Gotta say, kick-starting this blog isn’t much different than talking Old Paint, my 62 VW Bus, into winding up the rubber band enough to get me to school. But I experienced a little trouble in the attic last week, a Transient Ischemic Attack, what amounted to a small stroke.
I had never even heard the term before, which might explain why I couldn’t put my finger on it, but more likely it was because I was just plain disoriented. Not the kind of disoriented, when you have just taken the gnarliest bong rip in the history of the universe, and your head rush threatens to send you sprawling. And you are smiling like a cheshire cat.
No, the kind where you make the same statement a dozen times, each time as though you were submitting a fresh and witty comment. It was cute the first several times, but like the recent snow, it wore out its welcome soon enough.
The whole “let’s repeat something over and over again” reminds me of the time I suffered a concussion, back in 1973, while in the army and home on leave from South Korea.
I don’t remember anything at all about that day except for the doctor down at the VA hospital in Long Beach. He was smiling ear-to-ear, while asking me in a jovial tone, “So how are you feeling, Private O’Neill, about returning to Korea after your leave? This here amnesia of yours isn’t tied into that, now is it?”
I was told that I asked one question over and over that day, and always as though it were the first time: “Is Pa bummed out?” I called me father, Pa. Me father was not a fan of football, in general, and even less a fan of tackle football, which is what I was doing when I got clobbered. Hence the repetitive nature of my question.
Obviously, there was a loose screw up in my noggin back in the day. So when the same thing happened last week, and I finally stopped spinning around the track inside my head, I decided to pay a visit to my friends at the Laytonville Clinic. Though they did not ask me anything about Korea, they definitely felt that I was on leave, if not of my senses, at least part of them.
“Can you come back in the morning at 10:30?” that nice Holly asked me, and I said yes. Course, to save my life, I could not keep that time of my appointment on the white board of my brain: It kept on getting erased. I mean, sure I could have just checked the card Holly gave me, but that would have been too easy.
It was also hard to figure out that it was Wednesday, and when I did, I had to do it again. I thought Obama was President and that it sure would be nice if the car I was trying to load my stuff in would quit moving around on me.
I was dazed and confused, and downright lost. I mean, more so than normal. My son Ben was available to give me a ride down to Howard, where I was admitted to the ER. While there I got to go for a ride in the tunnel where they do CAT scans and MRI’s. I am not a fan of that tunnel.
But being able to do it provided the Pros from Dover with a negative for any continuing signs of a stroke, big or small.
Meanwhile, Casey replaced Ben and hung out with me until I was released. Though I was eventually told I could drive, I did not have to worry about that, as Casey was there to give me a ride. And when I got home, I found that Lito had come over earlier and started up the big stove. Made me feel warm and fuzzy that my sons have my back.
The obvious question is, what caused the trouble in my attic? The answer is not so obvious, but much of what I eat comes from the farm, I am not into alcohol, my blood pressure is spot on, I exercise daily and I am within ten pounds of the weight my doctor wants to see me at.
Ben is going to schedule an appointment with a neurologist to see what's up with that. I also have a sleeping disorder and it has been way too long since I paid a visit to the dentist, so I am starting with these three items. I stopped at the Laytonville Dentist’s Office today and made an appointment, and I spent a couple of hours with Claudia on Monday, getting a plan of action for my sleeping issues. She is also going to do a hypnotherapy session with me so I can sit in the dentist’s chair without getting claustrophobic.
So my trouble in the attic is a bit more than dusty cobwebs and trunks of old clothes, but whatcha gonna do? I’ve got to get things sorted out and put back in order, because I am only seventy years old. I have plenty of gas in the tank and my kitchen is just getting used to me hanging out in here. I still have a cookbook to put together, and I have a five-year-old grandson, who is getting pretty good as a sous chef.
What’s a little trouble in the attic here and there, among friends?
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