Peckerhead

A visit to my doctor the other day, revealed something about myself that I was not aware of prior.  I was seeing my physician regarding another matter, when she, my doctor, revealed that I had Psoriasis.

For weeks, my skin was dry and itchy and even going so far as cracking and bleeding, as well.  To look at me, I resemble a man prone to bar fights, the way my knuckles, hands and upper arms are riddled with sore patchy skin.  I'd thought it was just dry conditions in my house, as I have rarely been venturing out this past winter season.  That  coupled with the fact that I've stopped chewing my nails, thus allowing them to grow out and actually do damage when I scratch an itch.  I should trim them, but it's been decades since I've actually had fingernails that extended past my finger tips. 

I also believed it was a necessary sign of aging.  I'm not that that old, yet, but I recall seeing my Great Aunt, Chrissie, when she was getting up in years.  Her hands and lower arms resembled what mine currently look like.  Her skin was thin and frail and the slightest wind would cause her skin to crack open and bleed.  At least, that's what I initially believed, but in retrospect, there may have been a more obvious cause for those abrasions and wounds.

Growing up, I lived on a farm, just outside the city limits.  We could see the sprawling houses in the distance, advancing closer and closer, like trudging foot soldiers.  The land belonged to my Great Aunt, Chrissie.  When I was quite young, she had cattle, which were a source of milk for many years.  She also had chickens, which were also a source of sustenance.  My dad, also farmed the land for seed.  Grain, flax and canola was his preferred crops. Eventually, the cattle were sold off and only the chickens remained.

Like clock work, every morning and every evening, Chrissie would walk down to the coop and gather up the eggs, returning them to the house.  It was during these spells that I'm sure the chickens would lash out at the large hand groping them and stealing away their unborn offspring.  As dumb as chicken appear to be, surely there's some sort of motherly instinct that exists.  These pecks at Chrissie's hands and wrists, now that I think about it, is a more obvious cause for those wounds, than mere Psoriasis.

Startled poultry, lashing out and pecking at prying hands stealing their young, it was a natural reaction, but pales considerably for the surprise that would eventually befront them in the not-too-distant future.  If they thought cold hands were a nuisance, then they were in for quite the surprise.

I was quite young at the time.  I do recall that much.  Heading down to the chicken coop with my mom and sister in tow, meeting Chrissie who was armed with a flashlight.  We would stand at the doorway, accompanied by very little.  Only the darkness and the muffled squawks of panic that were coming from inside the old chicken coop.  We'd hear some rustling as Chrissie would return to the open door and hand over a couple chickens, which we'd carry, two-by-two, over to the far side of the cattle barn, the side where the horse, Jim, used to reside.  Jim was a work horse who did very little else than tow cow manure out to be spread over the field for fertilizer.  At least, I think that's all he did...  That and fart.  I do remember my dad saying that he'd be reigning the horse, when in mid-stride, Jim would raise his tail and unleash a nasty smelly fart.  That's for another day and another blog, maybe.

Two-by-two, the chickens would be delivered into small pens in the old horse barn, where they'd stay until the next morning when their fate would be sealed.  Like those who opposed King Henry VIII, these poor chickens who'd sacrificed their eggs for our consumption (not mine, I was deathly allergic to eggs in my youth), were now paying the ultimate price.

I was not allowed in the barn at this time, with good reason.  Even the idea of all those chickens being beheaded and having their feet amputated so violently, bothers me now.  The little heads and feet were discarded out the door, where my sister and I would retrieve them and feed them to the dogs.  (*Editor's Note: I took a long pause here, pondering those actions.  It's disturbing.)  A few pecks and punctures were a small price to pay, I suppose, considering the huge sacrifice those chickens would ultimately pay.

These days, I don't want to know how the food gets to my table.  I like pigs.  Wouldn't want to hurt them in any way, but I also love bacon.  The method that gets that bacon from the farm to my table, doesn't concern me.  Nor what chickens have to endure, as well as lamb, beef, whatever the case.  Blissful ignorance is on my side.  As long as I honour the animal that gave it's life to feed me, I believe that's good enough.  The thought of becoming a vegan, based solely on fear of hurting animals, is weak and stupid, but that's a blog for another time.  Bon Appétit!

"The method that gets the meat to my table,
doesn't concern me.  Fried chicken is good!"

Mr. Winky's Big Day Out

After much concern regarding a health issue, I finally consulted my doctor. Given that it dealt with such a personal subject, I'd been hesitant up to that point to mention anything, but on that day, I finally decided I'd had enough.

The doctor ran a couple tests in house and decided that it wasn't anything associated with my having Type II diabetes.  I breathed a sigh of relief on that point, however I wondered what exactly was the cause of my problem.  A few more tests were ordered up by my physician and on my way I went.

