Saturday Morning Donut

For the past two years my morning backaches have been getting worse and worse. I thought it was my mattress, so a little over a year ago I spent a thousand dollars on a high quality mattress. It wasn't the mattress. My back kept getting worse and worse, so this time I went to the doctor. "No pills." I told him. "Find the source of the pain. I don't want pills." He gave me some pills. However, he also had me go get an MRI of my lower back. On Saturday I drove over to Saint Francis Hospital and got that MRI. The nice lady explained everything to me, and made it very clear that I was not to move during the entire thirty minute procedure. Not my feet, not my head, not my arms, nothing. "Don't move! If you do we'll have to start all over." I got up on the table, was made very comfortable, and then I was slid on into the giant donut. Somewhere from above my head came a voice, "Okay, thirty seconds." And it started.

WHEEEEE, WHEEEE, WHEEEE, WEEEE

BLAM, BLAM,BLAM

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I didn't move. Again the voice, this time sounding much further away and smaller, told me "This time it will be two and a half minutes."

CHUNK,CHUNK,CHUNK,CHUNK, BLAM,BLAM,BLAM

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

WHOMP,WHOMP,WHOMP,WHOMP, WHOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMP

I kept telling myself, 'Do not move.' Over and over again the faint voice above my head told me how long the next series of super loud sounds would last, and I never moved. Not until about twenty five minutes into it. For some reason I picked up on a rhythm in the banging, buzzing, and roar of the machine. I wanted to dance to it. Seriously, I was sure I had screwed it all up and moved my feet to the 'music' of that beast. Finally, after a full thirty minutes, the voice told me that it was all over. I could feel myself being slid out from inside the big donut.

"Great job, Alan. We got perfect scans. You didn't move a muscle the whole time."

"Really?" I was very happy it all went well. So sometimes it's a good thing to not have rhythm, and not actually be able to dance.

Choose Your Weapon

So it's been over a month since I turned seventy years old. I remember when I was a kid and my grandparents were in their seventies. They seemed so old. Funny, I seem kind of old now too. However, all is not lost. I have found a certain advantage to turning seventy years old. It can be used as a very effective weapon. Like when I had it out with the delivery man parked in the handicapped spot. I definitely blurted out something about making a seventy year old man have to drag my sick partner out and around his stupid truck. At the grocery store I make all kinds of grunts and groans as I get down on the floor to get something off the bottom shelf. This almost always results in another customer rushing over to help me out. Often to help me pull myself back up from the floor. Ah, if only the store employees were that thoughtful. And of course there is that trip out to see Mom every week. I do like to drive fast, and often find myself to be faster than most of the other cars. Last week, as I blew down Orland Parkway at sixty miles per hour (Speed limit, thirty five) I came upon a radar cop parked in one of the driveways. Of course I slammed on the brakes, but I also made sure I took off my hat and let my gray hair fly. Old white guy, with gray hair, on the way to the old people's home. Nope, didn't get stopped. I saw the cop look at me as I went by, then look back up the road waiting for some young punk to blow through there. I plan to make the most of this old fart thing. Early bird special, here I come.

The Doctor's Appointment

If you weren't aware, You are now. Mark's health isn't the greatest. Because of that we have to go see doctors every once in awhile. So on December 27th he had an appointment, which the doctor's office cancelled on him. Mark let me know that I wouldn't have to sit in the doctor's office that day and that the appointment had been rescheduled for January 30th. Fine, I would be ready. Taking Mark to the doctor is an involved affair. Yesterday Mark took an early shower, picked out his finest going to the doctor's office clothing and announced that he was ready. Now it was my turn. First thing, I went out to the garage in the morning and made sure that his electric mobility cart was all charged up. Then before we left I went back out to the garage, took the cart apart, and loaded it up into the trunk of the car. I then went back up into the house, helped Mark put on his coat, got his portable oxygen machine ready, and we headed for the door. Seven steps, that's how many from the kitchen down to the backyard. You would have thought we were walking down from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Mark has a bit of a problem with the stairs. Anyway, we eventually made it down and I load him into the car. I then drive on off to the doctor's office where I encounter a delivery truck parked in the one and only handicapped spot. So I squeeze in next to it on the part that has those yellow diagonal lines. As I struggled to put Mark's electric cart back together on the  pavement behind the car, the driver of the truck returned.

