Fortune Cookie Among Other Things

My wife had an endoscopy procedure done on her at the hospital, yesterday. Endoscopy procedure, you ask? You know. Tube down the throat with a camera or something that takes images of your throat and stomach. Her doctor wanted her to to have it done because he found blood in her stool. A colonoscopy (camera tube up the poop chute procedure) was done a few months ago and they found out she had a hemorrhoid that was bleeding. No cancer was found but they wanted to do the endoscopy later, anyway, to "be on the safe side". So, reluctantly, to "be on the safe side" I told her she might as well have that done, too though I felt the doctors were wanting to do something unnecessary for extra money or whatever. She didn't really want to have it done, either. We both felt the mystery of the bloody turd was found with the bloody 'roid. And really, if the doctor had just done a bit of poking around down there with just his finger, he could have found it on his own.

I recall, fondly, having a hemorrhoid checked out and my doctor said it looked like a little head of cauliflower sticking out of my asshole. I thought, how sweet. I've got "vegetable ass". My wife was in the examination room and she said it resembled a pink bud, just beginning to bloom. Good thing I was in one of my usual I-don't-give-a-shit moods. I chuckled to myself, with my ass hanging over the metal table, wishing I could cut a nice big fat fart on the both of them. I think they thought I was laughing because of their descriptions.

So they do the endoscopy and the doctor found she has a polyp in her stomach but it looks benign. Nothing cancerous or suspicious looking. Great news!

Four weeks from now, they want to discuss what, if anything, they want to do about that polyp. More medical bills. They're really racking up with my own health visits, procedures and medicines. You'll have to read my earlier posts if you want to know more about that.

After the endoscopy ends, with the whole thing lasting about 3 hours (waiting before the procedure, IV stuck in her arm, paperwork, tube down the throat and her coming out of it and so on), my wife is all doped up on Demerol and some other pain medication. We talk. An hour goes by. We leave, her hand in mine and proceed to our favorite Chinese restaurant. She had fasted close to fourteen or fifteen hours and was starved.

After downing four plates of food each (I know. I'm on a diet but I worked it off the next day. Promise.), the petite Chinese waitress comes over with the bill and a couple of fortune cookies. I eat them both. My wife hates them. The first one has a message that says something like "The sun rises in the morning sky like a hot air balloon". Is that supposed to be a fortune? The second paper from the other one reads:

Others appreciate your sensitivity

I know. It's funny because I'm a bastard. On the other side of the paper it reads:

Learn Chinese- Disease

Then, underneath that, it reads: (bing)

That's when I get up to take a monster shit. Pinching my cheeks together so hard you couldn't fit a credit card in my crack (at least not with that cauliflower in the way), I wobble my way to the restroom. Their toilet is cold, the room is cold and the seat is always wobbly. It's most likely that way because too many four and five plate eating bastards have been plopping their giant redneck white asses on it and causing it to become unhinged from the toilet. Just a guess.

After we get home, we plop into bed, with bellies straining to digest the multitudes of those dumpling things, sushi, peanut butter chicken and god knows what else.

Was that a happy ending or what? Wasn't it worth getting this far down? And haven't we all learned a great deal from this tale?

Sorry If I've Caused Concern -Part 3

As mentioned before, I felt guilty for not being able to get up to mom and dad's place in time. I felt I let mom die.

This and missing Mom for her unconditional love and advice started my depression. Sure, I was told by friends, co-workers and family that it wasn't my fault. But there were a few who gave no response. Which I didn't know how to take. Most of the time, I felt they were judging me. Either that or I thought they were androids from some unknown galaxy. Anyway, I felt responsible no matter how much logic was thrown at me.

So while my depression was literally killing me in health and spirit, my time on my last few jobs was pure hell for one and all. On more than a few occasions, in the middle of putting together a brake part, I would either cry or have a fit with myself. I would even talk and answer myself. What fun! It's always so nice when you have a bunch of people you know (and semi-respect) give you that look of dismay and extreme confusion. In the old days, when friends would give me that look, I would treasure it like a badge of honor. But a little over two years ago, those days had been long gone. This is what I found out.... in hard and unusual ways. I was not fit to work anywhere.

