Weekend in The Burgh

Despite the soul-crushing blow that the cancelled Penguins game caused, we sought to make the best of the remaining cards we held, so off we went to go spend the weekend in Pittsburgh.

Our trip was essentially stress and traffic-free. Pinky was actually able to keep herself to a single pee-break, at our designated pit stop in Breezewood, so we easily breezed into Pittsburgh by 2:00.  I had originally planned for us to wander around the city for a while, but I hadn't planned on it being windy and cold out, so we hunkered down in our room at the Doubletree for a while.  Because there wasn't much to look at out the window (see prior post) I was able to watch the end of the Penguins/Bruins hockey game, whose re-scheduling was at fault for bumping the Saturday night game we had to miss.

Not the most extravagant room, but cozy enough to sleep in.

About 3:00, we set out to find “Las Velas” at Market Square, to meet up with my buddies Cassie, and Mr. & Mrs. Carpetbagger.  It took us a little longer than anticipated, due to the devious nature of trying to navigate city streets that run every which way, we ended up arriving right on time none-the-less.  We were the first ones there, so any time I get someplace before Cassie does, I consider it a win.

Naturally, Cassie arrived during the two minutes where I had nipped off to the bathroom, so Pinky had to flag her down.  Luckily, I’ve probably shown Pinky about a jillion pictures of Cassie and her kids from Facebook, so she recognized her right off.  I’m not sure what Cassie made of entering the restaurant and encountering a wildly gesticulating redhead.

The Carpetbaggers joined us shortly, so we all spent a very happy couple of hours enjoying some exquisite Mexican food and some quality conversation and fellowship.

Well, since there were three girls and the two “fellows” were outnumbered, maybe I should call it “ladyship.”  Regardless, I was happy to be able to prove that Pinky is, in fact, a real live person, and not a figment of my imagination.

After the meal, and bidding goodbye to my friends, we considered looking for a place that has some live music.  We learned pretty quickly, though, that most of the places that qualified were right near where we were.  But since we didn’t really care to hang around for another 5-6 hours for the music to start, we headed back to the hotel.  After a couple of $5 beers in the hotel bar, (holy crap… those are baseball park prices!) we retired up to the room.  It was way too cold to go wandering around, especially as it got dark, so we opted for a quiet night “in.”  We’re old, so we figured we’d need the extra energy for our big day out on Sunday.

It was a much nicer day on Sunday, but still brisk.  At least the sun was out.  Pinky got up early and went down to use the pool and workout room.  I got up, showered, and banged out a short blog post from my iPad.  (My first iPad blog post!  Another milestone for Bluz!) 

We ventured out around 11:00 and went over to Dunkin Donuts for breakfast.  After that, I took Pinky on the “scenic route” on the way to the ballpark.  We stopped by PPG Plaza, so I could show off the grandeur of all that dark glass.

We then moseyed down to the “point,” where the two rivers come together to form the Ohio.  Unfortunately, they’re STILL doing construction work down at the actual “point,” just like they were the last time I was down there in 2011, so we weren't able to get all the way there.  I wanted to be able to provide Pinky a frame of reference for every time they show an aerial shot of the city during a football game.

“See honey?  We were right there!”

Anyway, we got close enough. 

We then walked up along the river before climbing up onto the Roberto Clemente Bridge, to cross over to the ballpark.

Do all the geese in Pittsburgh only have one leg?  I’m surprised they didn't have a sign out, asking for change.  Or bread crumbs.

We got into the park about a half hour early, so we ambled around a bit before finding our seats.  We were in Row M, in the second section behind home plate.

The arrow points to our seats.

They were great seats, and featured the greatest view in all of baseball.

I've mentioned this before, but I absolutely love how the Pirates have little kids out onto the field before Sunday games, to meet the players when they go out to field their positions.  It’s great PR and costs the team nothing.

You think that kid isn't going to remember this for the rest of his life?

So we watched the Buccos beat the Atlanta Braves, 4-2… well, OK, we watched most of it.  The Pirates were winning 4-2 after the 7^th inning, when the shade started covering our seats, and brrrrrr, it was a big difference.  So as the shadows crept across the field, we bade farewell to this beautiful ballpark and headed back to the car.

Rather than walking all the way back, we hopped on the free “T” subway line.  It saved us a whole bunch of time, so that we were able to get to the car and out of downtown before the ballgame let out.  We checked into our next hotel room, out near where my aunt and uncle live, and cleaned up a bit before heading there.

We purposefully didn't eat anything at the ballgame, because I knew that any meal at Aunt Grace Ann’s house would be epic.  We were not disappointed.  She brought out a huge bowl of gnocchi, along with meatballs and a pork loin, beans and salad.  And dessert.  Uncle Ange brought out bottle after bottle of delicious red wine.  It was enough food to feed an army, which we were, considering besides Pinky and I, Grandpa was there along with 3 cousins, 2 significant others and a baby.

There was much festivity and merry-making that went on long into the night.

Little EJ with his grandpa.

Little Bluz with his grandpa.

We got back to the room around 11:30, and boy did we sleep well!  After Pinky worked out (again), we got cleaned up and set out upon our errands.  I had to stop at K-Mart, to pick up a few Penguins odds and ends.  Then we stopped by the local market, for some fresh Italian bread, a couple pounds of Isaly’s chipped ham and barbecue sauce.  We hit the road in earnest by 11:00 and once again, had relatively clear sailing all the way back to Baltimore.

It was definitely a “glass half full” kind of weekend because the good times shown us by my friends and family more than made up for the butt-stinging loss of $300 worth of Pens tickets.  (No, I never managed to sell them.)

Tonight, I’ll be watching the game from home.  Maybe I’ll try to re-create the in-game experience.  I’ll turn up the surround-sound, have Pinky bring me beers and charge me $10.  And every time a player goes near the glass in what would have been “our corner,” I’ll get up and pound on the TV screen, like an angry chimpanzee.

I wonder if my Best Buy warranty covers that kind of damage…

To the Half Full Cup

We got into The Burgh easily enough... I was able to use the cruise control almost the whole way.

If you haven't seen from previous comments, the Penguins game we were supposed to see was moved to Tuesday night, due to delayed games in Boston (where the Pens were playing Friday night). Obviously, I'm pretty upset about missing this game. After looking forward all year to my first visit to the Pens' new arena, AND spending $300 on tickets, it's a pretty tough nut to swallow.

Yes, I know there are bigger issues at play and I realize that the alternatives were limited, but still, it just sucks having the rug pulled out from under you the night before the big day. But since I also had non-refundable hotel rooms booked and a pair of Pirates tickets, the trip was still on. I'm trying desperately to look at my cup as half full.

