They Called Me 'SOB'!

i was miffed until i learned it meant 'shortness of breath'

I’m coming to you tonight from Room 211, Berkshire Medical Center. I had hoped to go to my nearby Dollar General, but there were no beds.

Remember I told you I have IPF? For the last few weeks, my ability to breathe was getting worse, and in addition, I was constantly falling asleep. I also had very little appetite. But other than not eating, not sleeping (or rather, sleeping randomly), and not breathing, I was doing OK.

Eventually, all these things caught up with me. When my oxygen level was measured in the mid-50s (the Eisenhower era) at a recent GP office visit, the doctor sent me directly to the E.R. (I neither collected $200, nor passed go, though I almost passed out).

The EMTs came in with a stretcher and wheeled me out to an ambulance. I felt so ‘looked-after’.

After a rather dull and eventless 7 hours in the E.R., doctors declared there was ‘something wrong’. This is why they make the big bucks. And so I was admitted. Eventually I was taken to my second floor room on another wheeled bed.. Once there, lots of great amenities were available, including a TV with 15 channels (!), none of them watchable, a bed that went up and down (only if one desired), and a table which was impossible to adjust to a usable height.

my arrival at the E.R.

Soon I was undergoing a series of tests. Luckily, no essay questions. They took much of my blood (refusing to give it back), and made 4 holes in my arms, only one of which was functional. Apparently even my veins are below par.

I was given a gown to wear. Now, normally I don’t like formal wear, but if I deem it appropriate to don a gown, I usually prefer something classic, not too ‘showy’. This gown was not one I’d pick. It’s a dull blue with black triangles printed on it. It ties in the back, revealing much of my past, and is fairly uncomfortable.

They allow me to order meals from a menu, which is pretty cool. Some of the food is decent, and some is indecent. By the time I leave, I’ll have tried most of the offerings. The best thing I’ve had so far is the apple pie. The worst was the home fries. How can you botch home fries?

I wish I could report how much better I’m feeling, but alas I’m still dropping off to sleep every few hours, I’m not able to go to the bathroom without being hooked up to a super-oxygen tank, and my rheumatoid arthritis is occasionally making it difficult to, how should I put this, urinally evacuate . Y’see, I’m not supposed to do any heavy lifting.

Meanwhile, the big question is why this is all happening. I had a bout with Epstein-Barr (can’t help but think of Jeff and Roseanne) last summer, with similar symptoms, though not as severe. Chances are that’s what’s happening again. Problem is, it takes a week to get the test results for E-B, so I won’t know until next Wednesday. But they tell me the results of all the other tests are negative, which is positive.

Jeffrey, not Juan

They say I’ll be able to go home Monday, which is 3 days away. I hear that I’m terribly missed back there, mostly by Carmella, my sweet, somewhat senile cat. My other cat, Zola, has no idea I’m not there. He’s busy wreaking havoc and is probably glad I’m not there to stop him. My wife is running back and forth from home to the hospital, which is very touching, though I don’t want her to worry. I don’t want anyone to worry. I’m not worried. I’m too tired to worry.

I just felt I should let you know what’s happening to me, and why I haven’t written a new blog in a while. In lieu of flowers, please send large checks.