S*cks To Be Me (#7): The Eye Part 2 (to a power of six)

Okay.

I’m going to finally, finally, finally (I promise) get to my eye surgery. I know I’ve said that like fifty-nine and three quarters times before. I know that I’ve tantalized you with images of a giant, bat-winged, fuzzy-eared, tentacle-equipped, fang-encrusted eyeball (with scales). And, I know, I’ve not delivered so far.

But, heck, if you wanted speed, efficiency and quickness, you’d be reading Twitter right now.

But the Eye…

*

As you’ll recall from columns way, Way, WAY back, I needed cataract surgery. The discovery of this aforesaid fact produced a certain in effect in me. That effect was technically known as sweat-poppin’, limb-trembling’, stomach-churnin’, heart-knockin’, breath-gaspin’, pants-wettin’ …terror.

As in Terror.

As in HOLY CHRIST THEY’RE GONNA CUT OUT MY EYE!

Well, that’s a little bit of an understatement, but Subtle is my middle name.


*

So, for weeks before this little trip to the eye doc, I’d been having these teeny-tiny, teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy manifestations of some slight anxiety. Little things. Like panic attacks. And trembling. And hyperventilation. And, now and then, just for variety, throwing up a lot.

The reason for my anxiety? Well, I’ve sort of gone over this a bit in my other columns, but suffice to say that I have a thing about knives going into my eyeballs (can’t imagine why) and I knew about what cataract surgery USED to be like.

The operative word there is USED. You see, these days, cataract surgery is a pretty trivial thing. But, not that long ago, it was a DELETED dreadful business involving major surgery, stitches … STITCHES! … in the eye itself, month-long hospital stays during which your head would be pinned between sand-bags to prevent you from rolling over, and, well, lots of good stuff like that. The kind of sheer unadulterated nastiness that you just can’t get these days. Well, at least outside a Freddy Krueger Movie Marathon. Or a Rush Limbaugh Poetry Slam on Steroids.

And I’m just enough of an historian to know all that stuff. Ergo, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m terrified.

Just in case you didn’t get that, let’s spell it out. T as in Torture, E as in Eviscerate, RR as in Rack and Ruin, I as in Incredibly agonizing, F as in Flayed, I as in Indescribable pain, E as in Extreme anguish, and D as in total Destruction. Terrified.

And, mind you, this is all going on while I’m also dealing with all the other stuff I’ve described over the last few weeks—getting kicked out of my Ph.D. program by the Goddamn pompous asses who were supposed to be my advisors (anyone with experience in voodoo doll construction please contact me at the above address), the furnace breaking in the middle of winter, the flooded basement, etc., etc., and, of course, etc.

So . . . my nerves are shot.


*

December 15.

The day of my surgery arrives.

I wake up early that morning. I spend long moments staring into space. I shiver a lot. I wonder about writing a will. I wonder if it’s too late to be Born Again. Or convert to Catholicism. Or buy a Juju. But, no. The Juju shops aren’t open yet. Pity, really.

So, Martha gets up just after I finish filling out my Do Not Resuscitate order and Last Will and Testament. We have a small bite of breakfast. Breakfast bites me back. And then, we’re on our way.

*

We arrive at the location of my execution . . . er, I mean, where I’m going to have the surgery. It isn’t a hospital. It’s a medical office building just down the highway. It looks sort of like the place where you’d go to buy order entry software. And not a Freddy Krueger in sight.

We go into the lobby and I join a group of other men and women waiting our turn. I’m a little out of place. At 51 (as of 2008) I was fairly young for cataract surgery. Everyone around me is older. They look at me with faint suspicion, as though I’m there under false premises. Yes. I really don’t need the operation. I just have this fetish for sharp knives. Inserted into my eyeball. Next week, I’m off to the proctology office. I’m bringing my own sewer snake. Can’t wait.

So, we sit. I shake. And, in about twenty minutes, they call me.

Right. I stand unsteadily. Courage to the sticking place, oh boy. Walk the last mile. Keep a stiff upper lip. No hysterical weeping in the front office. Frightens the interns.

