Well, this sort of defines good news/bad news. I woke up early to find a voicemail from Alex on my phone. Thinking he was drunk-dialing me — the time stamp was 1:47 a.m. — I retrieved the message to confirm.
Hey, just calling from cardiac ICU at Lutheran Hospital!
Whoa. I hasten to add that exclamation point was a cheery whistle past the graveyard, not a dying gasp, but he was there for a reason. After suffering jaw and arm pain, he mentioned it to his partner Harry, who suggested he should maybe stop by an ER and get himself checked out. An EKG, an ambulance ride, and a middle-of-the-night angioplasty left him with a stent and three nights of lodging at the usual inflated prices.
The good news: The tests showed no significant damage to his heart muscle, and he and Harry will finally have some serious motivation to quit smoking once and for all.
He said he welcomes your good wishes and tributes, and will be back snarking with us as soon as he gets a laptop. You can leave them in the usual place.
Sudden glimpses of our mortality are no fun, are they? I visited my ladyparts doctor last month and got the big three of the crone testing package — Pap, mammogram and my first baseline bone scan. The first two came back clean and clear, but the bone scan showed low bone mineral density stopping well short of osteopenia, but dammitall anyway. I’m back on calcium, which I had been taking but quit for a few months, following one too many late-night shifts spent reading about the conditions in Chinese factories. I decided any supplement that couldn’t be sourced to a nice clean North American facility — and none of them can — could be safely replaced with a sharp Cheddar and extra serving of yogurt. I’ve always been a milk drinker. But my test says I need to go back on the C, and so I am. I pause to note there are side effects. I would say I’m as constipated as a Missouri Synod Lutheran, but that would be cruel, so let me just say: There are side effects. And lots of water and vegetables seems to be taking care of them, but still.
I’ve been a weight lifter for years, which I thought would protect me, but it turns out you can’t outrun your gene pool. And old saws like “you still have your health” have a new, sharper meaning.
So, with that, I think it’s entirely appropriate that we go for a silly, fun, life-affirming bloggage collection today, and trash the only thing I’d set aside, which was the usual grumpy Jane Brody column about the obesity epidemic, although here it is, if you want to read it. It’s not all that grumpy, and sort of annoyingly on point, with today’s subject matter.
Laughter is the best medicine, so how about yet another story from Coozledad that made me guffaw? This…
I was wearing a shirt my ex-girlfriend had given me. It was a gauzy Indian prince thing that showed my bluish ribcage and my tiny pale nipples, shrieking for oxygen and nutrients. If you were to hold a pistol to my temporal bone and force me put the same shirt on now, it would look like someone trying to strain an entire village’s yearly production of mozzarella though a decorative cheesecloth.
…is but one of the many knee-slappers therein. Although, C., you need to take another look at your coding. Double-return after your paragraphs. I’m not seeing any breaks.
Cute Overload, just because.
One of those funny sign collections, also just because. But some chuckles are therein.
Feel free to add whatever you like, because obviously I’m scraping bottom here. And it’s Tuesday, which is the second crush day of my week, so I must run. Get well soon, Alex — we need you here.