My hypochondria knows no bounds. I am the avatar for the phrase a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
When I was a medical student, it was not at all rare for me to find that I had each new disease that I was studying, and in its most intriguing and unusual form. Reading about inflammation of the gall bladder? – why, there it was, that slight tenderness just under the ribs on my right side, exactly where the textbook said it would be.
Fortunately for me the student health service was just across the street from the University of Minnesota Hospital, and my feet wore a path that led straight to it. The front desk had been alerted to my visits, and would not rush me to the front of the line no matter how incendiary my complaints might be. It was always – have a seat, Jon, we’ll get to you in a moment – even as one organ after another failed while I languished on that hard plastic chair behind the potted plant.
So a month or two ago when I noticed that I had a “bruise” under my toenail, I didn’t give it much thought. Must have stubbed that toe somehow, was my assessment. But when it did not properly disappear by the time that I thought it should, my diagnosis went in a single leap from harmless hematoma to end-stage cancer and I presented myself at the reception desk in a local dermatologist’s office.
I have an extremely malignant toe, can I see the doctor, please?
Sir, if you will just fill out this paperwork and return it to me, I will help you get that appointment you desire.
But I may not have that long … how about putting me in an examination room while I work on the papers, and having a nurse stand by taking my vital signs every few minutes?
Sir, take the forms, sit over there behind the potted plant, and fill them out. Then come back when you are done.
All of which I did faithfully, even as I could feel my toe entering advanced stages of pre-mortem nastiness.
There, now can I see the doctor?
Certainly, Sir, how would next Tuesday work for you?
I could barely contain my panic.
But there is an excellent chance that I will not make it until next Tuesday …
I’m sorry, Sir, it’s the best I can do on such short notice.
I take the appointment. Against all odds, I am still alive on Tuesday, and manage to walk under my own power into an exam room, where I am handed a gown appropriately sized for someone weighing eighteen pounds and who is 24 inches tall.
The young doctor enters with a broad smile on his face (obviously he had not been alerted to the terminality of my condition) and he bounds over to the table where I sit shivering in the napkin they have given me to wear.
Well, let’s take a look at that toe, shall we?
He is almost unbearably cheerful.
Hmmmm … looks like you’ve bruised that nail for certain. Do you recall the injury?
No, I don’t. But Doctor, look more closely, please. Do you see those linear striations, that unhealthy purplish color …
Yes, yes, of course I do. Exactly what a bit of blood under the toenail should look like. I tell you what. Let’s give you a return appointment in, say, six months and we’ll reassess the whole thing. How does that sound?
Like my death knell, I think. But what I say is –
That would be fine, Doctor, whatever you feel is best.
I put my clothes back on and leave the clinic. They will be sorry when they read my obituary a month from now, I know they will. They will be inconsolable, and if I find that it is at all possible, I plan to return to haunt them.
How can you not love Brandi Carlisle? She gives country/folk music such a good name. Here she is doing a beautiful Crosby, Stills, & Nash tune. No artifice. No gimmicks. No posturing.
A song like this … I don’t know how it affects others … but for a few minutes it arranges my too-often chaotic thoughts into something unified and mellow and compassionate. Too bad the effect doesn’t last all day, but it’s still a good start for a morning.
Here she is with the Hanseroth twins, her longtime backup band, showing us all how harmony works.
(Seriously, if you want to spend some time exploring an artist’s work, you could do worse than taking up with Carlile for a fortnight or two. She’s real.)
Vegetables Never Served In My Family Of Origin But That Aren’t Horrible Department
I don’t believe that anyone named Flom had ever eaten a brussels sprout until the 1990s. Before that they were regarded with suspicion as tiny cabbages that were stunted from birth, either through witchcraft or the mischief of the god Loki, and therefore likely to be poisonous.
But now Robin and I have them as a side dish at least monthly. Mostly we roast or sautée them to a fare-thee-well, and then take them from the stove just before they become charcoal. At this point they are crispy and delicious.
Speaking only for ourselves, we are not that concerned about the Norse gods, and we have suffered no ill effects from consuming this vegetable.
Except for the gas, and I blame that squarely on Loki.
This is the time of year, right around the first of February, that I allow myself to begin thinking past Winter. From Thanksgiving till this moment I resolutely do not let my mind drift into a warmer future filled with sunshine and short-sleeved garments.
Let’s face it, it is so much easier to leave one’s home without having to first round up long underwear, scarves, heavy or puffy coats/jackets, snow boots, gloves, knit caps, parkas, neck gaiters, and a good attitude.
Now, the two of us dogo XC skiing and snowshoeing, Robin is pondering taking up ice skating once again, and we go on bundled-up walks when the snow isn’t too deep. In short, we do get out. But it requires some planning to avoid frostbite, chilblains, snow-blindness, hypothermia, boredom, and death. [Reference: photograph of man who started to ruminate on Spring too early and ignored the basics of cold-weather strategizing.]
Tomorrow is the first of the month, and I will allow myself, let’s say, five minutes of Spring-think. More than that, well, it could be dangerous.
I’m not letting the coronavirus get to me, not at all. Even though the daily numbers on incidence and mortality are expanding geometrically, I say “Piffle.” Yesterday I read that there are now 8 cases in Boston, but why should I let that trouble me? Boston is 2200 miles from Paradise. That’s a long trip, especially if you are feeling funky.
Yesterday I was completing the purchase of a few groceries, and coughed ever so slightly for whatever reason. The eyebrows of the checkout person went skyward as she asked me “Have you been to China?” I couldn’t resist answering “How did you know? I only returned from Wuhan yesterday and last night I had this fever and chills. Is there something going around?”
But even though I bravely resist panicking, I am nothing if not a prudent man. So I left the store with several hundred dollars worth of dried beans, cases of canned vegetables, and other foods that store easily. In fact, my garage is now completely filled with what you might call survival food. I call it sensible planning. I figure I could last six months before I had to return to City Market if worst came to worst.
I’ve begun to wonder if I should acquire a firearm to be able to defend my stash of beans against wandering bands of improvident and hungry Coloradans. Something large and impressive enough that I might not even have to purchase ammunition for it – just looking at the thing would impress upon any intruder the wisdom of going elsewhere.