They take me back into the rear office. A nurse gives me a shot…

And…

And . . .

The next thing I know, it’s twenty minutes later, and the same nurse is giving me juice and a cookie.


*

Seriously, that’s about all I remember of the operation. I have a faint recollection of some lights flashing. But, not much else. No angst. No suffering. No doctors yelling “STAT,” and rushing me off to the ICU.

It was really kind of a disappointment.

I said to the nurse. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Nothing else?”

“Uh…no.”

“Where’s the pain and suffering?”

“We try to avoid those as a rule.”

“Well…damn.”

I think they ought to keep a box of toothpicks around the office. Just so they’ll have something to stick under the fingernails of people Who Expect More. Maybe I’ll write ‘em and suggest it.


*

A little later, I toddled out to the front office again. A couple of other patients asked me what it was like. I told them, “I’ve had hair cuts that hurt more.” Which was true. There was the woman in Dallas with the straight razor. But we won’t go into that. Way too horrible.

Anyway, shortly after that, Martha takes me home.

*

Pretty much for then on it’s a gentle coast down hill. I had to wear an eye patch for a while. But, basically, that’s all there is to it.

Like I say, kind of a disappointment.

The good news is that I’m no longer near-sighted in my left eye. The weird news is that I’m now far sighted in that eye.

Understand, that’s a very new thing for me. I’ve been myopic since I was about six . . . probably before, but no one noticed that I was squinting all the time. They thought I was just a nasty bitter child with a bilious attitude. And proud of it, too.

But, now…things are very different. I had to get reading glasses. I now wear only one contact lens (on my right eye) and that adds a certain note of complexity to morning preparations—I’m used to having two, you see, and I have to remember which eye it is that doesn’t get one now (harder than you might think when it’s 6 am and you’re trying to wake up).

Then, too, there is the fact that colors are bit different. Many seem more vibrant. And my depth perception is changed. Better, but changed. You see, now, I think I judge depth the way that most people with two eyes do—that is to say, I triangulate. But, before, I think I was scanning rapidly from side to side, and then (unconsciously) comparing the different scans. It took some real effort on my part to give up the latter (jury rigged) method for the former. But eventually, I got the job done.

And, in the process, I gained new respect for the one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater, famed in song and story. (And we’re talking the Sheb Wooley original, here. Not Alvin and The Chipmonks.)


*

So, that wraps up the eye surgery part of my story.

In fact, it should end the whole “S*cks To Be Me” series. Certainly, at the time, it seemed to me that events just couldn’t get any weirder. And that, as a result, Things Had To Get Back To Normal…

But of course . . .

The year 2008 had one last little adventure to throw my way.

It would involve going down a hill…sideways …in a Toyota…during a sleet storm.

But that’s for next time.


Onward and upward.























Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

S*cks To Be Me (#7): The Eye

Okay, folks. Here is where the shitake hits the ocular. Here’s where yours truly comes face to retina with the Giant Basketball-Sized Mutant Bat-Winged Red-Glowing Flying Eyeball (from Hell) and afterwards becomes a Bionic Bifocal Cyborg (eat your heart out, Terminator).

In short, this is where I have cataract surgery.


*

Okay, let’s have a quick recap. You’ll recall from way, way back at the start of this series that I have cataracts. I’m young to have ‘em (I’m 52 as of this writing) but I got ‘em just the same.

So, that means I gotta have surgery to get ‘em out. Specifically, I had to have surgery on the left eye. The right one’s probably going to follow in a few years.

Now, as you’ll also recall, it turns out that these days cataract surgery is pretty simpld. It is even an outpatient procedure. They give you some very cool drugs, wheel you into a special room, use advanced tools to open a micro-incision in the eye (so small it doesn’t even bleed), remove the old lens, and insert a new one. You’re out in a few minutes. No pain. Lots of gain.

And I knew all that. Knew it inside and out. Had thoroughly researched it. Talked to doctors. Talked to other people who’d had the procedure. Yep. You betacha.

