Tag Archives: hospital

homo backwash and other peeves.

 “That bottle of lube on your nightstand is my-en (mine),” I said to Daryl the other day as I was cleaning off my nightstand in our bedroom. He looked at me with a smirky smirk and asked “Who makes the word mine into a two-syllable word anyway?” as he flipped the slippery bottle in my direction. I missed. “It’s like your family was from the south,” he muttered under his breath. “I HEARD that, Mr. Grammar,” I snorted, ” and my family IS from the south of West Chester, beee-och.” I have a peeve of not liking to be corrected.

Surprisingly, there are other peeves.

We drink lots of bottled water. At any given moment there are approximately fifteen to twenty plastic bottles strewn around the condo in various stages of fullness or emptiness depending upon your outlook on life I suppose. It drives me crazy! They’re on the cocktail table, in the kitchen, by the bathroom sink and on our nightstands with the lube (see above). We apparently lose track of whose water bottle is whose (or is it whoms?).  Anyway, why would that even BE a problem considering the fact that we’ve shared every body part and every bodily fluid that two homosexuals could. We’ll open one bottle, then forget about it, and open another one and before you know it the condo looks like the reject room of the factory at Poland Springs.

We USED to put the partially filled bottles back in the fridge to use in the cat’s water dish, until I got pissed one day when I looked in the fridge and saw approximately 26 bottles with about an inch of water in each. Not to mention, I started feeling a little guilty that the cat was living on the backwash of two homos. So now, my list of growing day off chores actually INCLUDES a task called “dump water from water bottles before recycling them.” It takes nearly a half hour as I dump enough water equivalent to a small tsunami (is it politically correct to use the word tsunami yet?).

More suprisingly, my peeves continue.

I work odd hours. I’m in retail. Enough said. I have an assigned parking space for my condo. I protect it like that space that you dig out of the snow after a blizzard and throw a kitchen chair into so no one reaps the benefits of your labor.

Last Memorial weekend after working three million hours on my feet, I came home to some pretentious gas-guzzling white Escalade with a McCain-Palin bumper sticker in my numbered spot. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I had to park three whole spaces away and began walking the extra distance on throbbing stumps for feet.

Daryl came to my rescue running from the condo with a piece of high quality onion skin paper that he had typed up on the computer and printed. It read: We hope you had a pleasant visit. We just wanted you to know that you are parked in a numbered space which has been assigned to a resident of G____ V____ Condominiums. If you use this space again and cannot locate your vehicle at the end of your visit, contact ______ Towing and Storage. Have a nice day!  I’m thinking he typed it as opposed to handwriting it so it could not be traced back to the two guys who have the patio that looks like Longwood Gardens and fight like girls, as if the paper quality and scripty font wouldn’t give it away. He placed the note gently under the windshield wiper of the offending and offensive automobile.

Daryl is my knight in shining armor. Well… almost.

I’m not sure this qualifies as a peeve really but last night I came home to Daryl cleaning up the remaining shards of glass from one of my favorite Pyrex dishes. I had emptied the dishwasher before I went to work yesterday and I put the few pans, lids and a Pyrex dish on top of the stove instead of putting them away because I was running late. While I was at work last night, Daryl wanted to cook himself a little fish for dinner so he turned on what he THOUGHT was a back burner. Lo and behold while he was in the living room he heard a crack and crash louder than an old episode of Bobby Brown and Whitney. The Pyrex dish had exploded all over the kitchen. It went on the stove, the floor and even in the cat’s bowl of stagnant homosexual backwash. It was a disaster.

In my constant insensitivity to NOT be able to filter my words, I told Daryl that he was stupid for leaving ANYthing on the stove while turning it on. He told me that he hopes the missed shard of glass waiting for MY bare foot doesn’t send me to the ER.

My final peeve for today is the iphone4.

Don’t get me wrong, we LOVE our iphones. They’re great for internet access, music, texting, games and the occasional phone call. As a matter of fact we have them in our hands more often than our own d*cks, but WHY must Daryl insist on trying to beat my score in Bejeweled Blitz on his iphone immediately after sex?

Shee-it.

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twitter twitter little star…

I used to adore Hollywood stars. I’d have this internal “image” of them in my head of how they would drive in a convertible about the coast of gorgeous California from garden party to social event with ease. They’d be in outfits that they shopped for on sun-filled jaunts to Rodeo Drive sacking different shoes for every day in between tennis lessons on bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

Then I signed up for Twitter, and discovered I was WRONG.

I don’t truly know why I opted to join the “Tweeters” of the world. I think I caved in (as usual) during a second glass of an Australian Shiraz one evening when I was bored. On a side note: I have discovered my liking for MORE vegetables while on a second glass of wine. It’s as if the walls of disgust come tumbling down and my eyes get a glaze in them that make it easy for me to try new things! Hopefully this never happens while near a bungee cord and a bridge.