Our room is nice enough, but the view is uninspiring.

We met up with Cassie and The Carpetbaggers for lunch yesterday, so that was a redeeming point. I'll have more on the rest of our journey on Tuesday. Until then, please oh please let nothing else go wrong! Oh, and finding a buyer for my tickets would be nice too!

The Stones Tour - Encore

When we last left our hero, he just had his heart shocked back into proper rhythm, a few days after enduring the movement of a 7-mm kidney stone.  He has NOT had a very good April.

It’s been ten days now and my heartbeat remains in rhythm.  I’m hopeful it will stay that way for a while.  The doctors gave me a prescription for the blood thinner, Xarelto, which I needed to take for seven days.  (Is it me, or does Xarelto sound like the villain in a sci-fi alien movie?)  They also gave me an additional seven pills, to be taken the moment I go back out of rhythm. 

The benefit of this pill, as opposed to Coumadin, is that you don’t need to go for blood monitoring while you’re on it.  I was certainly all for that.  What I wasn't “all for” was the $116 bill!  And that’s after insurance!  My policy covered $25 and I paid $116.  I figure that’s because the insurance companies want you to be on Coumadin, because it’s dirt cheap.  Bastards.  $116 for 14 pills… unreal. 

So, I had the cardioversion done on Monday, and I was back at work on Tuesday, none the worse for wear.  I thought I was home free, but then the kidney stone pain started up again.

I was at work, and I started getting pains in the same place; my left side.  It didn't make sense, because they told me I had the one stone that moved (from the left side) and two more smaller ones still in my right kidney.  I was also feeling some pain along the urinary tract, so I figured the stone might be moving on from the bladder.

When I went in to take a leak, I thought the pee looked a little pinkish; then I passed what looked like a couple small, black “flakes,” which I took to be chips off the main stone.

“The Death Star” is on the move,” I thought.  I told my boss and left work early.  I could have taken my Percocet immediately, but since I’d never taken one before, I wasn't sure how hard it would hit me, so I didn't want to be trying to get home from work when kicked in.

Once home, I began to wonder how I would capture this stone.  Obviously, I wasn't keen to just reach into the bowl.  I’d probably have to cut my arm off after that.  I should have stopped at Walgreens or something; I bet they have pee strainers.  I didn't think Pinky would let me get away with using a kitchen colander.  I considered using a coffee filter, but didn't think it would drain fast enough.  Eventually, we McGuyvered something up with an unused pair of Pinky’s panty hose and an old yogurt container.

Turned out, nothing moved.  I took the Perc, the pain gradually dissolved, and that was it.  (There were no unusual side effects from the Percocet; it just dulled the pain.)  In retrospect, I think that might have been the last gasp of the urinary tract infection the stone caused.  It’s been over a week now, and I haven’t felt anything since.

When I was still at the hospital for the stone, I asked the doctor what would happen if the stone just stayed in the bladder.  He said, “Nothing.”  So I’m not worried.  My Aunt also emailed me and told me she had the same thing happen to her, about 25 years ago… huge stone pain, that stopped when it got to the bladder, and never surfaced again.

So here I am… most guys have two balls.  Some have one.  Now I have three.

I’m just glad all this stuff got resolved before this upcoming weekend.  Big doin’s are afoot, as Pinky and I head into The Burgh, to see a Penguins game and Pirates game, and hang with friends and family.

Naturally, I started coming down with a cold on Monday.  I should be good to travel by Saturday, though.  I’d better be.

Like I said, it’s been a rough April.  I've just been fortunate that I've had Pinky riding shotgun with me through all of this.  She’s been my advocate and crusader, part Clara Barton and part pit bull.  It would have sucked to go through all this crap alone.  Hospitals don’t make it easy to go through things by yourself, especially people like me who are uncomfortable asking for things or being the center of attention.

Also, I’d like to thank you for all your kind words and best wishes.  I just wish I had a better ending to this medical saga for you, but I promise to let you know if I ever get any kind of “resolution.”

I’ll try to get a short post up for you from the road this weekend, and I should have the beginning of this weekend’s update on Tuesday night.

Arrhythmia 'n Bluz, Part 3

When we last left our long-suffering hero, he was at a lull in his kidney stone tribulations, but was now dealing with a return of atrial fibrillation.  Sucks to be him…

I've had A-fib on and off since 1996.  I wrote about my 2002 and 2007 surgeries for it before, and suffice to say, I wasn't terribly worried about the recurrence.  I suppose I was more annoyed than worried.  Because I've lived with it for such long periods of time, I don’t find it terribly threatening.  The only practical effect it ever had on me was leaving me winded from walking up hills or stairs.  So when I felt winded after merely getting dressed in the morning, it got my attention.

That’s when I called an audible and decided to just show up at the hospital to get looked at, rather than calling from work to set something up.  Johns Hopkins is located at the end of the subway line I take every day, so getting there is a breeze.  Because my cardiologist had previously told me that if I got there within 48 hours of the onset of the a-fib, they could do a “cardioversion” (where they shock the heart back into rhythm, like you used to see on “ER”) without all the blood work and invasive pre-op testing, I felt confident in what was going to happen.  I’d been through the cardioversion drill twice before so I figured they’d get me in, zap me, and I’d be back on the subway on my way to work, by 10:30, tops.

Initially, my biggest concern was where to go, because Hopkins is a huge facility.  Because I was showing up out of the blue, I didn't know if I should report to the A-Fib Unit or what.  After explaining my situation to the information desk person, she said I should go directly to the ER.  Getting there sounded complicated though, so I allowed them to call a wheelchair for me.  Sure, I could have walked, but I could just see making a wrong turn and getting hopelessly lost before collapsing in a heap outside the Podiatry Unit.  So I let them wheel me around.

They took me in, did a quick EKG, then found a bed for me immediately.  They must not have liked what they saw.  So again, there we were, Pinky and I, chilling in another curtained ER room.  This time, I was gowned in my dress slacks instead of sweat pants.  But on the bright side, I got another pair of hospital slipper socks!

Score!

After that, we began the endless parade of nurses, techs, med students and doctors who proceeded to poke, prod and ask me the same questions.  I made sure everyone knew about my previous week’s kidney stone adventures.  Pinky was eager to assign the reason for my A-fib relapse on taking (the anti-biotic) Cipro, because fibrillation was a known side effect.