And ya wanna know what?

I was, more or less, with admitted exceptions, and adding the necessary qualifications…

Scared shitless.

*

As you may further recall from the beginning of this seemingly interminable series, I was scared because I am just old enough, and just enough of an historian, to know that not long ago cataract surgery wasn’t that simple. Just a few decades ago, it was major ordeal involving a whole lot of knives, quite a bit of blood and suffering, and then, afterwards, stitches in your eyes

As in stitches.

As in FREAKING STITCHES.

As in OH CHRIST FREAKING GODDAMN JUST KILL ME NOW AND GET IT OVER WITH.

Whimper.

I’m so glad I’m good at dealing with stress.


*

So, there’s all sorts of stuff I have to do _ before _ I can have the surgery. I have appointments to go to. I have eye exams I have to take. I have to get a complete physical.

Except, funny thing …ha ha fricking ha . . . I find myself missing appointments.

Now, I’m pretty anal about appointments. I always have them in my calendar. I get to ‘em early. Hell. Sometimes I’ve been known to bring a gift. Say, a bottle of wine. Or a three bean salad. Or my famous guacamole, kumquat, and calamari cordon blue casserole (with green chilies). It’s known far and wide. Always take it to potlucks. Makes me a great favorite will all the folks down at the emergency room. I understand they’re naming a stomach pump after me.

Where was I? Oh, yes. But, now, for the first time in my life, I find myself forgetting appointments. Time, and time, AND time again…the various offices of the various eye doctors with whom I’m dealing call me up and say something like, “You do know you were supposed to be in here at nine, don’t you?” And I’d say something like Oh God-Delete It To Halliburton in a Farping Station Wagon and either go dashing off to get to the office or, more likely, have to reschedule.

You don’t think . . . maybe . . . just perhaps . . . could it be? . . . there’s just a tad of avoidance going on here, would ya?

Naw. Course not. Couldn’t be. Could it?

*


But, mind you, there are complications to this. My surgery is scheduled for 15 December. I have had to fight, and squirm, and struggle to get an appointment that early. If I don’t make it on that date, then . . . I have to sweat it out for another couple of months. Which I’m not really happy about doing.

So, I buckle down and try to really, Really, REALLY make every appointment and meeting.

The kicker? It’s just about this time I start picking up static from everyone else involved.

For example, the way I found I had cataracts? Well, way, way back I’d gone in to my ophthalmologist for an eye exam. I wanted to get contact lenses. After my doc had mentioned that I had to have my eyes gouged out … er, that I needed cataract surgery…she had duly ordered the lenses for me.

Cool. So, of course, it takes a while for them to come in. But, they show up on a Tuesday. I pick ‘em up, take ‘em home, and put ‘em in that evening.

Now, the next day, Wednesday, I’m scheduled for a very early appointment (like 9 am) at another doctor’s to have the length of my eyeball measured. They shine this little laser thing into your head. Great fun. Kinda like playing The Target in a good game of Starship Enterprise. Phasers on kill, Mr. Sulu.

But, that morning, I show up, with my brand spandy new contacts in my eyes, and the technician says… says … says “uh-uh.”

“Uh-uh?” I say, curious.

“Nope,” she adds.

“Nope?” I remark.

“No can do. No way. No how. Outta the pool. Game over.”

“Come again?”

“You’re screwed.”

It turns out when you wear contact lenses, your eyes adjust to them by minutely changing shape. That means the eye may not be the same length, or whatever, when the surgeon whips out the old chain saw and heads for your socket.

“But I’ve only worn ‘em for five hours,” I say.

“Tough toadies,” she responds, compassionately. Or, anyway, words to that effect.

It turns out, in fact, that you’re not supposed to wear your contacts for something like two weeks before they do their pre-operative measurement. My operation is now just about sixteen days away. It is just barely . . . BARELY . . . possible for me to get a new appointment for the necessary exam before the surgery.

At first, the technician doesn’t want to make the appointment but, fortunately, the folks at my regular ophthalmologist’s office are so mortified that they’d forgotten to tell me not to wear the lenses that they pushed a little and we got it all worked out.