Anyway, as I began to navigate my way around on Twitter… okay, it wasn’t really considered navigating so much as stalking, I immediately started my Twitter fest by following half of the cast of my favorite soap opera (and one of the few remaining) General Hospital. I invited these actors into my home daily, so obviously they just HAD to be cool west coast folks as well. Right?

At the risk of not mentioning any specific names, the stunningly handsome and eloquent Prince of the Cassidine family, who also has the most incredible body known to man, is as stupid as an ass. His tweets directed me to his blog which he continuously touts as random thoughts from the beach. Try random complete sentences without the adjective of defecation in three or four different ways Tyler (oops). Myth debunked in a major way (although his ass still rocks).

Then there’s my favorite bitch/mother/lover/slut Carly whom I absolutely ADORE for her blatant honestly on the soap. Oh wait… that didn’t come out right. Regardless, her rants on Twitter don’t describe engaging social events by the pool or charity events with A-List stars, but rather include wine sloshed comments about her family vineyard and how they make candles from wine bottles to sell on a web site. She also punctuates every sentence she posts with ha or haha or hahaha as if she thinks everything she says is funny. I’m disappointed.

Other stars that fizzle include Kristen Chenoweth who gives me chills when she sings, but can’t type for shit (people: it’s you’re, not your for Christ sake!).  Sean Hayes from “Will and Grace” fame tweets @KChenoweth Love you back!!! Ridiculous.

When I signed up, I was looking for pretentious Hollywood people. I wanted who sleeps with whom, who got fired from what and who has yet to get thrown out of the proverbial closet!

Total Twitter disenchantment!

I’ve learned to follow, unfollow, and then follow again some of the hippest celebrities in the business. I’ve discovered how to RE-tweet, comment, email and post photos on Twitter. I’ve educated myself on those incessant #hash #tags as well.

But I wonder. Do I REALLY want to debunk the celebrity “mystique” that I’ve grown accustomed to from years of subscribing to People Magazine? Now where’s that bottle of Shiraz?

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molly loves rachel.

I have started and stopped this blog off and on for weeks; mostly because it’s fairly personal, and secondly, it doesn’t have a humorous angle to it really… unless I find something at the end that can take it there.

It was a warm, and pleasantly so, Friday evening in October 1997 in suburban West Grove, when I was sitting on the sofa waiting for a pizza to be delivered that I had ordered for the kids and I. Geri (my ex-wife) was working late and would be home shortly as our older kids, Ashley and Drew were upstairs in their rooms reading and computer gaming respectively. The doorbell startled me slightly as I stood figuring it was the pizza being delivered and opened the door. It was my neighbor from across the street, Jeff, looking a little pale as he said “Ed, there has been an accident with Terri (his wife) and the kids. Molly is with them as well.”

The odd thing I remember about this moment was my uneasy sense of calmness. I thought that perhaps they were sideswiped, or had a tire blow out, or a mild fender bender of some kind and I thought they possibly needed us to come pick them up and bring them all home. My image could not have been further from the truth.

As Jeff drove us to the site of the accident, we were both silent… my mind still playing this cruel trick of denial at the possible severity of the situation. I was naive. As we rounded the bend after a very long 10 minute ride, we were halted by a police officer who had the road closed. After we identified who we were, he avoided eye contact and directed us to park so we could walk up a small hill to where the accident was.

I can remember like it was yesterday as Jeff and I walked, and then sprinted up this hill together yet quite separate. The entire situation was now playing in slow motion as if I were watching a movie and playing a role that I was unfamiliar with and did not want to play. The smoke, the stench of gasoline and the sound of sirens were beginning to take over, and it was getting dark…

The first image truly BURNED into my mind was father (Jeff) and mother (Terri) seeing each other face to face for the first time in the surreal flashing lights and fuel smoked darkness as I noticed briefly that Terri’s arm was wrapped and in a sling of some sort. Their faces screamed anguish like none I ever seen, the words I could not hear as they embraced and I continued further into this nightmare of lights, crying, shouting, the chatter of walkie talkies, orange and blue uniforms, an over-turned smoking black SUV in the middle of the road and the ever present smell of burning gasoline as I continued crunching on broken glass for a few more yards… I could literally hear my heart pounding in slow motion as I came upon the minivan alongside of the road split in two like a broken candy bar but still held together somehow in the back. Inside the van was my daughter’s 7 year old best friend, Rachel, and she was just lying on the seat surrounded by broken glass that shimmered like ice as my mind continued to falsify reality by telling me that she was just sleeping with the only physical damage being a slight trickle of blood from her scalp that flowed delicately onto the seat of the van below her. My first thought was, WHY is she alone. Why were the EMT’s not near her? I could see them in a huddle on the street over something or someone (which I later surmised was Terri and Jeff’s youngest 5 year old son Georgie) that I could not register. I startled myself when my own voice that I did not recognize screamed, “Where is MOLLY WILLIAMS?!”