The doctor actually went and researched it for us, and found that Cipro was linked to ventricular fibrillation, not atrial, like I had.  That’s a whole different thing, and much more serious.  The atrium pumps blood into the ventricles at the bottom of the heart.  The ventricles then pump the blood out to the rest of the body.  She sited a study that out of 10,000 patients treated with Cipro, only 4 developed A-fib, which well below the margin of error.  I believe the term is “statistically negligible.”

There was any number of causes for the A-fib to recur.  Could have been the stress from trying to sell that extra ticket, the strain from the kidney stones and hurling, or it could have been taking that slug of ice-cold beer.  OR, it just could have been my time.  I just had a 6-year run of steady rhythm, so who knows?

Back in 2007, when Pinky talked me into getting the 2nd treatment, she found that the country’s foremost authority on A-fib, Dr. Calkins, worked out of Hopkins.  With a resource like that located right in our back yard, seeing him seemed like the obvious course of action.

So from the time I got to the ER, I told everyone that after my last catheter ablation surgery, Dr. Calkins told me I could get an immediate cardioversion if I got there soon enough.  I name-dropped the Big Dog every chance I got.  All they had to do was locate him or someone from his department, to advise on and approve my treatment.  Remember, the A-fib unit is closed on Mondays, so this proved more time-consuming than I’d hoped.

Meanwhile, they started getting me prepped for the procedure.  Right off, they put a saline drip into my right arm.  They were happily surprised that I knew not to eat or drink anything prior to coming in.  Like I said, I knew the drill.  In fact, I hadn't eaten since noon the day before, and had only sipped enough water to take my pills.  Of course, I was totally hungry and thirsty, but what can you do?

A nurse came in around 11:30 and said they needed to put me on a Heparin drip (a blood thinner), and it needed to go in my other (left) arm.  I wasn't crazy about getting stuck and tied down on both sides, especially since I had multiple lines running into a single line, just a few days prior.  I also know that there are always problems when trying to stick my left arm.  I’ve been told the vein there is a bit “rolly.”

I warned the nurse of that, and true to form, he couldn't get the line in.  When he suggested finding another location, I told him that they've gone in easily enough on the inside of my left wrist, so he should try there.  That one worked, so there I was, a line in my right arm, a line going into my left wrist, an abandoned stick on the left arm and a chest full of EKG wiring.

THEN, another doctor came in and said that they wouldn't need the Heparin drip after all; they would use a newer blood thinner called Xarelto.  I was like, “So you basically put all these holes in my arm just to piss me off?”

Yes, I really said that.  Good thing we’d already established a strong rapport.

They said the port should stay though, as a backup for during the cardioversion.  I think that’s probably what they always say after a screw up, like when the dentist says, “Rinse.”

But now came the Catch-22 moment.  I had to take the pill with food.  But I couldn't have food before the procedure.  So the solution was that I got to put the pill one top of a single spoonful of vanilla pudding.  I graciously offered to take care of the rest of the pudding cup, but she shot me down.  What bummed me out even more was that neither the nurse nor Pinky wanted the pudding either.  I think I was more upset about wasting a perfectly good pudding cup than anything else that happened that day.

After that little flurry of activity, they said we just needed to wait for one patient before me to clear, then I’d go up to the A-fib unit for my procedure.  It was about 11:45.  I figured I’d be up in about a half hour, and on the way to work by 1:00.

So there we were at 2:30, still waiting around, and growing more annoyed by the moment.  Pinky and I played a couple games of 20 questions, took pictures with my iPad, and basically just tried to amuse ourselves.

All wired up…

FINALLY, a nurse from the A-Fib Unit appeared; a guy I’d seen before at my last procedure.  He had a skull-cap bandana thing on, spectacles and a thick white beard.  He looked like a non-stoned Tommy Chong.  Anyway, he said there was a bit of a mix-up  The A-Fib Unit was waiting for the ER to bring me up; the ER was waiting for them to call for me to be brought up.  For two goddamned hours…   Sigh…

At least things were finally rolling again.  They wheeled me up and started prepping the site.  And by that, I mean shaving parts of my chest and back, specifically over my right pec and behind my left shoulder blade.  For my prior cardioversions, they put both paddles in the front.  As we waited for the doctor to come in, the nurse explained that now they’d have to sit me up, and zap me from the front and back.  I figured, “Whatever… I’ll be out cold either way.”

The doctor finally rolled in and looked over my case.  It was funny; he was like, “Why are we doing this and not that and why aren't we doing this other thing…” (Insert various medical lingo) 

The nurse said, “Because Dr. Calkins said so.”

The doctor said, “Oh.  That’s a good reason.  OK, let’s go.” 

He was not being sarcastic.  It was then I realized that it’s good to have The Big Dog on my side.

Usually when they put me under, someone says something to let me know the anesthesia is coming, like, “It’s time to go night-night,” or “We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

This time, I was just sitting there, completely covered with wires and electrodes, watching all the ports on my IV, and then… there I was again with Pinky standing there and people fussing all around me.  Chalk up another one… I was back in rhythm again and none the worse for wear.

Pinky said I was talking all crazy as I came to.  Too bad she didn't use the iPad to grab some video.  You KNOW I would have posted that shit for you…

By the time I was back through the recovery room and discharged, it was pushing 7:00 pm.  So much for getting back to work, huh?  My email box would just have to wait for the next day.  We took the subway back to my office area anyway, but went to dinner instead of work.  It had been 31 hours since I’d last eaten.

I totally should have trash-picked that pudding.

The Stones Tour Continues, with Heart Opening

When we last left Our Hero, he had just been discharged from the hospital, following an attack of kidney stones.  The stone remained lodged in his bladder and he was to pass it on his own.

The hospital discharged me Thursday afternoon, and armed me with a couple of prescriptions: Cypro for the urinary tract infection that the stone scraping caused, and Percocet for pain relief when I start passing the stone.  We filled both scrips on the way home.

Once home, I went about the business of trying to get this thing out of me, by drinking lots of water and carefully examining my pee.

You know, I should probably apologize for all the pee talk in these last posts.  It’s just that it’s impossible to talk about kidney stones without getting into details that are usually omitted from polite conversation.  Of course, if you've been here before, you probably know that I tend to run light on “polite conversation.”  But I digress…

I figured it would be best if I worked from home on Friday, just in case anything moves.  Unfortunately, I was thwarted by tech problems, for which I spend a good part of the day on the phone with our tech support group in Bombay or where ever the hell they are now.  I probably should have just gone to work, because the stone stayed put.  At least I could have been productive.