Now I had only one last hurtle to …well . . hurtle over before I went for the operation.

But…

It proved to a be a real doozy.


*

I had to get a complete physical from my general practitioner prior to my operation. I made my appointment and saw the guy and he’d given me a clean bill of health. Then, he adds, “You know, this is overkill for your eye surgery, but why don’t you get your cholesterol tested . . . at some point in the near future.”

Okay, I say, and toddle on my way.

Now, notice the wording here. I assume, from what the good doc said, that the cholesterol test is separate from the exam I needed for the eye surgery. I think, in retrospect, that the doctor thought that, too. I think everyone thought that.

Except…my doctor’s staff.


*

So, time goes on, and as the date of my operation gets closer and closer, I start getting phone calls from the office of the surgeon. It seems that my regular doctor … my GP … had not faxed the results of my physical to him. Without those results, no surgery was possible.

Therefore, I start leaving messages at the office of my GP. Each time I phone, a staff member tells me, “Oh, yes,” we’ll take care of that.”

Except, then I’d get another message from my the eye surgeon saying that it hadn’t happened.

Finally, on the morning of the Friday before my surgery —that is, on 12 December, when my operation is scheduled for 15 December—I end up going to the GP’s office. I go to the desk and say to the nice lady there, “Can I get a copy of the results of my physical so that I can fax them to my eye surgeon?” Because I am in real need, here, I am at my absolute politest. I mean, I’m so damn polite that butter freezes in the old set of choppers. I’m so polite that Miss Manners would be freaking out.

And then . . .

And then . . .

One of the intake nurses comes out and starts yelling at me.

As God is my witness.


*

I don’t mean she’s talking loud. I don’t mean she raises her voice.

I mean Yelling.

I mean really Yelling.

I mean yelling at me in front of a lobby full of other patients.

All of whom are looking at me like I gotta be Jack the Ripper.


*

Finally, I get the story. It seems that she is peeved at me because I haven’t had the cholesterol test…which is What The Doctor ORDERED.

Further, she will not allow my records to be sent to the surgeon because I haven’t done What The Doctor ORDERED.

And, lastly, if I have any objections, I can go kiss …

Well, you can guess what she suggests I can go kiss.

I ask to see the Doctor. “He’s busy.” I explain that I’m going in for surgery on Monday. She suggests I go suck an egg. I say that the doctor had said I didn’t need the cholesterol test for the surgery. She suggests something I can do with the egg after I’ve sucked it.

Finally, she agrees that if I go, right then, to the lab downstairs, and have them draw blood, and if the lab can get the results today… “which they probably can’t”… then, maybe, she’ll let the office staff fax the results to the surgeon. That is, if she remembers. And they aren’t busy with “something important.”

Now, let’s walk through what’s going on here. This test requires that you fast for a least ten hours before you take it. Otherwise, the results are meaningless. I haven’t fasted. So, my taking the test is a complete waste of time for everyone concerned. Further, the doctor, to the best of my knowledge, has not actually specified that I take the test before I have the surgery. So, even if the test results did mean anything, nobody needed them before the Monday of my surgery.

So, what is all this about?

The answer, of course, is power. What is happening is that the intake nurse . . . I guess she’s actually a physician’s assistant rather than an RN . . . is demonstrating to me that she, not I, controls the situation. She is demonstrating her power and relishing every second of it. Moreover, she is doing so in front of the other patients, just in case they get any ideas…

It is about then that I recall a line from one of Raymond Chandler’s detective novels. “Put a monkey in a uniform,” his character says, “and it will try to give someone orders.”

Never in my life have I seen that principle so completely in operation.

(And, yes, soon after this, I find a new doctor.)


*

Well, to make a long story long, I finally got all the tests done, all the appointments taken care of, all the results faxed to the right people.

So it is, then, that the morning of the fifteenth arrives.

And I awaken from an uneasy sleep…

Shaking like a leaf.

But that’s for next time.