Someone answered in an echo, “She is up the bank in the cornfield!”

I scrambled through some slight brush to where there were 3 or 4 EMT’s surrounding my Molly on one of those stretchers that is used to secure a patient. In the dark, my mind continued to play tricks as I came upon my 6 year old child strapped securely as I bent down as I said, almost TOO softly, “Molly?” The way I was situated was sort of looking at her upside down, her entire face covered in blood as I leaned in to look closer. Her eyes were closed as if dead or as if she were shutting out the horrendous visual images thrust before her. She opened her eyes, and I remember with the deep red blood as a background over her entire face, that her eyes were the bluest eyes I had ever, and will ever, see in my life… she spoke to me in a tiny, quivering voice, “I’m gonna be okay Daddy,” almost as if it were a question to me and as if she was trying desperately to force away this nightmare. She had a deep gash in her forehead that was so deep, I could see her skull. If you’ve ever been a parent or anyone really, who has seen someone close in dire peril and you have to FORCE yourself to LOOK calm in your eyes and face, it is the hardest yet most crucial thing you can do. I managed a weak grin and helped the EMT’s load her into the waiting ambulance.

Molly, the EMTs and I shared a long, Friday night traffic filled, siren blared ride to Christiana Hospital while the EMT’s gave me her initial rundown of leg fractures, severe head trauma and possible internal injuries yet to be determined. Molly and I held hands as I was on the phone trying to calm my wife at the time. It seemed like it took HOURS to get to the hospital…

Unaware that all three children were taken to the same hospital and floor, I ran into Jeff in a small side hallway while I was waiting for the doctor to “hand-set” Molly’s broken leg as well as check for additional injuries. We were alone together surrounded by a sea of stark white echoes as we hugged and he whispered weakly in my ear that “Rachel will not make it. George is in a medically induced coma and under observation.” In my mind, I am thinking that this is not true and that God will fix all of this and we’ll all just go home tomorrow and eat the cold pizza while watching a Disney video. He did not fix this.

Rachel did not make it. We surrounded her “brain-dead” body 24 hours later to pray for her as the life support was about to be removed. Her organs were donated and her spirit continues to live deep within us all. Georgie had eventually come out of the coma and recuperated nicely after having plastic surgery to fix a deep “X-shaped” over 100 stitched gash in his face.

Molly has developed into an amazing daughter to me. She had plastic surgery on her forehead, and wore a leg cast while having to be in a wheelchair for several weeks. We’ve talked about that night. She once told me that she remembered feeling like the van was going to blow up with her in it due to the heavy smell of gasoline, and she thought all her teeth were broken (it was shattered glass in her mouth) and she remembers how her friend Rachel’s body was lying on her lap after the accident and she wouldn’t wake up.

The experience forced Molly and I to have a relationship like no other. A relationship where we KNOW that life is precious and that LOVE is the most important thing in the world. Rachel’s favorite thing was turtles. Molly had a first tattoo illustrated on the inside of her wrist last year of a turtle.

I’m struggling with trying to find something funny about this post; perhaps the fact that when I hug people today, I hug them a little harder and longer than most, almost inappropriately so. Life is not a guarantee. Revel in it EVERY day.

Love,

ed.

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My Heart Will Go On…

Ugh… remember THAT song? Actually this story is NOT about THAT song that I initially liked, then loved, then I just wanted to punch Celine Dion in the face. I digress. THIS story is about MY heart.

Don’t panic. It’s not broken, injured or even bleeding (although some of my conservative friends would beg to differ); it was just a follow-up visit to my cardiologist this morning.

I had what I refer to as heart palpitations last year that culminated this past summer while Daryl and I were on a mini-excursion to our nation’s capital, Washington D.C. We cut the trip short on the second day, taking the train home because my heart felt like it was pounding out of my chest, and NOT in a GOOD way (like when I saw Barbra Streisand LIVE in concert for the first time in 1992).

As soon as we returned to West Chester, I asked Daryl if he would take me to the Emergency Room. One thing led to another, and eventually I ended up being admitted and eating the rest of my vacation days on the Chester County Hospital cardio floor (well not actually ON THE FLOOR, but the bed WAS hard as a frickin’ rock). After a slew of tests, probes (again, NOT in a good way) and enough blood drawn to start my own “Twilight,” it was diagnosed (by doctors, Hui, Louis and Dewey – DEAD serious) that I was suffering from atria fibulation which is apparently quite common and certainly somewhat treatable in my case. I was prescribed Metoprolol which slows down my heart rate and makes my blood pressure stay low.

