stomach also inflated as if he were a few months pregnant. I checked his temperature and it had gone away. His face had taken on a different hue. There were shadows of a mustard appearing in his coloring. That same night, he had a fever again but not as high as the previous night.
I decided not to nag anymore. He was, the last time I checked, an adult and knew his body better than anyone else. I made a couple of threats like "if you get hurt, I'm going to hurt you!" I always found those to be very effective with my parents.
As the days went by, the descriptions of his pain perplexed me. I looked up ever symptom he reported and it completely befuddled me. Finally, he decided to go to the doctor. The doctor was equally perplexed by his symptoms and even more by his blood work results.
After 10 days (yes, ten days!) he went to the emergency room because he just couldn't handle the pain or nagging yucky feeling any longer. The doctor sent him directly to the emergency room. After some time, we discovered that my husband's appendix had ruptured that very first day when he mentioned having a sharp pain. For 10 (yes, ten days!) days his innards were accumulating all the pus and fantastical floating things that one collects around their inner organs when one's appendix breaks. He had to have a small catheter placed into his side to drain all the material that had gathered. It took as many days to drain his stomach area.
Due to the infection that had occurred in his stomach, the doctors couldn't operate to remove the appendix. They had to allow his insides to heal a bit. This past Friday, he finally had his appendix removed and he is recovering.
My husband is not a small man. He's 6'2" and weighs over 200 pounds. He could easily hold a heavy weight in his hands but a circus strong man he is not. His mind might be stubborn enough to refuse to see a doctor but it's not strong enough to bear almost 2 weeks of pain. Most people can't really tolerate much pain but to literally not listen to your gut can only get you so far. If he'd only listened to his wife, he would have gotten attention a lot sooner too.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Beauty School Drop-out?
Maybe it's a higher calling? Maybe it's a hidden talent about which I am not entirely on-board? Somehow against my better judgement and amidst great protest, I have become the family hairstylist. (I really feel like I must have written this in an earlier entry but I can't seem to find it.)
When my dad was alive, he'd often come over to my apartment and ask if I had time to give him a haircut. Not entirely sure why he needed me to do it. All it took was my shaving his head with an electric razor. I was confident he could have done it himself. In fact for a long time he did go to the barber but when his barber retired, he accosted me.
In the early stages of this request, it really annoyed me to have to cut his hair. Can't recall why it annoyed me so since it took maybe 10 minutes of my time probably 4 times a year. Perhaps I was still having a teen angst moment in my early 30s. Over the years I grew to enjoy this little tradition because my dad would make comments that I thought were very cute. As I shaved his head, he would say that he was getting sheared like a sheep. Occasionally he would even bleat as though trying to avoid the yearly (although for him it was a quarterly) woolen collection. As his hair grew greyer and it tumbled off his shoulders, it really did look like wool tufts. He'd even say something like "If you collect it, you can knit a nice sweater!" Then he would make a silly grin that would make me want to hug him. But in my family, we didn't openly show our love or appreciation so I never hugged my dad.
Seeing how good of a job I was doing for my dad, my mom, being the epitome of cheapskate, asked if I would cut her hair. My dad used to do it for years but I guess she thought a woman would do a better job since my dad often left her hair lopsided. This tradition is not one I enjoy -- not even with the passing of time. My mom expects me to give her a wonderful hairstyle the likes of Vidal Sassoon. She seems to forget that my salon training came from the school of Super Babboon. Her thinking is that if I go to the salon and watch my hairstylist do his magic on my hair, I should be able to copy it. I have never been able to convince her that this is incredibly faulty logic.
On top of all of that my mom won't be quiet while I cut her hair. If she would just go to a real salon, she could have someone whose job it is to pretend to listen assist her. I don't really want to hear what she has to say because I've already heard it all a million times (and seriously, I'm not exaggerating with the million. My mom is more than a broken record. She a broken orchestra). Then she moves her head all over the place. She can't seem to understand that I need her to be still. When I end up snipping her ear because she moves last minute, she doesn't see that it's partly her fault. 'Pay Attention!' she gripes. To which I reply "Follow Directions!"