Onward and upward.


mjt

















Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

S*cks To Be Me (#6): Basement Boogie-Woogie

Hello, everyone,

Right. So, this time, finally, at long last, I promise, no kidding, I’m going to get to the Big Bad Basement in Xmas. And we’re going to have rocks. And me. Digging like a gopher on steroids. In a blizzard.. While flying monkeys in UFOs from Oz dive bomb a certain ex-Vice President with high-powered excrement bombs. And I’m not talking Al Gore here. Fill in the blank. Here’s a hint. D*ck Ch*ney.

Okay, so I’m making up the part about the monkeys. But, you get the point. And all the rest is true. And, by Golly, flying monkeys SHOULD be sh*t bombing the aforesaid Veepee. It’s the code of the west.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The Basement.

*

So, as you’ll recall, we’d decided to have the Christmas tree in the basement this year. We have a family room down there, even though we don’t use it much. Until we got the furnace fixed, it was cold down there in winter, and because we haven’t had time to go get some lamps and such, it’s been sorta dim all year around.

But, this year, we decided we were Going To Make An Effort. And Efficiently Use Our Space. And Overcome the Lethargy of Everyday Existence. And Make Total Fools Of Ourselves In A Gesture of Total Futility. That, too, is the code of the west.

We called up our son David and he came out from his apartment and we all three trotted off to buy a tree. It’s sort of a tradition around here. We make it a family outing and regard it as the start of the season.

Sometimes David brings a friend. A few years back, it was his then girlfriend who joined us. She’s a bright and intelligent person who does things in Philosophy. She’s also a tree hugger. Literally. She likes to hug trees. “It’s how you know if they have an affectionate nature,” she says.

So, that year, when we went to the lot where they sell Christmas trees, we embraced spruces. Several of them. Deeply. Passionately. But, don’t worry. It was entirely Platonic. And, besides, the important thing is that you have a good healthy attitude about it. And part friends.

Anyway, we hugged several trees and eventually found one that, she said, had a sweet disposition and a cheery outlook on life, and we took it home. The scary thing? She was absolutely, 100%, completely right. It was one of the best Christmas trees we ever had. Didn’t shed needles. Was just the right size.

Like, I say, scary … but if it works, well, hey. I’m thinking of applying the same principle to lawn care. Maybe give it a shot on shrubbery. Not sure how it’ll work on cactus though. And that package marked Burpee Seeds? Naw. Might frighten the neighbors.

*

Anyway, so this past Christmas it was just David and us. We went to a local plant nursery, garden center, and green house operation that also does Christmas trees during the holidays. It’s a great place, really. Lots of flowers, shrubs, and stuff. And it’s entirely staffed with people who either speak no English or have an attitude problem. Or both. And would just as soon that you go away and die someplace. Ah, the joys of the season.

But, we found a tree and took it back to the house. David and I then wrestled it out of the car, across the lawn, and into the basement. Martha followed close behind to give us direction and moral support. Of which we got lots. Fortunately, she’s a kind and generous soul, always willing to share.

We arrived in the basement and positioned the tree. I said I’d hold it upright while David went and got the tree stand and then we’d get started decorating. Martha said she’d make hot cider. David said he’d be right back and dashed off for the stand.

So…I’m there…holding this tree.

And I notice…a smell.

I’d picked it up before a couple of times. I figured maybe the dog had slipped downstairs and done a flying euphemism behind the sofa. When nobody was looking.

Except…except…it didn’t exactly smell like that.

Holding the tree in one hand I reached down with the other.

Squish…

The carpet was soaking wet.

*

Okay, so here’s the deal. I grew up in a desert. The idea that water might fall from the sky … FROM the FREAKING sky! … is hard enough for me to credit. The idea that it might do so in sufficient quantities to flood things is downright unbelievable.

So, it came as a particularly nasty shock to me to learn that, here in New England, water can actually build up against the side of your house and seep through the space between the foundation and the wall.