"HEY! Asshole, you're parked in an handicapped parking spot." I said, while being my most tactful self.

"What you mean, I'm no park in handicap."

His concept of parking was right up there with his grasp of the English language.

"See that line? Any asshole with eyes can see that line and the sign. You're in the fucking handicapped spot."

"I have delivery. Besides, I'm leaving."

"IT'S NOT A FUCKING LOADING ZONE FOR JACKASSES LIKE YOU!"

I probably could have let it all go, but I needed the extra space to open the door wide, and pull Mark out of the car and get him on the cart. That's why handicapped spots are much larger than an average parking space. I fully expected to get punched out or maybe shot. But the truck pulled out, and I was able to get Mark on his cart. We then went into the building where the nice lady at the desk informed us that Mark's appointment was not Thursday afternoon. Mark's appointment was Friday.

Back Where I Belong

I like Chicago. I grew up around here and it's comfortable. But there are problems. Corrupt politicians, crime, the weather. Three things that a whole lot of other places have in common with Chicago. Rare is the city or state that does not have corrupt criminals who run for office as smiling good guys. Crime happens everywhere. It certainly wasn't a gang of Chicago kids who shot up Columbine, or Parkland. So I can live with the corruption, I keep trying to vote the bastards out. I deal with the crime by not making myself a target. But the weather, what to do about the weather? It's like your life is on hold around here at this time of the year. Gray skies, gray trees, gray pavement covered with slop. Slop that is either frozen or in the process of freezing, or melting. Taking the dogs out isn't as pleasant as it is in June. Neither is taking out the garbage. Yes, I enjoy taking out the garbage when the weather is nice. I tend to run into my neighbors and we talk. Not this time of year. In winter I see my across the alley neighbors only when they pull the SUV out of the garage and drive away while waving to me. The backyard is a mess right now. Filled with dog turds, slushy snow, and mud. No way can I pick up that dog shit because I'm usually out there in my slippers, and I'm not wading into that in my slippers. Poor Mark hasn't been out of the house since November. He does have a doctor's appointment later today, so maybe. But what the hell, I'm in my hometown city and despite the gloom of January and February, I love it. Come April all is forgiven. Green things start popping, I can pick up the dog crap and daylight lasts longer than the darkness. Spring, summer, and fall are coming. That's when Floridians lock themselves up in the house with the air conditioner blasting non-stop for the duration.

Chandler Goes to the Vet

I took Chandler to the vet for the first time in two years. Nothing wrong with him that is obvious. It's just that he is getting older, turning twelve in three months, and I wanted to establish a regular veterinarian for him. This was a new doctor and a new office. The reason I haven't taken him back to the vet we used when we first moved to Chicago is that I felt violated. I felt like I had a bunch of smiling faces who claimed to want only the best for my dogs, reaching way too deep into my pockets. I was told that my dogs need a shot for some bacteria that is transmitted by rat piss. I was told that my dogs will get heart worm. I was told that they needed vaccine after vaccine or they will die a horrible death. Personally, I think the only thing veterinarians do well is give your dog a rabies shot and distemper shot when they are puppies. Then, after many years, help you end their life with dignity. Everything in between is simply a money grab.  So, with all that said, the new doctor's office is modern, clean, and efficient. They were very nice to Chandler and gave him a good examination after which he received numerous doggy treats. Chandler loved all the attention. But here's the down side of all that. I was told he needed a vaccine for the rat piss, that he will get heartworm, and if I don't get his teeth fixed he will die a horrible death. All of that will cost a lot of money. Like I said, Chandler is nearly twelve years old. Dogs his size live thirteen to fifteen years. So of course I will cough up the bucks and get his teeth fixed. Even if he were to die the next day, at least his teeth will be looking good. Oh, and that rat piss vaccine. He'll get that too.