Nothing happened on Saturday either, so I went ahead with my plans to go to the Orioles game on Sunday.  As I mentioned in an earlier post, I ordered my summer’s worth of sporting event tickets in January, which I now have on hand.

As you can see, I have tickets for Penguins and Pirate games for next weekend, Pensacola Blue Wahoos tickets for our May trip to see the parents in Florida, and 3 games worth of Orioles tickets.  It’s that pair at the top left that was giving me a problem.

See, I couldn't scare up a wingman for this game; all my usual playmates were otherwise occupied.  I figured I’d just sell the extra to those dudes that are always hustling tickets outside the ballpark.  Worst-case scenario, I sit on the ticket and enjoy the extra elbow room.  (Although at $45 a pop, plus Ticketmaster Gouging Fees, that would be some pretty expensive elbow room.)

Anyway, it was going to be a beautiful day for baseball, so I donned my new Manny Machado jersey and headed down to The Yard.

I wish this was one of those knockoffs, but I paid $100 for this “Official Replica,” and got something that was far inferior to the knockoffs.  I had to buy the shoulder patch separately and put it on, myself.  Plus, they omitted the front-of-the-jersey numbers.  PLUS, the inner stitching was drawn on, not sewn.  MLB had better get themselves some better sweatshops.

On the way to the bar area I frequent before Orioles games, I chatted up a number of ticket hustlers.  Seems my quest would be more difficult than I anticipated.  No one was interested in buying a single seat.  I was originally hoping to recoup $30 of my $45 ticket; now I realized I’d be lucky if I could get $20, if anything at all.

Eventually, I found a guy who was interested in a more detailed swap.  I offered to give him my pair, if he could get me a better single seat.  I knew that would be a tall order, because I liked my seat… 2^nd row, down the right field line.  While he went to find a suitable single, I grabbed some food… Hello, Italian sausage.  I topped it off with a cheeseburger.  It’s OK… there are no rules at the ballpark.  That’s why you never see salad vendors outside a sporting event.

The ticket guy found me again and said he had a single… 7^th row, he said, behind the Orioles dugout.  I figured it was farther back, but closer to the infield, so I was interested.  But then we had a difference of opinion… I thought we should trade ticket for ticket, and then he pays me $20 for the other.  He thought I should give him the pair AND $20.  I kyboshed that notion immediately.  My goal wasn't to upgrade my seat; it was to recoup a little dough off my extra ticket.  We eventually agreed to swap straight-up.  Hell, I was resigned to eating the ticket anyway.

I examined the ticket to make sure it was legit.  It looked like a season ticketholder’s ticket.  But I probably should have looked closer.  See if you can find the problem.

Yes, the ticket was real, but look at the price.  With my seat down in the outfield costing $45, there’s no way a 7^th row infield seat should be $27.  That’s when it dawned on me… this was the 7^th row of the second section, back under the middle deck.  I was probably a good 35 rows from the field.  Unfortunately, I didn't realize all of this until I was getting into the ballpark.  I confirmed it when I got to a seating chart.  Man, was I ever pissed.  I had the dude’s cell number, so I texted him a message, thanking him for fucking me.

Of course, I paid the same level of attention to that card as I did the ticket, because there were two names on the card and I texted the wrong one.  No wonder he didn't know who I was.  Oh well…

I decided I’d stake out my original seats, because maybe he wouldn't be able to unload them.  After all, the game wasn't sold out, so people might be more inclined to buy from the ticket office rather than some shady guy in front of the bars.  The seats were still open when the game started, so I went down and sat in one.

Nice view… so far, so good.

Sadly, my good luck only lasted until the bottom of the 2^nd, when a couple of dudes showed up with my tickets.  I considered telling them about it, but figured it wasn't their problem, so I just ducked out and retreated back up to the 15^th row.  I knew there were a lot of open seats higher up in the section, because I’d scoped it out online before I left.  (If only I’d brought a seat map with me.)

Lower arrow is where I was supposed to be, upper arrow is where I ended up.

This is the view from row 15.  All in all, it really wasn't bad.  I just like being closer to the field.

So, I watched the Orioles lose from a different seat than I’d planned, sat in the sun and sunburned the left side of my face… in other words, just another day at Camden Yards.  So what’s the problem?  Let me backtrack.

After I shrewdly whittled two expensive tickets into one cheap one (grr), I went to grab a beer from the outdoor bar.  The beer was just pulled from the ice bucket, and was frosty cold.  As I took my second swallow, I felt my heart jolt out of rhythm.

You may remember from a couple of posts I did back in 2011, I've had two heart surgeries in the past, to correct atrial fibrillation.  The last one was done in 2007, and I've been in proper rhythm ever since.  I was NOT looking forward to stepping back on THAT carousel, so I hoped this was a temporary episode.  That’s why I went on with going to the game.  I hoped all the walking and going up and down steps would “jolt” me back into rhythm.

I considered going straight to the hospital after the game.  After all, Johns Hopkins, where I had my last heart treatment, is right on the subway line.  But with it being a Sunday evening, I didn't think they would have anything but a skeleton staff on duty in the A-fib Unit.  In my discharge orders, my doctor said that if I could get back to the hospital within 48 hours of going out of rhythm, they could do a cardioversion (where they shock the heart back into rhythm) without doing all the pre-op blood work and invasive tests. 

So I went home and dug out my old paperwork to look up the call-in number.  Turns out, I was right… the unit is closed on Sundays, and Mondays too, for that matter.  The instructions said to call the paging operator and page the Senior Arrhythmia Fellow on call and ask for a call back, which I did.

No one ever called back, so I figured I’d deal with it in the morning.  I planned to go into work, and call from there.  Once I talked to someone, I could easily hop back on the train and be from my desk to Hopkins within 15 minutes.

But on Monday morning, I found myself out of breath merely from the exertion of getting dressed.  That was alarming, and different from my past experience with arrhythmia.  I decided to scrap my going-to-work plan right there.  And that’s how Pinky and I found ourselves at the hospital… again, for the 2^nd time in four days.

To be continued…

The 2013 Stones Tour Continues

When we last left our hero, he had been rushed to the ER, comfortably sedated, and diagnosed with a 7-mm kidney stone.  We pick up the story as he is admitted to the hospital for the night and wheeled up to a private room.

An orderly wheeled me up to a bed in the hospital about 11 pm.  I noticed how eerily calm the place seemed, after hours.  It was like the beginning of a horror movie.

The room was small, naturally, but nice enough.  There was one chair, a kind of non-reclining easy chair, but it wouldn't have been very comfortable for Pinky.  We made the right call by having her return home.  Not that she slept much that night anyway.  Within minutes, she had emailed me a link to a medical website about kidney stones.  