And that’s what happened. Water had pooled just in the front of our house and come back in down the wall. The whole basement was wet. The carpet was wet. The clothes in the downstairs closet were wet. A bunch of our books were wet. The electrical wiring (YIKES) in the corner was wet.

End of Christmas in the basement plan…



*

David and I lugged the tree back upstairs, spreading needles and braches everywhere. We then had a rather pleasant remainder of the evening decorating it.

But, the issue was what to do about the flood downstairs.

I chatted with my father and, later, a friend named Skip. Both know about doing home, fixing cars, cutting large things with chain saws, and other guy-stuff like that. Stuff I don’t know squat about. I’m a terrible embarrassment to both of ‘em. But, heck. That’s true for almost everybody I know. So, they can just stop acting like they’re so dang special.

It turns out, though, that the solution to the problem is something called a “French Drain.” That is not a joke. There really is such a thing. I checked on the Internet. So it has to be true. (Doesn’t it?)

At its simplest, a French Drain is just a shallow trench filled with gravel. You dig it along the side of your house and then water…rain, runoff, whatever…enters the gravel and goes down into the ground and not (or so one hopes) into your basement.

You can also get more sophisticated French Drains. Some, for instance, will have a perforated pipe under the gravel to carry the water away from your house entirely. In fact, we later discovered that one of our neighbors had recently invested in just such a system. He had lots of pipes. And gravel. And expensive surveys. And it worked really, really well. Carried all that rainwater away from his house. Down the hill. And into … our…yard.

I’m planning on giving him a small gift soon. It’s sort of a belated housewarming present. It’ll involve a large box filled to the tippy-top with live but somnolent skunks. And an alarm clock. Attached to an air raid siren.


*

Now, all this business of French Drains assumes a new importance when you recall the time of year. It is December when this is going on. As of that date, we hadn’t yet had any snowstorms.

But, as we learned from a quick glance at the Weather Channel, there was a whopper of squall headed our way. It would, said the Weatheroids, going to hit town around mid-afternoon the following day. Further, they added cheerfully, we could expect up to three…as in THREE feet of snow.

For you folks out there on metric, that’s about a meter. And either way, it’s technically known as OHMYGOD AND FREAKING SH()T!

This coming storm presented, however, unique problems for moi. You see, if we did get that much snow, then a bunch of it would be up against our wall and … and …

Think gondolas. And motor boats. And sail boats. And the Harvard Crew. Stroking. In our basement.

*

The next morning, I’m out like a shot to buy gravel to fill a trench. The hardware stores I try don’t have any, so I end up going back to the same local plant nursery-garden-center-green-house where we’d gone to get the tree.

I found a clerk-type person with bad skin and body odor and said to him, “I wonder if you could help me.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Don’t know. What are you trying to do?”

“I need rocks.”

“Rocks?”

“Rocks.”

“You mean you want a Christmas tree.”

“No, rocks.”

“Oh, you want pine wreaths.”

“No. Rocks. You know? Stones? Igneous, Sedimentary, and Metamorphic.”

“Ah, I understand now. You want tree decorations. They’re in the green house.”

“Er. Sorry. No. Rocks. David killed Goliath with one? Remember? In the Bible?”

He looked at me for a long time. Then he said. “In December?”

“In, as you say, December.”

“Jesus.” He pointed back toward where the dumpsters were. “I think we have some bags left over back there.” Then, he wandered off, looking disgusted and muttering.


*

To make a long story long, I did find several bags of gravel out in the back, next to the dumpsters, and under about a foot of ice. I paid for ‘em and headed for the house. And, shortly thereafter, I was out in the front yard wailing away at the ground with a pick and shovel.

A neighbor went by. She stopped. “You know,” she said, cheerfully. “This is the wrong time of year to do gardening.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes. You see, it gets cold. And the plants freeze.”

“Ah,” I said.

“So, you might want to wait until Spring. Or sometime.”

“But,” I said, “I’ve got to do this now because I’m putting in a very special crop.”

“Which would be?”

“Snow peas.”

She understood perfectly and went away.