And my next two jobs, after that brake assembly job, made that judgement call all the more true.

I would throw things, yell at people, break stuff and create some type of verbal chaos now and then that would result in being reprimanded in some way. Never before had I acted so irrationally on the job. Now.... I would have a confrontation with a person or two, in the past, if I thought they were doing something wrong, but this shit was something different.

I remember pushing over twenty, ten foot high stacks of plastic crates over a catwalk type area and causing most everyone in the warehouse to shit their pants, at once. No one died, if that's what you're wondering. Twenty plus years of working hard in the retail business and warehouses and now I was having a fucking meltdown. Sing ta BuhJesus and halley-yoooo-ya!

Now here's another element to the story you should know: I have two and a half inch heel spurs in both of my goddamn feet. They have been causing me tremendous pain for most of my life. And yes, I have used every kind of cushion, foam or whatever footware contraption to help with the pain. The podiatrist I have been seeing, off and on since my early twenties, said they were the biggest he had ever seen. He still says that. I saw the x-rays. They look and feel like curved railroad spikes. The podiatrist has said both verbally and in health records that they cannot be removed due to the fact the spurs have grown so large, they have connected completely to the bones in my feet.

Little medical lesson:

Spurs are formed at the at heel by way of calcium deposits travelling down your leg. Your brain is responsible for sending a message to your feet (by way of sending these little bits of bony crap) as an attempt to somehow "protect" your damaged heel area. Unfortunately, your brain fails miserably in this scenario.

Note: I also have neuropathy of the feet. Look it up if you're curious. I'm also 80% deaf in one year and have astigmatism in both eyes. And don't forget the high blood pressure. Eight pills, two insulin shots and still counting. Have I mentioned the depression?

I'm 46, in case you're wondering.

Life is grand. Sarcasm. Yes, I know I could have it much worse but when you put everything altogether, it does make an impressive list.

But I'm not done yet.

I also have a condition called "equinus foot". Click the link if you're interested in knowing more about that. The short version is... It's a deformity of the feet. Because of my "equinus foot" condition, my heel spurs formed. When I walked or stood, I was growing spurs and suffering from them as they developed over the years. I was told long ago by my podiatrist that if he were to operate and remove my heel spurs, they would eventually grow back in a couple of years. This is why I didn't have the procedure done. Too costly and ineffective.

While my working years ached onward, my condition worsened. I was often asked by people I knew, co-workers and people I didn't know, why I wasn't trying to get social security disability. I had told them I wasn't going to try that because (1) I didn't think I would get it. And (2) I had too much pride to accept it. In my mind, you were a lazy, cheating piece of shit if you got it and you were still able to move.

But now I understand the truth.

Cutting to the chase of the story, I had become convinced that I should try to get social security benefits. It took 3 attempts, a judge on a monitor from an out-of-state web cam, an asshole for a lawyer and lots of legwork (from me) but I finally won the case after a year and eight months.

As for my physical health, I am exorcising on a Nu-Step bike/rowboat thing at the Community Center. I do 35 minutes of that, putting in close to two miles. They have an excellent compilation of exercise equipment. I also take walks, stopping occasionally, behind my apartment at a city park.

I am fighting.

I don't feel as guilty about things I've done in the past, either. In fact, I feel very non-guilty about anything I do or say anymore. I never felt like that in the past. This feeling may be a very bad thing for everyone involved. We'll see. Or, I'll see. See. Told you I was crazy.

The best piece of wisdom I had ever gotten from a psychiatrist was just recently:

To fight.