A couple days later I retrieved an official looking letter from my mailbox.  Typed on letterhead from the Saskatchewan College of Physicians, the note informed me that I was to attend an ultrasound appointment, followed up by a Cystoscopy a couple weeks following that.  I've had many ultrasounds over the years for a plethora of injuries I've sustained.  I knew there was nothing to fret about in regards to that, but by name alone, Cystoscopy sounded invasive and complex.  I read on in the letter, which vaguely described the nature of that test.  Thank the heaven's for Google, as I looked up the definition of Cystoscopy and was horrified by what I learned.  Long story short, the doctor freezes my downstairs area then shoves a camera in through my pee-pee.  Ho-ly-f*******ck!

So for a few weeks I had that to look forward to, even going so far as sharing on Twitter that while people would be outside enjoying the hot summer weather, your's truly was going to be in the hospital, legs up in the stirrups and a camera being raked through me like a piston hammering through the cylinder of a small block Chevy.

Today was the big day.  I swallowed my pride and all my fears.  There was nothing I could do now, but to face the music and deal with this adversity like I do every other roadblock in life.  In fact, while I sat "commando" in the waiting room, a thin cotton fabric being the only thing separating "me" from the menagerie of odd looking persons in the room with me, I noted a parade of attractive nurses strolling past.  "I wonder if one of them is my nurse." I thought to myself, then realizing how embarrassing it would be, them eyeballing me in my state of vulnerability, or worse, my rising to the occasion.  It might be flattering, on some level, but highly inappropriate and embarrassing.

Soon I heard my name being called.  The nurse introduced himself as Emanuelle.  A him, I thought, this was going to be less embarrassing.  Emanuelle appeared to be an African transplant.  His accent was thick and I had him repeat his name, as I failed to catch it the first time.  He had long hair that was twisted into thin dreadlocks and it was tied back and spilling out from under his nurses cap.  It was at this precise moment I realized that I was going to have to write a blog about this.

Mere seconds ago, I was worried about popping wood in front of my nurse, and now I see my nurse is actually a young virile man.  A strapping young fella. An African-American young fellow and immediately my thoughts went to the stereotypes of young African-Americans and the incredible girth that they sport, "down there".   Although he is likely very professional in his application of medicine, this dude is likely going to snicker when he sees my insignificant appendage.  I know the comparison goes without saying, but it's still a bruise to the old ego.

He had me sit on the gurney to wait for the doctor's arrival, who entered the room almost immediately.  I'm relieved to see that he's of Asian decent and before any question of his fitness as a physician enters my mind, my self-consciousness wanes away believing that as insignificant as I'm going to be stacked next to the black guy, I gotta be monstrous over the Asian doctor's peanut.

I was instructed to lie back on the gurney while the nurse was going to clean and sanitize my area.  Again the thought of an uprising interrupted my usual thoughts.  Baseball, I thought.  Baseball.  The most boring sport on TV, that'll keep me "relaxed".  If I thought getting wood in the hands of the female nurse would be embarrassing, it'd go double, triple...,  a million times more embarrassing in the hands of a dude.

Next the doctor brought over the device that would he'd be doing the exploratory with.  I looked at him and said, "I don't think that's going to fit."  He smiled and assured me, "It'll fit.  Don't you worry."  This caused me to breathe heavily.  I laid back and stared at a poster on the ceiling.  It was a monkey with the caption "I've gotta learn to relax."  The nurse, Emanuelle, knelt down next to my head and pointed up at the poster and said, "Look at the monkey.  Take deep breaths and exhale through your mouth."

"Monkey?" I said, "I thought that was a mirror."  Emanuelle chuckled and patted me on the shoulder as he rose to his feet.  The procedure then began.  The freezing went in and ironically burned like a roman candle.  It felt like hot lava being pouring into me, a single droplet at a time.  The scorching sensation soon dissipated, but not for long.

What I initially believed would be equated to shards of broken glass being etched into my wiener, via the Google explanation, the discomfort associated with the procedure wasn't quite as violent or painful, but it wasn't a joyous experience either.

After all was said and done, the doctor informed me that everything checked out.  My bladder and all points in between checked out and appeared healthy.  I can now breathe another heavy sigh of relief, but can't help but wonder what the cause of my issues are.  The doctor suggested watching my diet.  Yay..!  A diet already limited by allergies, could soon become even more concentrated.  Pretty soon, I'll be sucking nutrients out of a f**king tube, like the astronauts do.