The first thing I wanted to do was see what this thing might look like.  Like I said in the Part 1 of this story, when they said “7-mm,” I was hoping that was length and not diameter.  Later, they told me that it was, in fact, diameter, so I figure my stone looked like the one at the top of this diagram.

That thing reminds me of the Star Wars “Death Star.”

I was happy that the hospital had wi-fi service available for guests; that helped me keep in touch with various friends and family, as well as allow me to Live-Tweet my hospital stay.

By the way, I highly recommend Dilaudid as a pain killer. Now I can stop clawing at the bed railings. #KidneyStone
— bluzdude (@DarwinfishBluz) April 4, 2013

Looks like I'm going to be called upon to pass a 7mm kidney stone. Just call me a Pee Shooter.
— bluzdude (@DarwinfishBluz) April 4, 2013

Best part of a hospital stay? New slipper socks! #KidneyStone twitter.com/DarwinfishBluz…
— bluzdude (@DarwinfishBluz) April 4, 2013

I love hospital slippers.  They almost make the trip worthwhile.  This pair has the tread on 2 sides, so if I’m careful to rotate which side is “down,” I can get double the life out of them!

So as the Tonight Show gave way to The Show After the Tonight Show… (that’s Fallon, right?), which then gave way to The Show That’s Later Still  (the one with Craig Ferguson), I continued catching up on what was going on and corresponding with those that knew what was happening with me.  That was fun.  I really appreciated all the support, from across the land.

I might have tried to sleep a bit sooner, but I knew they had me scheduled for my next shot of Dilaudid at around 1:15 or 1:30, so I figured I might just as well stay up, since they’d have to wake me up anyway.  (They couldn't just shoot it into my IV because they have to scan my bracelet like I’m on a grocery checkout counter, and then have me repeat my name and date of birth, so they can be sure to bring me a cake if it’s my birthday.)

No sense getting woken up for that, so I played on my iPad.  So after they dosed me again, I decided it was time to try and sleep.  And you’d think that would be easy, what with all the heavy drugs coursing through my body.  But there were two problems.

The first problem was the bed.  It wasn't that it was uncomfortable; it was one of those auto-beds, that self-adjusts to however you position yourself.  It was actually very comfy.  The problem was that it continues to self-adjust every 5-6 minutes, whether you move or not.  I’d be lying there and then it would spring to life; the mattress would undulate for about two seconds, vibrating all the while.  It was like being strapped to a soft, body-sized cell phone.

This went on ALL NIGHT LONG!  They said everyone complains about it but there was no way to turn it off.  Of course, the Customer Service Manager inside of me was just going ballistic.  I mean, I understand that it’s good to have the bed shift so that you don’t get bed sores and stuff, but is that really relevant for a single overnight stay?  Somehow, I manage to survive a night in my non-movable bed without damaging myself.  It’s not like I was in a freakin’ coma.  So there it was… every time I’d start to drift off, the bed would shock me back awake again.  And once I was awake, I could pay attention to the other problem…

I don’t know who else was in the hospital that night, but it sounded like a Crazy Old Man Convention.  There was one poor old guy across the hall, who probably had dementia and was clearly terrified.  Any time they went in to see him, he’d yell, “Help! Help! Help! Oh God, help me!  Stop! Stop! Get it out, get it out! Help!”

I could hear the nurses trying various means to calm him down, but neither reason, nor force, nor threats could quiet this guy.  Now, I’m a reasonable human being and I had as much empathy as anyone for this poor soul.  But after a couple hours of this shit I was ready to go in there, dragging my IV, and knock him out with my shoe.  (And it was a tennis shoe, so it would have taken a while.)  But I was like, “Oh please, just take whatever is in him, out, or put something else in, like some of the drugs you’re giving ME…”

There was also another guy on the floor who did quite a bit of yelling too, but I couldn't make out very much.  So between the yelling and begging and my possessed hospital bed, I didn't sleep worth a damn. When the nurse came in at 5:15 to give me my next dose of Dilaudid, she apologized for all the commotion.  I said, “Please tell me those guys aren't passing kidney stones!”

Lucky for me, they weren't.  I was hoping this wasn't a peek at a little slice of my immediate future.

I managed to half-doze a bit until about 7.  When the nurse came in for my 8:15 medicine, I told her to hold off.  I wasn't in any pain, so I figured why rush the meds?  As it turned out, the pains didn't return.

The rest of the morning was mostly waiting for the urologist to show up and decide what they wanted to do with me.  I was trying not to get impatient, but I was starting to get pretty hungry (after having lost my dinner) and had been pretty thirsty for some time.  It’s weird when they want you to pee, but won’t give you anything to drink.  The saline drip just wasn't cutting it.

Finally, Pinky, (who had returned) went out to “raise awareness” of our plight.  She’s pretty good at that kind of thing… the doctor appeared about 15 minutes later.  That’s when he answered my “diameter” question.  He said that when they did the CAT scan, the stone was 2 cm from the bladder, and because my pain had suddenly gone away, they were confident that it was now in the bladder.  (And I was confident it hadn't gone any further, because I’m sure I’d have noticed.  I imagined it would pass with one of those cartoon gunshot “ricochet” sound effects.  PTTOWWW!

The good news is that they wanted me to pass it without surgery, which I was all for.  I figured, if it gets bad, they’ll give me more Dilaudid.  They were going to keep me another night, but in the meantime, I’d be allowed to eat and drink.  Halleluiah! 

I was concerned about not getting any sleep again… the old dementia guy was still carrying on… so I did a little recon and decided that right before I’d try to sleep for the night, I’d unplug the bed.  Pinky warned me against it, but I always say, “I’d rather beg forgiveness than ask permission.”  I didn't see anything else plugged into the bed… the IV drip was completely separate, and they weren't using the blood pressure cuff on me, so it appeared to me the only thing I was risking was a scolding… once I got a few hours of sleep, I hoped.

They also wanted me to start filtering and capturing my pee.  I've always been a bashful pee-er, so because I didn't want anyone walking in and startling me (which would probably make me twitch and start peeing on the fancy medical equipment), so I had to take precautions.  I had to unplug my drip machine, trundle everything into the bathroom, get my sweatpants lowered, get my hospital gown raised, and then manage to produce some pee AND hit the target.  That’s a lot of coordination for a guy that’s been on drugs all night.