*


I got the trench dug and filled with rocks just as the snow got started in earnest. I then went and took a shower for about a month because if it wasn’t true that I looked like death warmed over, I WAS able to do a pretty good impression of the same dish microwaved and served on toast.

But, I’m happy to report that it seems to have worked. We haven’t water in the basement since.

So, I say to myself, Things Are Getting Back To Normal.

And then…

And then…

I remember.

This is all happening the week of 8 December.

On 15 December … less than a week away . . . I’m scheduled to go meet the Flying Fetish Bouncing Bat-Winged Eyeball. With a meat cleaver.

But that’s for next time.

*

Until then…

Onward and upward.














Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

S*cks to Be Me (#5): I’m Dreaming of a Swamp Christmas

Hello, Everyone,




Okay, so let’s pick up the story from last time. So far, I’ve been attacked by the Giant Flying Eyeball, Dissed by the Diss Dashers, Bashed by the Appliances from Hell, and Left To Freeze In the Dark by the Furious Furnace with anger management issues. And that’s just the fun stuff.

So, today, we’re going to move briskly to the Pond Scum and Poison Arrow Frogs in the basement.

But, before we do that…we’ve got to get Martha to the hospital.



*

Martha teaches at Tufts. She’s in the Department of Ed, there. That means she teaches teachers to teach (say that real fast three times). If you missed my column about her a few weeks back, then know ye for all eternity that if you make that joke about those who can’t teach and those who can’t teach teachers . . . well, if you make it, and in earshot of her, you won’t make it twice. At least not if you don’t want your kneecaps removed with a chainsaw. But a nice sharpen chainsaw. And in a loving and respectful manner. She’s good like that.

Anyway, she teaches at Tufts. One of her jobs is to go around to visit local high schools where student-teachers are placed so they can get a little experience.

So, one day, she’s at a certain high school downtown. It’s a nice school. It has lots of nice students in it. Some of them are small. Some of them are medium-sized. Some of them are large.

And some are . . . Extra-Large.

As in HUGE. As in Sumo wrestler meets Jolly Green Giant with a side order of Humongous thrown in for good measure.

So, on the day in question, a couple of these particularly large students were, as the saying goes, horsing around in the AV room. The particular form of horse playing involved concerned itself chiefly with tossing large objects around. Like chairs. And desks. And quarter-ton trucks. And finally, each other. Which is when it got serious.

To make a long story short, Martha was walking briskly through the hallway going from appointment A to appointment B when the door to the AV rooms bashed open and several hundred pounds of flying football player soared out…

And into her.

She bounced.


*

From what she tells me, there then followed a somewhat confused period comprised mostly of the previously referenced 200-pound meat rack of a student saying, “Oh, jeez, oh, jeez, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” a lot. And then there seemed to be several school administrators dashing about. And then the school nurse was there. And then some of Martha’s students were making plans to take her to the hospital.

But, then, Martha . . . being Martha . . . says No, No, I’m Fine. And I Can’t Leave. Because I Have Work To Do. And People Are Depending On Me.

So …

She staggers to her feet.

*

When she got home that night, and I found out about all this . . . and about how she spent the rest of day dashing about from place to place, all the while with a bag of ice under her arm and pressed up against the places where it hurt the most…

I thought about slapping her silly.

But, wouldn’t fit my image. You know, all that damn compassion shit…

*

Anyway, the next morning, I propel her to the emergency room at the local hospital. The intake nurse takes one look at her, blanches, and sends her off to X-ray.

Me? I’m left to amuse myself in the waiting room with its copious selection of reading material…

Like, for instance, several years’ worth of back issues of The Journal of Obscure Organs That Get Infected and Rot.

Great stuff.
*

There was also one magazine on golfing.

I don’t golf. I don’t suppose I ever will. That’s because every time I think it might be fun to take up golf, I find a magazine about it. And then I read it. And I find something like this:

“Need to manage that over-sized driver and really control those balls? Here’s the skinny from international Pro Roger Ruffhocker on all the tricks of the trade. The secret is in gripping your shaft. Make sure you provide a steady pressure at the base and just finger the upper tip. That’s to let you hit your balls straight in the face. Just assume the address position, but be sure to take up a soft backward stance with your feet spread and with a slight crouch to provide an opening. Place your heel to the left and position the driver just right. Then … Fire AWAY!”