Don't wonder or care how you're going to get through it. Just fight. He told me he could tell I was a fighter by three different signs. The first was: I was there, in the room, talking to him, seeking help. Two, he had me perform a test that seemed incredibly simple the first few seconds. My psychiatrist gave me five pieces of folded cardboard. Then he told me to rip them in half. It was a thick and bulky block but I thought it was going to be easy. I must have tried ripping the shit apart for five or more minutes. I was gritting my teeth. Cursing. And so on.

Then I asked him if I could unfold each piece and rip each individual piece of cardboard apart. He said, "And that's the other reason you are a fighter. You would do anything to accomplish anything you wanted. You tried brute force. That didn't work. You went at your objective at every angle. No luck. You even tried to cheat, in a manner, to reach your goal. Your passion, no matter how deep you bury it, is still there. You do not stop."

And then I knew what he meant. It hit me. Lightning bolt. Boom.

It really isn't the end result you should concentrate on. It isn't the horrible hurdles you have to go through. It's the fighting to get up in the morning and live is what matters.

There was a third sign but it had to do with a personal story of his own. Unfortunately, I could hardly understand it due to his thick foreign accent but he already had me at the second sign. Heh heh.

And now I've changed again in my life, still with some bad thoughts, but not like before. I'm still negative about this world's populace and I'm still crazy, maybe even more so, but now my depression has lessened and I'm working on getting healthier. So there you go.

Tree Man- Before And After

When I first heard the story about the "Tree Man", the Indonesian fisherman suffering from human papillomavirus, HPV, a rare immune deficiency, I was interested in learning more.

For 20 years, Dede Koswara lived and struggled with something you think you would only see in a horror flick. Covered with huge tree-like growths encasing his limbs, Dede was unable to feed himself, work and move about like a normal human being. The only income he had was made during his brief stint in a travelling freak show. Unable to touch his children and support them, Dede's life has been a life of constant struggle.

Luckily, there are doctors that are trying save this man from a life of pain and disfigurement. Dede has just underwent his 9th surgery.

Details about his condition, his two decades of hardship associated with the disease and the major operations that were performed to give this man his life back are detailed in the following links and video clips.

Tree Man on Discovery Channel

The Story of Dede

Tree Man's Ninth Surgery










Be sure to check it all out and be sure to be thankful you don't have to live with tree branches growing from your arms, legs and feet.

Got Too Much Crap Beating Down On Top Of Me

(warning: This post contains more depressing topics than humorous ones. So please.... enjoy my hell!)



This is what's going on with me that's making me especially crazy these past few months:



* I've been having problems with my patience and my depression concerning my father's newly diagnosed vascular dementia. It falls on my sister and I to take care of him, of course, since our mother died 3 years ago. It's hard to watch him fade like this. He was, and still is, at times, strong of spirit and able to make perfect sense of things. He was always stubbornly independent and had a good sense of humor. These days, many of those traits might not be seen in him. Hard to watch. It's been a struggle getting Dad to do things, too. There's more to all of this, but that's all I'm going to say.



* Had to see a new head shrink for my depression disorder. You ever hear of BumFuck, Egypt. No? Well, ya see, it means a place that's horribly easy to get lost in, forever, while you curse like a pirate, lop off a head and shit down somebody's neck. That's where my psychiatrist has his business set up. And he's the closest one I could nab that my insurance would cover. Before this, I was able to see a therapist, only two miles away. There's more to all of this, but that's all I'm going to say. See a pattern?



* I've had my type 2 diabetes under decent control for the past 15 years. I only had to take one capsule of Metformin, each day, during that entire time. Then, as my depression ( which I have- due to several things) deepened, I let my health go to complete hell. If I lost my feet, hands or life I didn't care. I ate what I wanted, basically. My blood sugar count has been skyrocketing in the last 6 months.



Here's what I got out of that type of attitude, that I still partially have, even now:



I'm pissing every hour or so like a drunk in an ocean of beer.



My brain is sluggish because diabetes causes your blood to have the viscous quality of molasses. Duuuuuuuuuuuh.



The rare cuts and bruises I get (no, not from the wife) don't heal quickly. I've had the same light scratches on my leg from a month ago.



