I haven't driven at night yet... .

At my one month check up last week following eye surgery last month, my doctor gave me an out for a third eye surgery in the fall to remove the oil filling my healing eye by telling me at the outset that he had clients who have left the oil in their eyes for years and even decades, although he didn't recommend that because the vision isn't so good out of that eye and it leads to cataracts.  He might as well have winked at me.

But more eye surgery is coming up in October or November.  Maybe I should schedule it around Thanksgiving to thank providence for restoring sight in that eye to any degree or to be thankful for the character-building process of another two months of sedate, careful recovery.  You know, the Romans 5 passage about tribulation/patience/experience and hope.

The surgeon suggested that I might want to travel now because after that surgery I'd be in recovery mode for many weeks.  But then, if all went well, the repair would be permanent.  Thank the Lord.

Where would I go, since I'm not in shape to work on any campaign, which had been my intention earlier in the summer once September came, and I haven't tried any turnpike driving nor driving at night yet.  Although I'm healed or mostly healed, I still have trouble with my eye (momentary white flares, steroid eye drops twice a day) and it feels funny so I'm mostly stick-at-home right now and I can't wait to get this oil out of my eye.

  

It's about over

It's been happening a lot lately.

I go in to donate blood, they take my blood pressure, whistle, and either thereupon wink, take my b/p manually ten minutes later and take my blood, or they take my b/p again ten minutes later as a courtesy and immediately usher me out the door. Depends on which Nurse Ratched is running the donation center that day.

Today the machine read 182/106. I knew that wasn't going to fly. The head nurse was perplexed though. She said, "I don't think the machine is reading right. It has your pulse too low. I don't think it got your pulse."

She said she'd take my b/p "manually" in ten minutes and I thought I was going to get a pass and be able to donate. You know, maybe a b/p of 160/99. The lower number cutoff, I have learned, is 100. So the second time, manually, it often comes in at 99. Amazing.

But this Nurse Ratched lied. She sent another nurse over in ten minutes to hook me up to the machine again.

I asked her if she had had a nice New Year's. "No," she said. I guess I looked crestfallen because then she offered that her favorite Uncle had died that day, of a massive heart attack. At age 37. Oh.

I don't think my numbers changed. This nurse was also curious about my anomalous pulse reading. She asked if I "bothered" to exercise.

"Sure," I said, miffed that I don't look buff. "I run 30 miles a week."

"Oh, I see. That explains your very low pulse. What's going on in the rest of your life?" She meant my sky-high b/p.

"You get divorced and see what happens to you," I said a little defensively. That's the two-second version of a four-hour epic.

"Haven't been there but I hear ya," she said as she showed me the door. I assured her on my way out that her chances of "being there" were one in two.

I think my silly, compulsive goal of donating blood 100 times is about over, stalled at 77. This is about the twelfth consecutive time that I have had a troublesome reading, and I've actually been declined about three of the last five times. It's not worth the gas to go to the blood center every eight weeks anymore. Looking around the center, you'd think they need the business though. All I saw in there this morning donating were a few old men. Nobody else is eligible, I guess. The list of exclusions is vast and daunting. And if they come up with anything that you have, they report you to the health department. Good luck getting health insurance ever again in our wonderful society then, Mr. or Ms. Good Samaritan.

Oh yeah, I'm on medication for it. Been on different meds for it for a few years now. But you know, every mediation has a side effect. That's a whole 'nother story. The current witches' brew gives me a dry rasping cough that bedevils me in racing. You can hear me a long way off in races. It really bothers me. The last mixture had a completely different, but worse, side effect.

I left the blood center feeling furtive, like I'd done something wrong. So it goes.

Put inside the MRI tube

Two days ago, I posted about the preparations I underwent for the MRI of my bad shoulder.

After the dye injection into my shoulder socket for a contrast medium, it was time for me to be inserted into the MRI chamber. This is a long cylindrical tube the body is slid into for the magnetic resonant imaging. It is a tight fit in order to reduce the background interference during the scan which degrades the image. You must lie very still in there or else the image will not be clear. Claustrophobia is a problem.

I laid down on my back on a long narrow platform and the technicians gave me earplugs and said I would be in there about twenty minutes. They warned me that it would be noisy. Next they wrapped me tightly in a swaddling sheet, not so much to bind me as to confine me so I wouldn’t move. They advised me to keep my eyes closed, told me to relax and slid me in.

I did not like it in there at all. It was well lit but the curving metal wall was only a quarter inch from my face. I couldn’t even raise my head a bit to look down the length of my body. I could sense the narrowness of the enveloping tube around my body.

I started thinking of the people who had been trapped in confined spaces by tons of rubble at the collapsed Twin Towers. I imagined that if I screamed, they’d pull me back out. I sure couldn’t raise my arms to start pounding on the metal sides of the contraption for attention. I wondered if I yelled and nobody came, if I could wiggle out feet first. I thought that egress that way would be very slow, glacial even, if I could keep myself calm.

There were several loud clicks, as the camera adjusted, I suppose. A technician came on the intercom and said to lie very still, that they were about to take the first picture and it would be noisy for around two minutes.

A loud buzzing noise came on and stayed on. It sounded like being inside a microwave. I thought about how long twenty minutes would be. I closed my eyes rather than peer at a wall of curving white metal sweeping around my face.

Next: The dreamy state.

Chicago

I was feelin' so bad, I asked my family doctor just what I had,
I said, Doctor, (Doctor) Mr. M.D., (Doctor)
Now can you tell me, tell me, tell me, what's ailin' me?" (Doctor)

He said, Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, (Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
Yes, indeed, all you really need...

...is 250MG Zithromax for five days.

I feel better already.

This website details what you should avoid while taking Zithromax, including exposure to sunlight. I sure hope Sunday, when I run the Chicago Marathon, is a cloudy day.

The forecast for Sunday in Chicago is continued unseasonably warm and humid. Highs may reach or exceed the record of 86 (1947). Incoming clouds late. High of 86, low of 67.

Uh-oh. I don't do so well in hot.

But my friend Dori dispensed some wisdom in her last post. A positive outlook results in a positive outcome. Well stated!

I've had plenty of support as I've gotten ready to run Chicago for a worthy cause. Through the largess of supporters (thanks Not Born To Run!) of my effort, I have met my goal of raising money to hopefully make a difference in the lives of some persons in East Africa who are less fortunate then me.

I will be running this race in appreciation of the contributions of Ashley, Beth, David, Hallie, Jack, Jeanne, Rhea, Rich and Susie to this worthy cause. My friend Ashley is injured and I am running the race in appreciation of all the generous people who contributed to her fund-raising effort as well.

See you at the finish line in Chicago!