I’ve been doing fine since then and I had a scheduled follow up visit early this morning with my cardiologist, Dr. Hui at 8:45 am. WHY do I schedule these things so early on my day off? It sounds SO smart and practical when you set appointments up weeks in advance… I think that I’ll get it done early and have the rest of the day to get other things done, but what happens is it’s usually so early that when I get done the scheduled appointment, I just want go home and take a nap!

Anyway, I got to the “Medical Complex” a few minutes early but had to locate a parking space. Okay… they don’t call these places a “complex” for nothing. By the time I FOUND a parking space (in the 500 car capacity lot) that was 3 miles from the front entrance, I was actually 5 minutes LATE for my appointment! At frickin’ 8:45! I can’t figure that one out.

As I bounced (yes, with the average age in the office, my regular gait WAS a bounce) into the reception area, the song playing on the office music system was “To Sir with Love” from the Sidney Poitier movie of the same name. I smiled and greeted the receptionist with, “Do you remember THIS movie?” to which she raised her eyes from her bifocals, stared blankly at me without cracking a smile and said, “Who are you here to see?” I thought to myself, HOW can people be so miserable in the morning, then I realized that in this profession, they probably KNEW the bad effects of caffeine and weren’t allowed to have any.

After the obligatory scanning of insurance cards, signing a few disclaimer forms with more asterisks than I could count (which I NEVER read because they’re just plain scary when your health is involved) and being TOLD to have a seat, I pulled out my iphone to play a quick game of Bejeweled Blitz so I didn’t have to notice that I was the only patient with hair that wasn’t totally gray.

“Mr. Edwin Williams?”a nurse startled me, and I popped my head up and said, “Let me finish my game first” jokingly, to which she dryly retorted, “NOW. The doctor is VERY busy. Follow me this way please.” I got up and followed her through a labyrinth of clinical hallways, shut doors, and a few open doors… I saw one where a man was “floating” horizontally on some sort of machine that looked like something from the Starship Enterprise. He looked a little frightened.

I joked to the nurse who was escorting me deeper into this medical maze that I should have dropped some breadcrumbs so I could eventually find my way out after my visit. She did not smile. AGAIN I considered the lack of caffeine and silently forgave her.

We finally entered “my” exam room and it was about 300 degrees in there. The nurse immediately said that “it was much colder in here earlier” and that I should be thankful as she ordered me to “Remove your shirt please.” I complied and saw her pulling all the cables out of the EKG machine. While she was getting it set up she told me to lie down. I looked around this steam bath and noticed the primitive and unattractive pictures of flowers that usually line office walls and of course there were posters of close up shots of ghastly diseases and a plastic model of a heart and two boxes of surgical gloves. Why can’t I have posters of the Chippendales, some cute kittens or warm beach shots of the Caribbean? And let me romanticize about heartache, heartless and heartfelt… I DON’T need to actually SEE one with veins and in color!

I ALMOST expressed my thoughts verbally to the nurse then quickly realized that she was in charge of REMOVING those sticky tape things from my hairy body and immediately vetoed any additional humor attempts. If you’ve ever had an EKG, you know that there are about ten “cables” that they hook you up to and they conduct the EKG for about 30 seconds. It costs the insurance company about $500 to do this.

Anyway, as she’s hooking me up, I slipped horribly, smiled and asked “What happens if you have an extra cable left over?” to which she did not look up and typed HARDER on the keyboard of the machine as she continued the EKG.

One thing you DON’T want to hear while you’re having your heart rate monitored is, “Hmmm…THAT’S not right.” Mind you, it wasn’t in a panic-like tone, but still, it’s like the time I was on my FIRST commercial airline flight in the 70’s by myself and the “stewardess” looks at a seam in the ceiling of the aircraft that’s covered in ice and says, “Hmmm, I’ve NEVER seen THAT happen before.” You just don’t need to HEAR this, right? After a few “tape” adjustments to correct the problem (I SWEAR she was ripping it off out of jealousy that I was allowed caffeine) and 3 tries later the EKG was complete.

“Nurse Rached” left as my doctor entered and stated, “You look a little sweaty there Mr. Williams. Are you feeling okay?” “Yeah Doc, it’s from the temperature in here” I said.  After the typical taking my blood pressure and listening to my heart, he asked me if I had any questions about the medication he’d prescribed last summer. I instantly chimed up about possible side effects like “always being sleepy” and “putting on extra weight” to which he shook his head and answered NO ,with a grin, to BOTH questions. At least the DOCTOR had a sense of humor.

As I was leaving the “Heart” building after making an appointment for a “Stress Test,” I noted that every other patient was sporting a walker and the music playing was (no lie) “I left my heart in San Francisco.”

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