And I have all the energy of a slug on acid.



And so much more.



So the doctor has me on insulin now. What absolute joy to have to inject a needle in your thigh or your belly, forever. Such merry thoughts are pip-popping into mind. You must realize I'm dancing right now, singing and wishing that I stroke out, fall to the floor and flounder like the big goddam fish that I goddam am. Yayhoo and Kiss My Hairy White Ass. Girls only, though. They-are-so-lucky.



Which brings me to this:



* I've got a fat chunky hemorrhoid sticking out of my ass. Have you ever tried to push a granite like turd out of your ass and feel your asshole rip out? Well, I've done that. And now, every time I wipe, I scream. Whenever I sit, I scream. It hurts trying find your anus with the cream or the hard white capsule that's shaped with points at the ends. Why can't an angel suddenly appear and gently rub a dollop of "heavenly whipped cream" or something in my crack every minute or so? Tinkerbell comes to mind.


Yeah, I know. She's not an angel. But I bet her hands are nice and soft.

Needles and Shock

Know what's fun?

Yes? No? Maybe?

I can tell you what is not fun. And it happened to me earlier this week in a doctor's office. But first, I need to give you a bit of background story.

You see, since October, I've had this pain in both of my arms. I wouldn't describe it as a sharp pain. More like a dull ache that runs from my elbows to my forearms. The pain increases when I lift something or when I straighten my arms. You're most likely thinking the same thing I thought for awhile. Tennis elbow. And that's what my orthopedist said at first. He gave me some anti-inflammatory/pain medication and a set of instructions which explained how to do these arm exercises that would help heal my arms.

Neither worked. For several months, I used the medication, tried the exercises and put heating pads and cold packs on my arms. All of which offered small comfort.

So I go back to the orthopedist. He tells me I may have damaged nerves in my arms that may be the problem. He tells me that I need to see a certain neurologist. I tell him that's fine. I just want to get this resolved. I have enough health problems as it is with my diabetes, high blood pressure, heel spurs, chronic sinusitis and- well, let's put it this way- I need a new body. If anybody out there knows where I can pick one up, drop me a line.

Earlier this week, my wife and I went to Dr. Biddiqui's (not his real name) office for the appointment, regarding my arms. Biddiqui is a neurologist, around fifty years old and Indian, in descent. The only reason I mention he is Indian is because of his heavy accent. He's hard to understand. Granted, I'm deaf in one ear (another body part I need replacing) but his accent was so damn thick, even my wife could hardly understand him. And my wife can hear an ant fart.

After signing in, the nurse soon calls out my name and we're taken back to the patient waiting room. While we sit in the room, waiting for the doctor, the nurse comes in. She asks why I'm there. I tell her it's for an examination for my arms. The nurse glances down at her clipboard, then gives me a puzzled look. She asks, "You mean you don't know that you are here for an EMG and a NVC?" I inquired, "A what and a what?" Obviously annoyed, she hurriedly explains what the abbreviations stand for. When she tells me, it still doesn't help. But since I've been suffering with this situation for far too long, I agree to do go on with the show. The nurse tells me to take off my shirt and lay down on the table.

The fun begins when Dr. Biddiqui enters the room, mumbles something incomprehensible and slowly strokes my arms and my hands. If I were someplace else, I'd think he was trying to put some moves on me. Then I'd punch him in the mouth. Anyway, noticing I haven't understood a word he's said, he repeats his question a couple more times. With my wife's assistance, I finally understand that he is asking if I can feel it when he touches me in this area or another. So I go on to tell him, in regards to the parts of my arms and hands he is touching, what I feel.