No matter what happens or which technique I use, my mom comes to me after washing her hair to point out that I've missed a spot or it's uneven. To which I respond, "Mom, if you wanted perfection, you could go to the salon. Considering that they are actually trained to cut hair. You come to me and I'm trained to read and interpret books and speak foreign languages"
Being the penny pincher that she is, she often approaches me to cut and color my sister's hair. I have refused this for a number of reasons. #1) I am not trained to cut hair or color it! #2) I think my sister could use a nice hairstyle which I am not qualified to give her #3) My sister could use some deep conditioning treatment to control that nest on her head that is often sprouting goslings.
Despite all of my protests, I have often had to cut my sister's unruly hair. I always apologize upfront that it won't look as good as a real hairstylist's work. My sister doesn't go because she doesn't want to have to explain the unnecessary forking over of dollar bills to my mom when I could easily do it for free. So because of my frugal family, I have to fuss around with a second job that I was elected to do.
When my dad was alive, he'd often come over to my apartment and ask if I had time to give him a haircut. Not entirely sure why he needed me to do it. All it took was my shaving his head with an electric razor. I was confident he could have done it himself. In fact for a long time he did go to the barber but when his barber retired, he accosted me.
In the early stages of this request, it really annoyed me to have to cut his hair. Can't recall why it annoyed me so since it took maybe 10 minutes of my time probably 4 times a year. Perhaps I was still having a teen angst moment in my early 30s. Over the years I grew to enjoy this little tradition because my dad would make comments that I thought were very cute. As I shaved his head, he would say that he was getting sheared like a sheep. Occasionally he would even bleat as though trying to avoid the yearly (although for him it was a quarterly) woolen collection. As his hair grew greyer and it tumbled off his shoulders, it really did look like wool tufts. He'd even say something like "If you collect it, you can knit a nice sweater!" Then he would make a silly grin that would make me want to hug him. But in my family, we didn't openly show our love or appreciation so I never hugged my dad.
Seeing how good of a job I was doing for my dad, my mom, being the epitome of cheapskate, asked if I would cut her hair. My dad used to do it for years but I guess she thought a woman would do a better job since my dad often left her hair lopsided. This tradition is not one I enjoy -- not even with the passing of time. My mom expects me to give her a wonderful hairstyle the likes of Vidal Sassoon. She seems to forget that my salon training came from the school of Super Babboon. Her thinking is that if I go to the salon and watch my hairstylist do his magic on my hair, I should be able to copy it. I have never been able to convince her that this is incredibly faulty logic.
On top of all of that my mom won't be quiet while I cut her hair. If she would just go to a real salon, she could have someone whose job it is to pretend to listen assist her. I don't really want to hear what she has to say because I've already heard it all a million times (and seriously, I'm not exaggerating with the million. My mom is more than a broken record. She a broken orchestra). Then she moves her head all over the place. She can't seem to understand that I need her to be still. When I end up snipping her ear because she moves last minute, she doesn't see that it's partly her fault. 'Pay Attention!' she gripes. To which I reply "Follow Directions!"
No matter what happens or which technique I use, my mom comes to me after washing her hair to point out that I've missed a spot or it's uneven. To which I respond, "Mom, if you wanted perfection, you could go to the salon. Considering that they are actually trained to cut hair. You come to me and I'm trained to read and interpret books and speak foreign languages"
Being the penny pincher that she is, she often approaches me to cut and color my sister's hair. I have refused this for a number of reasons. #1) I am not trained to cut hair or color it! #2) I think my sister could use a nice hairstyle which I am not qualified to give her #3) My sister could use some deep conditioning treatment to control that nest on her head that is often sprouting goslings.
Despite all of my protests, I have often had to cut my sister's unruly hair. I always apologize upfront that it won't look as good as a real hairstylist's work. My sister doesn't go because she doesn't want to have to explain the unnecessary forking over of dollar bills to my mom when I could easily do it for free. So because of my frugal family, I have to fuss around with a second job that I was elected to do.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Runaway Puppy
Most of the weekends during the summer are spent at my parent's home on Long Island. It is close to the beach and close to the outlets (a particularly great point for me). One of my dogs loves it because there is plenty of room to run around and explore and to also chase birds. The other, older dog doesn't care either way if we go or not. She has a bed and she spends most of the time sleeping at her age anyway. On occasion, she does take a walk around and likes to see what's going on and what we are doing.
A few weekends ago, I went out with my sister and daughter to go grocery shopping. We ran some other errands as well. When we came back to the house we found my husband pacing and searching around the front of the house. He looked very upset. I asked him what happened and he said that B (the little, old dog) had gone missing. Incredulous to the news that was reported to me, I asked "what do you mean?" He said that he was working on putting in the air conditioner and when he went to check on her, she was not in her normal spot. He told me that he looked all over the house and around the grounds but he wasn't able to find her.
I couldn't start my search because I had to give my daughter something to eat and let her have her nap. After she fell asleep, I had my sister keep watch of the premises while I went out to investigate. My husband went around the neighborhood with the car. As I looked around and couldn't find her, I began to worry. My dog is 15 years young and despite being peppy and small, she does not see or hear very well. Being the pessimist that I am, the worst possible scenarios popped into my head. I kept thinking I would find her crushed by a car or tossed on the side of a road after being hit.
When I couldn't find her, I went back home, tears streaming down my face. I began to prepare a flyer to post around the neighborhood and to give to neighbors. Luckily, my super calm and quick thinking sister had called the animal shelters and veterinarians in the area. She was informed that a dog matching my pooch's description was picked up. My husband had gone to get her but he had advised my sister not to tell me anything in case it was not B. My sister told me regardless because she knew how distraught I was.
But I was hopeful! Although of course, I still cried. Thinking of my life without my puppy was unimaginable. When he finally arrived at the shelter, he called to tell us "She's here and she's fine." I was super happy and the tears that I shed in sadness had turned to ones of joy.
When she arrived home, she walked to her bed as if nothing had happened. She looked at us staring at her as if we had lost our minds. My husband reported that when they asked for her description he gave it to them saying "She's white with black spots, has a couple of growths on her belly and tons of attitude!" The clerk said 'oh yeah, she's here alright!"
Luckily everything turned out well -- the crisis was averted. I am seriously considering getting lojack for her though. That's why they have all these chips and devices you can implant in your pets now-a-days for situations like mine, where you never think it will never happen, until it does.
A few weekends ago, I went out with my sister and daughter to go grocery shopping. We ran some other errands as well. When we came back to the house we found my husband pacing and searching around the front of the house. He looked very upset. I asked him what happened and he said that B (the little, old dog) had gone missing. Incredulous to the news that was reported to me, I asked "what do you mean?" He said that he was working on putting in the air conditioner and when he went to check on her, she was not in her normal spot. He told me that he looked all over the house and around the grounds but he wasn't able to find her.
I couldn't start my search because I had to give my daughter something to eat and let her have her nap. After she fell asleep, I had my sister keep watch of the premises while I went out to investigate. My husband went around the neighborhood with the car. As I looked around and couldn't find her, I began to worry. My dog is 15 years young and despite being peppy and small, she does not see or hear very well. Being the pessimist that I am, the worst possible scenarios popped into my head. I kept thinking I would find her crushed by a car or tossed on the side of a road after being hit.
When I couldn't find her, I went back home, tears streaming down my face. I began to prepare a flyer to post around the neighborhood and to give to neighbors. Luckily, my super calm and quick thinking sister had called the animal shelters and veterinarians in the area. She was informed that a dog matching my pooch's description was picked up. My husband had gone to get her but he had advised my sister not to tell me anything in case it was not B. My sister told me regardless because she knew how distraught I was.
But I was hopeful! Although of course, I still cried. Thinking of my life without my puppy was unimaginable. When he finally arrived at the shelter, he called to tell us "She's here and she's fine." I was super happy and the tears that I shed in sadness had turned to ones of joy.
When she arrived home, she walked to her bed as if nothing had happened. She looked at us staring at her as if we had lost our minds. My husband reported that when they asked for her description he gave it to them saying "She's white with black spots, has a couple of growths on her belly and tons of attitude!" The clerk said 'oh yeah, she's here alright!"
Luckily everything turned out well -- the crisis was averted. I am seriously considering getting lojack for her though. That's why they have all these chips and devices you can implant in your pets now-a-days for situations like mine, where you never think it will never happen, until it does.
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