I was concerned about the rest of the passage, but the doctor said the urethra the stone needed to go through is larger than the ureter it passed through earlier.  The “tubing” would adapt.  I was just worried about the “end game.”  I looked at “Bluz Jr,” and wondered what would happen if the stone got stuck at the end.  Seemed to me I would turn into some kind of lawn sprinkler, like when you cover the end of a garden hose with your finger.  I probably should have asked for a bigger pee jug. 

I never know what to do with the pee jug, either, after I've used it.  Do I display it on the bedside table, like the golden idol that Indiana Jones goes after at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Arc?  Or do I leave it stashed in the bathroom, where it’s liable to get knocked over?  What’s the etiquette there, Cassie?

Anyway, my pee must have been golden, because around 4:00 pm, someone came in and told me they decided to discharge me and I could go home immediately.  This was a mixed blessing.  I’d finally get some sleep, but I’d lose my access to the Dilaudid.  They gave me a prescription for Percocet instead, so I felt a little better about it.  I've heard good things.

I asked what they wanted me to do, like, can I just get up and walk out?  They said unless I felt I needed a wheelchair, yes.  I was like, “Hot damn, I’m outta here.” 

But I don’t think they communicate amongst themselves very well.  When I got dressed and went out, the nurses outside seemed shocked to see me up and intending to leave.  They had to call and verify that I was allowed to mosey.  I was all, “Hah!  In your face!  You don’t get ANY more of my pee!”

I went home Thursday evening and began pounding water, hoping to get this thing done.  It didn't happen though, and by Monday, I was back in the hospital… but not for the reason you’d think.

To be continued… again.

(Note: Don’t panic… I’m OK.  I mean, I’m here posting about it, right?)

The Great Kidney Stone Adventure - Intermission

I apologize for not having the true continuation of my story tonight, as I intended.  I’m having a significant degree of kidney stone pain tonight, and am hoping the issue finally “passes.”  I suppose I could carry on, but I’m sure the story would turn out desperately unfunny and jarring to read.  Something like…

“When they finally got me up to my room I immediately YAAAAAAAAAAH…  um, settled in.  I couldn't believe my bed kept MMMMMMMPH… shifting under me…”

As soon as I’m able, I will carry on with my medical misadventures.  Suffice to say, I thought I was out of the woods for the near future, but it hasn’t quite turned out that way. 

So, keep checking back… as soon as I’m able, I’ll get on with the story.  Just call me, Bluzherazade…  Now pass the Percocets... 

Everybody Must Get (Kidney) Stoned

Wednesday night, I was home alone; Pinky was working and would be staying at her place afterward.  I’d just finished the lovely barbecued ground turkey dinner she’d left me, and was scanning through the day’s blogs when the pain hit me.

At first, I thought I tweaked my back, because my whole lower left side just “exploded.”  I quickly realized, though, that it didn't have the hallmark of my usual back pains.  It was off to the side, and no matter what I did or how I moved, it wouldn't abate.  It was about navel-high, and radiated downward into the left side of my groin.  It felt like I was in an “Alien” movie and something nasty was trying to get out.

As I sat there, literally gasping, I began going through my options.  I am not one to go running to the doctor with the slightest malady, so I wanted information before I decided to do anything.  In my experience 95% of my aches and pains go away on their own.

I Googled “sudden pain left side” and started running through the options.  None of them looked particularly pleasant or temporary.  The leading contenders were diverticulitis, pancreatitis, appendicitis and kidney stones.  The first three had notes to seek medical attention NOW.

To me, that just meant I needed more input.  While I considered my options, I got up and tried to find a comfortable position, but nothing worked.  I felt nauseous, so I went into the bathroom, but nothing came of it.  Lying in bed didn't help, nor did sitting on the couch.

I was especially worried about appendicitis because I knew how bad it is if your appendix bursts.  My dad had appendicitis back during his youth, so I decided to give my parents a call.

Dad was able to dispel appendicitis as a cause, because the appendix is on the right side.  My pain was completely on the left.  But now that I scared the crap out of both of them, they urged me to call 911.  I thought I could drive myself to the hospital, because it’s only about 5 minutes away, but Dad made an excellent point.  If I drive myself, I’m likely to end up sitting in the waiting area all night, depending on the caseload.  If the ambulance takes me, I get right in.

While I wasn't comfortable with putting the EMTs out to come and get me, I also didn't want to sit and stew in the waiting room either.  I was still deliberating when I had to cut off the call.  Something was coming up.

I barely made it to the bathroom before I began hurling, with great intensity.  OK, NOW I was scared.  I almost never hurl.  Usually when I feel nauseous, I can deep-breathe my way back out of it, but not this time.  Last time I threw up, it was when I had the bronchitis and I was coughing so hard, all the crap I was coughing up hit my uvula and set me off.  Before that, I’d have to go back to a food poisoning case in the early 2000s.

Because I’d just eaten, the hurling did not go smoothly.  Not to gross you out, but it was pretty thick.  I only mention it because I thought I was going to run out of air while my windpipe blocked.  While I was in there, I remembered that I had the door locked and dead-bolted.  No one would be able to come in and get me without breaking down the door.  Why didn't I just have soup for dinner?

Eventually, it passed, and I immediately walked out to unlock the door.  My parents called back and I told them what happened.  Post-hurling, the pain began to abate a bit, so I thought I might be OK.  They still wanted me to call 911, but I wanted to wait it out.  Maybe it would get all the way better.  I wanted to make sure before I stepped onto the carousel.  That’s what it’s like for me… making that call is like stepping onto a moving, spinning merry-go-round.  Once I’m on, I’m carried away by forces I can’t control any more.  I’m at the mercy of the spinning horses.

I did decide to call Pinky though.  I didn't like the idea of being alone and choking to death on my own hurl.  I may revere Bon Scott, but that doesn't include dying the way he did.  I caught Pinky on her way home from work, so I diverted her to come here.

"Bluz, listen to your womans and go to the hospital, or you'll end up visiting me!"

While I was waiting, I tried watching the Pens game from my easy chair with a heating pad on my side.  That always helped my backaches.  I quickly realized, though, that it was only making it worse.  The only thing close to relief I got was by pacing around and rubbing my side.  Before long, I felt nauseous again, and had to return to the bathroom.  I tried to remember to breathe in deeply before I unloaded some more dinner, so I’d have more time before I could black out.

Next thing I knew, Pinky was there, and I told her about the whole situation.  I think that was the point when I “stepped onto the carousel,” because once I told her, there was no way I wasn't going to the hospital.  I just wanted to wait long enough so that I could prepare a bit… get some things together, get some clothes on, set up the DVR to record what I’d be missing… Dad had told me that they’d probably want me to stay on the phone until the ambulance got there, so I wanted to get ready first.