That’s what I read.

Then, after a while, I very carefully take the magazine to the other side of the room. And leave it. Face down. When nobody’s looking. And no one can tell I’ve touched it.

*

So, several hours later, Martha reappears. The good news is that she does not have broken ribs. The bad news is that she has something called a “chest wall injury.” That’s code for, Ya Got Da Bujezzes Whacked Outta Ya. That’s the technical term. Very sophisticated and professional.

We head home.

*

Time passes.

Martha gets better over the course of the next few months. You read that right. Months. She received her injury in the Fall of 2008. In some ways, she wasn’t really entirely recovered until January of 2009. I gather she STILL has twinges now and then, and I’m writing this in March of 2009.

But, there’s another aspect of this story. The result of her injury is that, for these several months, even quite minor physical effort is painful for her. And something really demanding—like, say, helping her beloved husband shovel snow after a teeny-tiny little blizzard or two—well, that’s just not happening.

As we shall see, this will have consequences.

For me.


*

Okay, but now we get back to our story. By December, Martha is on the mend. And, the holiday season is upon us. It is, in other words, time to Buy The Christmas Tree.

We have a tradition about buying the tree. It’s something we do as a family. If at all possible, we gather up David plus one or more of his friends and head off to find the just right evergreen. So, one Thursday afternoon, we phone him up at his apartment and make arrangements to meet the following Saturday for a bit of pine pursuit.

But, as we’re hanging up, we realize we will now have to pick a place for the aforesaid Christmas tree.

Normally, we put it in the living room. But, this requires a bit of effort on our part. We have to move the TV, the sofa, the rocking chair, the recliner, the table next to the window where Martha keeps all those plants and other leafy stuff, the table next to the wall with all the photos on it, and, well, you get the picture.

It would be nice, we thought, to avoid all that.

So . . .

We also have a finished basement. There’s a bedroom that used to be David’s, while he was still living here, and a large family room. We don’t use the family room much because it used to be David’s space, and then, when he moved out, it sort of filled up with everything we couldn’t fit someplace else. And, besides, it was always cold down there during the winter.

But, during the summer of 2008, I had decided to Make Things Different. So, in dribs and drabs (and, as we shall see, in drips) over the next few months, I got things more or less straightened out down there. I moved out the stuff we were never going to use again, hauled a bit of furniture around, did some vacuuming, and, voila! We had a new room.

However, in the winter, we still didn’t use it much because it remained dang cold down there. But, that morning in December, we said, hello! We just got the furnace fixed (see last’s Xcargo, Sucks to Be Me, number four). We popped downstairs and checked. And, ta-dah! it was nice and toasty.

Terrific, we say, We Can Have Christmas In The Basement.

And, thinking thus, we trot back upstairs again.

At the top of the stairs, I turn to myself and I say, “Say…?”

“Yes?” I reply, suspiciously.

“While we were down there, you didn’t happen to …?” I ask.

“Naw,” I say.

“So there wasn’t a …”? I add.

“No,” I reply, firmly, “There was absolutely NO moist, musty, mildew, urine smell down there. None. Nada. Zip. Wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, good.” I say, relieved.

I have a lot of these sorts of conversations with myself. As you may have already noticed. Also, I’m wrong a lot. But you may have already noticed that, too.

*

Next week, we’ll finally get to the Swamp part of the story. You, of course, saw it coming long, long, long ago. But, let’s just keep that between ourselves. So, shhhhh. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Keep that flooded basement under your belt. Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for everyone much dimmer than we are.

But, there will also be some new developments. There will be, for instance, pea gravel, French drains, a fairly long trench, and, oh, yes, the Flying Mutant Bat-Winged Eyeball will, once more, drop by a visit.

But, as I say, that’s for next time.

Until then…

Onward and upward.















Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker