Make Your Plans and Listen to God Laugh: A Lost Week

Say, hello, to my little friend.....

I'm not the kind of guy who often shares his ailments and infirmities with others. I'm 68; I have my share, believe me. Outside of my surgeon, six people were aware of it before I went into throat surgery that put me into intensive care for two nights: my friend who has my power of attorney and her husband, the friend who I asked to drive me to the surgery and his wife, and my craft-beer partner Big Jon and our Sunday bartender. The only reason Big Jon and our bartender were aware is because the surgery was scheduled the day after the 2018 Super Bowl. I had to fess up as to why I was sipping water rather than guzzling beer during the game.

I didn't tell anyone else because, well, why would I? Those who did know were under strict orders not to visit me at the hospital. I didn't want anyone taking time out of their day to show up at my bedside with a Mylar balloon, making small talk. Screw that. If this involved a six-week stay to recover, then maybe a visit from someone would be a welcome change of pace. But, I knew this would be a short recovery. Just go about your business and we'll have a drink when I am sprung.

I didn't even tell my New Mexico-based family. It would have made a wreck out of my sister. The entire family would have been crazed for the three-day information blackout extending from the surgery until my release. I didn't want the pressure of trying to keep them or anyone else updated. Get in, get out and that's that. I did finally let the cat out of the bag a couple of days after returning home.

I have all the aches and pains someone my age endures, but I don't talk about it. Who cares? I'm old, right? It happens.

Now that I'm on the other side of it, however, I will share that I was as sick this past week as I have been in years, if not decades. It reared its ugly head late Monday (Labor Day) and persisted throughout the week. Apparently a stomach bug of some sort, it reeked havoc with my digestive tract. It was relentless and fierce.

I won't go into the details beyond saying, my water bill will be significantly higher this month and Charmin dispatched an extra tractor-trailer truck of Ultra Strong to the Greenville region.

Twice during the week I flirted with heading to Urgent Care. I'd never dealt with anything quite like this before and the idea that his might be the symptom of something more sinister nagged at me in a whisper for four days.

I didn't sleep for two of those nights, didn't eat anything beyond a couple of nibbles from a protein bar for three days and didn't have the energy to shower. I had no appetite. A couple of bouts with light headedness inspired me to begin chugging copious amounts of water to battle dehydration. On Wednesday afternoon, I dragged myself to my car, headed to CVS and purchased some Imodium. 

At the checkout the clerk cheerfully asked how my day was going. I pushed the box toward him and said, "You be the judge."

Seven of those tablets over the next 24 hours capped the flow. Friday was the day that had me really considering Urgent Care. The worst was past, but I still felt off. I was still listless and weak. I still had no appetite. Was this symptomatic of something bigger, I asked myself for the 20th time. Again, I chose to skip Urgent Care. Most of the day on Saturday was more of the same, but toward the late afternoon I heard a welcome sound and felt a longed-for rumble: My stomach was growling.

Mac & Cheese sounded good and sufficiently innocuous. I thought I might have a box squirreled away somewhere. Nope. No such luck. I opted instead to heat up some Prego and boil some pasta. I wolfed down half a plate. I spent the rest of the evening watching movies and waiting for dinner to cause a sprint to the bathroom. But, no.

I went to bed hoping for my first good-night's sleep in nearly a week. I awoke this morning with my eyelids crusted shut. I pried them open and glanced at the clock. Trumpets sounded, a flock of doves took flight, bells tolled in celebration and a choir of angels sang, “Halleluliah.” It was 7:30. I had managed to clock nine hours of nearly uninterrupted sleep. Oh happy day!

In the negative column: This was to be a week of work for me. I basically produced no revenue in August. This was my week to get back to work. Nope. All I managed to do was edit this week's and next week's episodes of BEER2WHISKEY. I did this week's segment on Wednesday. It was a segment that should have required about three hours to edit. It required around five hours. I'd edit for 15 or 20 minutes and then lie down for 15 minutes. I also managed to sit upright at my laptop for about three hours on Thursday submitting four or five already-written assignments to a client.

It was also to be six straight days in the gym. Nope. I've been twice since arriving home on Aug 30.

So, that's my story. I feel recovered – just in time for beer-drinking day at Smoke, as well as some football – and back on top of my game. Ain't life grand!