Then he tells me to relax as he brings over the testing machinery. I can discern that electricity will be involved in this examination. When he places the electrodes on my arms and hands, my sphincter tightens. He says, "You will relax now." I close my eyes. A lightning bolt suddenly hits at one point in my arm. I give a little yelp. With a racing heart, I shout, "Wow!" He nods his head, studying his analysis monitor on the side. "It will be okay", he mutters, "Just relax." More shocks to my arm continue. Zap. Zap. Zap. Zap. At least nine or ten electrocutions are generously zapped along my arm and hand, one at a time. I arch my back and shudder with each zap, letting out an "Uhhhhnnn" noise. Of course, each time, the good doctor advises me to relax while I, at different moments, wonder if I've shit my pants a tiny bit.

After pulling the electrodes off my arm and hand, Dr. Biddiqui says, "Now we're done with the shocking." A sense of relief washes over me. The neurologist instructs me to lay on my side towards the wall. "Lie still," he orders. I waited for what was to come in gleeful anticipation. Yeah, right. A few anguish-free moments pass. Then, one at a time, he pushes needles directly into the muscles of my arm. With each poke and push, he turns to study the graph and spikes on his monitor. I let out a squeal each time he pushes down on the needles. By this time, my wife looks around the corner to get a better angle of the show. At least, that what she told me later. Personally, I think she might have been covering her eyes with her hands the whole time.

Dr. Biddiqui asked how I was doing at one point. I answered, "Good times." Then I thought I had better rephrase that. I stated, "I'm doing alright." I didn't want him to believe I was enjoying myself. He might have tried ramming a letter opener into my eye.

When both procedures were over, I almost fell off the table while getting down. Most likely due to the exhaustion and pain experienced from the hour long examination. Thankfully, my wife was there to drive my sorry ass home. Before leaving, I asked the doctor what he found out. He told me he couldn't tell me. Biddiqui said he had to send the report of his findings to my orthopedic doctor because he was the one who ordered the procedures. He continued to explain that the orthopedic doctor would go over the results with me. I would have argued with this logic but I was too tired and sore. I just wanted to go home, go to bed and not dream of being a human pin cushion.

Click http://millercenter.uchicago.edu/learnaboutpn/evaluation/neuroexam/index.shtmlf for a brief summary of the diagnostic tests (torture) I endured.

7 Lesser Known Loons From Past and Present (5th Edition)

REINALDO SILVESTRE "BUTCHER OF SOUTH BEACH" IS A LOON OF THE PRESENT. HE'S BEEN PUT IN THE SLAMMER FOR SLICING, DICING AND GIVING A MAN BREASTS. READ ON FOR FURTHER "TITILLATION". SORRY.

Reinaldo Silvestre and two accomplices would use an animal tranquilizer before engaging in bungled operations, including the one performed on a bodybuilder. A video tape was brought to the police, showcasing the surgery done on Mr. Mexico of 1975. Mr. Mexico came to Silvestre for pectoral implants to revive his career. Instead, he got a whole lot of pain and a hefty set of man boobies.

See pics above for the end result of the bodybuilder's operation.

Capt. Charles Press said about the videotape ".... it was obscene. I've been a police officer for almost 25 years, and I was repulsed. He was in obvious pain."

On the videotape, you can see Silvestre using an instrument resembling a spatula during the operation. It also shows the butchering bastard shoving implants into the man's chest with his fingers.

It's hard to imagine what the bodybuilder, Alexander Baez, went through during that. If it were me, I would have opted to do a bit of butchering on Reinaldo to return the favor. But hey, that's me.

During his practice at Ocean Health Center in Miami Beach , Reinaldo had the chance to ruin many people's lives. Another one of his victims is Jeanette Bernal.

Jeannette Bernal said she went to Silvestre for breast enlargements and he left her disfigured after operating on her five times. She said her boyfriend left her as a result. ''I trusted him, and he deformed my breasts,'' she told The Herald in 1999.

Silvestre pleaded guilty to disfiguring two of his victims in return for a reduced sentence of 7½ years in prison. He'll be on probation for the next 30 years. Silvestre is pictured at the bottom of this post.

This is a case of not enough justice being served. This worthless sadist is having civil suits brought up against him by his victims and their families. I hope they get or have already gotten every penny from him.