I sat down on the toilet, following the exam, and tried to urinate.  The freezing had really taken hold, I couldn't feel anything except something that felt like rusty razor blades.  I tried repeatedly, but believe that I'd failed.  I got up and looked into the bowl.  Something came out, to my surprise.  I hope I don't have any "accidents" on the way home, I thought.

A Brilliant Disguise

"We've found something on your scan.  It's an anomaly, of sorts." the doctor told me in a soothing tone.  "We're not certain what it is, exactly."

I was taken aback by the news. 

I'd been under the weather for sometime.  Stricken with pneumonia, to a degree that I'd not felt in a very long time.  So much that it actually hurt to breathe, not to mention the sharp pains, like shards of glass cutting into my chest whenever I'd hack and cough.  These pains are what had me concerned.  The "anomalies" discover in my CT Scan, were the likely cause of this discomfort.

"It might just be a result of your pneumonia.  We'll wait a couple weeks and do another test."  

A couple weeks later, I found myself back in the doctor's office, discussing the results of a second CT Scan.  "The black masses are still there.  They may be in relation to your pneumonia, but it might be beneficial to do a biopsy."

I opted, instead, to wait.  A biopsy would take me out of work for six to eight weeks, as there'd be a chance of infection during the recuperative stage.  This was a break that I would be unable to afford financially.  The doctor reassured me that we could wait eight weeks for another CT Scan, as it would be unlikely that the masses found in my chest scans would grow much further than what they were, which was described to me as roughly the size of a 25 cent piece.  She [my doctor] acted as if this wasn't very big, but holding a quarter up to my chest, this seems like a gargantuan size of anything foreign in one's lung.  Call me f*cking crazy. 

Eight weeks passed by in a flash, but the whole time I had this terrible weight on my mind, haunting my every thought.  I never bothered to share my news with anyone, except my employers, believing that if there was a chance that I'd suddenly be rushed into surgery of some sort, I didn't want it to come as a surprise to them.  I may have mentioned in passing to my mother, too, but without going into any depth or detail.  My family is the sort that would turn on me and give me that whole "I Told You So" speech.  I can hear my sister spouting off her motherly advice of "If you didn't drink so much pop, you wouldn't be in this situation."  As if drinking an extra bottle of diet soda is going to affect my breathing.

Of course, bearing such silence does weigh heavy on a person.  I envy anyone who has a partner or a friend that they can lean on for emotional support.  At the same time, I hate being a burden on people.  I did break down and tell one other friend, if my memory is correct.  He did express concern for my well being, which was nice, but I never shared the bitter details of what was racing through my mind.

I truly believe that possessing a positive outlook and good attitude can thwart any illness 90 percent of the time (or higher).  This is what I did.  On the outside, I continued to be as bright-eyed and smiley-faced as I could, despite the tirade that brewing inside my head.  I knew that I didn't have cancer, and believed as much then as I do now, that if I DID have cancer, that I'd beat it.  No sweat.  Hands down.  I'd look Death straight in the face, wag my finger at him and tell him to "F*ck off!!"   Just like a clown, though, what you see on the outside, doesn't always reflect what's on the inside.

It's been a few weeks since that CT Scan, at which time, I was scheduled for another CT this week.  I contacted the doctor early, about two weeks ago.  I was suffering tremendous pain when I breathed, let alone if I coughed.  My concerns grew ten fold.  My concerns were met in turn with the doctor who upped my appointment.  I went in for another scan and the next day I found myself in her office.

The anomalies or masses or whatever the hell is on my lung, is still there, to a degree, but have shrunk some.  They're suspected to be just scar tissue now, which lends to why I'm experiencing discomfort when I breathe.  Unfortunately, I think this is going to be an ongoing attribute for the remainder of my life.  Just like my knees hurting and the increase of migraines when it gets to cooler temperatures, so will my breathing begin to hurt.  As much as I rock, sometimes it sucks to be me.

So why do I choose to write this entry today?  It's something my sister told me on the weekend.  She told me: Some people have it rough, you should just be happy you have it so good.  I just shook my head.  Knowing what I know, she doesn't have a f*cking clue, what my life is like.

I remember watching some MTV show a few years back, where they'd showcase a celebrity.  The tagline to the show was "You think you know, but you have no idea."  So the next time you share a laugh with someone, take a moment to wonder.  Are they happy?  Or is that just a brilliant disguise.

Whack-F*ck!!

Whack-f*ck [WAK fuk]  whack-f*cking;  noun, verb - 1. A term associated with the game of golf, usually involving the "whacking" of the golf ball from the tee-off box, resulting in the ball either slicing or shanking, ultimately flying in any direction other than towards the intended target, and the player crying out an expletive, vulgar in nature.  Example of use:  WHACK!  "F*CK!!!"