I was going to call them myself, but I let Pinky do it.  I know “me,” and one of my phobias is calling people (or places) I don’t know well.  I’d dilly-dally back and forth, trying to get what I wanted to say straight, before finally dialing.  Pinky has no such qualms, so I let her plunge straight ahead.  They didn't keep us on the phone though, so I was able to continue getting things together.

Well, after I hurled again.  This time, I think I used up the last of the dinner.  Maybe I DO eat too much.

So, I got my cell phone and iPad out and made sure they were charged up.  I also had to figure out what to wear.  I decided to keep my sweat pants on, but I put on some undies.  I knew I’d have to wear the evil hospital gown, but I figured there was a chance I could keep my drawers on, so I wouldn't have to bare my ass all over the floor.

It took about 20 minutes for the EMTs to get there.  They came right as Pinky was checking back with 911, to see where they were.  They took my vitals and I answered their questions, and then went with them to the hospital.  Yay for my first ambulance ride!  They sure could use some new shocks on that wagon though.  Didn't feel too good getting bounced around like I did.

As expected, they got me out of the truck and into an ER room, but not before I had to hurl again.  I’m glad it was just the dry-heaves though, for the sake of everyone else in the lobby.  I had a little plastic tub to use, so they didn't have to call in the haz-mat team on my account. 

Now began a steady parade of nurses, technicians and doctors who came in to see me.  They got me hooked up to an IV for fluids.  But still the pain was coming strong.  All night it had seemed to come in waves; about every 20 minutes it would build up and I’d hurl.  They asked me to rate it on a 1-10 Pain Scale, and I gave it a 7.5 to 8.  (Initial onset was definitely a 9.)

Waiting for the doctor, I heaved again.  Now, I was starting to access lunch.  This was wearing me out.  I never knew throwing up was this exhausting.  All I could do was sit on the edge of the bed and rock.  (Which luckily, I was born to do.)  Eventually they got me to lie back, but continued to squirm and twitch.

Finally a doctor came in and told me that my symptoms represented a classic case of kidney stones.  They’d set me up for a CT scan and a drip with morphine and anti-nausea medicine.  Now we’re talking!  I've always wanted to try morphine.  

Once I was hooked up and things began to calm down, I used my cell to call the folks.  (Pinky had also called them after I went in the ambulance.)  I was able to tell them what was going on and what I had.  I also asked them if they can get Morphine at Walgreens, because they should really try it out.

I have to do things like that.  When I’m under pressure, I try to make jokes.  I joked with the EMTs, the technicians and nurses.  I was trying to figure out where to put my wallet, and I said, "I think I better keep it on me.  Is it proper to tip your nurse?"  I asked Pinky, at the time, if it was weird that I was already making notes for my next blog post?

The Morphine took the edge off.  It made me feel a little fuzzy in the head, but took the pain down to about a 4.  But I was also getting really cold.  I don’t know if it was the drug, or that the outside doors had to keep opening, but I was freezing.  Pinky used anything at hand to get me covered up… my shirts, my coat, and the sheets from the room.  She also went out and had someone bring in blankets.  I had to tell her though, be sure not to cover up my head with the sheet.  I didn't want the hospital to get the wrong idea.

When they asked again about the pain, they decided to change my drip to something called Dilaudid.  They said that 1 mg of Dilaudid was like 10 mg of Morphine.  And let me tell you, they were right!  Once they injected the Dilaudid into my drip, it was like the pain just started folding in on itself, by half each time, until it just winked away.  I knew I was going to have to remember this shit for the future.  Unable to refrain from punning the night way, I told my parents (and eventually the nurses) that I was Dilauded with my treatment.  One of my parents, (I don’t remember which because I was becoming increasingly “relaxed”) said they applauded the Dilaudid.

I got my CT scan done without any trouble and round about 10 pm the doctor came back to tell me that A) they’d be admitting me tonight, and B) I had a 7-mm kidney stone.  They scheduled me to see a urologist in the morning to decide how to treat it.

Seven millimeters.  Holy crap.  I got out my iPad and looked up how big 7-mm was.  You can see for yourself right here.  (Apparently, the size of your viewing screen impacts the proportions of a picture, so it would be misleading for me to post one.)  But suffice to say, I desperately hoped that they were talking 7-mm in length, not diameter.

Pinky and I decided that she should go home, because there wasn't really anything more she could do, and there was no sense in the both of us being uncomfortable.  They wheeled me up to my room, for what would prove to be a difficult night’s sleep. 

Which you will find out all about when I get to Part 2 in the next post.

I Thought I Was Hurt, But I Was Just Stoned

I apologize for not having a post up last night.  I really meant to, but I was JUST GETTING HOME FROM THE FREAKIN HOSPITAL!

If you follow my Twitter feed, or have seen my recent tweets on the right-hand sidebar, you know why I was there.  They released me late yesterday afternoon, but I wasn’t quite up for posting yet.  But still, I was thinking of you.  How many other bloggers would live-tweet their hospital stay?  Gotta love a hospital with free wi-fi.

I’ll have something up about my "adventure" over the weekend, probably tomorrow.  But bottom line, I’m OK, and that should continue into the foreseeable future.

But boy, it’s been a rough couple of nights…

Dogs and Fences

When I was in 6^th through 9^th grades, we lived in a tidy little subdivision in Columbus, Ohio.  It was one of those developments where every other house was the same.  You know; ranch, split-level, ranch, split-level, etc.  The cool thing was that my best friend in the neighborhood lived 2-doors down, so whenever I was at his house, I felt pretty comfortable.  I just had to be careful of which bedroom I went into, because ours rooms didn't correspond.

The back yards were all divided up with 4-foot chain link fences, which made for a very specific division of property.  And you would think that they would put a crimp in our fun and games, but that wasn't really so.  We just incorporated them into whatever we were doing.

Our next-door neighbor had a baseball diamond worn into their backyard.  And it wasn’t from us… it was like that when we moved in.  We thought it was really cool, and spent many a summer day playing wiffleball over there.  It didn't even matter how many kids were there; if there was more than one, we could figure out how to play. 

We’d use “ghost runners” to run the bases, and they would advance depending on what the batter did.  Obviously any ball caught out of the air was an out, and if you fielded a grounder, you threw it at the runner and if you could hit him, they were out.  I so wish the major leagues would adopt that rule.

We played football over there a lot too, but it came with a price.  See, these neighbors had this horrible old bulldog, named Babe.  She was ancient, with nothing but stubble for fur.  In fact, her hind end was all hairless and leathery, like an old volleyball.  Anyway, because of Babe, we had to be careful where we were tackled, or else we might end up face down in a Babe bomb.  Worse still, sometimes the dog would eat crayons she’d find on the floor, which made her shit in Technicolor.  Now that was a real treat to find…

A bunch of us in a football pileup, thankful we missed landing in all the dog turds.

We used to spend our summer evenings playing giant games of Hide-n-Seek, Kick-the-Can, or Ghost in the Graveyard.  We’d use three houses in a row on one side of the street, including backyards, and maybe a front yard or two on the other side of the street.  As my friend and I got older, we got better and better at getting over the backyard fences.  Usually, we’d just plant our hands on the top rail and vault ourselves over.  Once my buddy started running track, he began hurtling the fence without hands at all.  I was never quite so bold (or fast).

Needless to say, when running around at dusk or after dark, the fences could be formidable.  I remember being out front, with everyone hiding, and hearing a commotion kick up in the back yards, meaning a chase was on.  Then suddenly, a loud KA-WANNNG!  That was the unmistakable sound of my buddy misjudging where the fence was during a hurdle.

I had two favorite hiding spots… one was right out on a hill in the neighbor’s front yard, out in plain sight, but in a deep shadow due to the floodlight nearby.  You could see everything out in the street, but no one could see you until they were right on top of you. 

My other spot was up the tree in our front yard.  I had climbed up to “my spot” so many times, I could do it in about 10 seconds, plus, I could literally do it with my eyes closed.  I could spend a half hour up there, laying back against a fork in a branch about 15 feet in the air, and there was zero chance of the seeker finding me.  Then as soon as he’d go around a corner, or into the back, I’d drop down and come in home free.  Oh, to be that bendy and agile again… I swear; teenage boys are part monkey.

There was one fence in the neighborhood that everyone agreed really needed to be there.  In fact, we might have wished it were about 15 feet taller.  It ran behind our house and the neighbor’s.  This was the fence that contained “Rip.”

Rip was a dog that belonged to the neighbor behind us.  I don’t know if he was named Rip because that’s what he’d do to any trespassers in his yard, or because of how said trespasser would Rest in Peace after Rip got done with him.

He was a sturdy dog; part husky and part German shepherd.  He had coloring like a shepherd, but was stockier, with thicker fur.  Shortly after we moved in, my dad began taking him out our ham and beef bones.  He’d go over to the fence, let Rip smell his hand, and then toss the bones over.  Dad always said, “If he ever gets over that fence, I want him to remember that I was the guy that gave him the bones.”

Rip would catch them in the air and just KER-RUNCH them to bits.  There was no gnawing.  He’d eat those things like they were Scooby Snacks.

I don’t know if that was just how he rolled, or if he was putting on a show for us.  He probably told his dog friends; “You should see the looks on these guys’ faces when I smash those ham bones…  The dudes get whiter than Milk Bones.”

On second thought, I don’t think Rip had any dog friends, judging from how he and Babe went after each other.  Whenever they were both outside and would see each other, they’d race back and forth along the barrier fence, noses about 2 inches from each others, and bark their heads off.  Rip would be like “WOE WOE WOE WOE….”  And Babe would be like, “RABA RABA RABA RABA…”  Then one of them would just trot off like, “OK, that’s enough for now.  I guess I told THAT asshole…”

It was funny to watch, because Babe only came up about halfway up Rip’s leg.  The old girl didn’t take any crap from him though…

Eventually, Ed and I took over the job of bringing the bones out to Rip.  Hell, if Rip got loose, the odds were higher that one of US would be out there, rather than Dad.  By feeding him, I learned that Rip was a pretty good dog.  He’d trot up to us and walk back and forth, pushing on the fence, like a bear scratches his back on a tree.  I’d reach over and pet him, making sure to let him smell my hand, before giving him his treats.  I used to pet him all the time.

I always wondered if he’d really bite me if we came face to face.  I didn't think so, but didn't care to sacrifice the skin on my ass in case I was wrong.  I think he liked us just fine, as long as we were on OUR side of the fence and not his.

This became a problem when we played wiffleball.  Sometimes we’d foul one off and the ball would go into Rip’s yard.  Oh, man, my stomach would just sink.  But a lot depended on where in the yard it went.  See, there was a garage just on the other side of the ball diamond yard, with about 4 feet between it and the fence.  Rip had a trail worn, along the yard side of the garage, and then back along the fence.  If he was outside and heard any noise on the fence, he’d come tearing along that trail, looking to come git some. 

 Here's the layout I'm talking about.

So if the ball landed behind the garage, we were nimble enough to get over the fence and back before Rip could come around the garage.  It was more problematic when the ball went past the garage and further into the yard.  Then we’d have to do a little recon, and decide, A) if Rip was outside, and B) in the grand scheme of things, was that ball really worth it?

Director’s DVD Commentary: Yes, I know, this is totally like the movie “Sandlot.”

One time we sent our chubby friend over to retrieve a ball.  (The rule was whoever hit it over had to go get it.)  He got the ball fine, but panicked when he heard Rip coming, and caught his sneaker on a barb at the bottom of the fence.  Do you remember the scene in “Jaws” when the shark attacks the diver cage?  That’s what it looked like as our friend tried to scramble over the fence, with Rip thrashing about at his feet.  Rip never actually bit him, but he was barking and snapping like crazy, and plum scared the living shit out of the kid.  He swore the dog bit his foot, but I’m pretty sure the hole in the canvas over his toes came from the fence barb.  Rip could have bitten his toes clean off, if he wanted.

Another time, we saw a couple of teenage boys cutting through our back yard.  We were like, “Oh, this is gonna be good…” They got about halfway into Rip’s yard when he came running.  He scattered those kids like bowling pins, as they practically swan-dived back over the fence.  Rip was like, “Punks… this is MY house.”

We grew to especially appreciate that fence, once we moved out to the country.  Beside our house was an empty field, and beside that, a family with a giant Great Dane mix.  Fucker was massive, with a huge bark... “BOAF!”  My brother grew fond of imitating the dog’s bark, until one day he decided to try it out on the actual dog.

Ed stood at the edge of our property and hollered, “BOAF!!”

Dog turned towards Ed, took a few steps forward and went, “BOOAF!!”

Ed didn't stick around for the rest… Gone… He was back to the back door in a flash.

Out there, there wasn't anything to stop a giant dog from running over and taking a chunk out of his skinny shanks.