Showing posts with label ct scan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ct scan. Show all posts

Friday, October 25, 2024

October 24: "Gold," Everything Precious, Appendicitis

It is days like today that really remind me of what's truly precious in my life--not just the silver lining, but the gold lining of my daily existence.

Too often, I get swept up in the worries and stresses of my jobs or teaching or writing.  (Yes, writing can be stressful, but it's a stress I embrace wholeheartedly as delight.)  When this happens, I often find myself spiraling, like blood down the shower drain at the Bates Motel.  Everything precious goes right out the window.

Billy Collins on things that are precious . . . 

Gold

by: Billy Collins

I don’t want to make too much of this,
but because the bedroom faces east
across a lake here in Florida,

when the sun first rises
and reflects off the water,
the whole room is suffused with the kind
of golden light that might travel
the length of a passageway in a megalithic tomb
precisely at dawn on the summer solstice.

Again, I don’t want to exaggerate,
but it reminds me of a brand of light
that could illuminate the walls
of a hidden chamber full of treasure,
pearls and gold coins overflowing the silver platters.

I feel like comparing it to the fire
that Aphrodite lit in the human eye
so as to make it possible for us to perceive
the other three elements,

but the last thing I want to do
is risk losing your confidence
by appearing to lay it on too thick.

Let’s just say that the morning light here
would bring to anyone’s mind
the rings of light that Dante
deploys in the final cantos of the Paradiso
to convey the presence of God
while bringing The Divine Comedy
to a stunning climax and leave it at that.



My wife woke up this morning with severe abdominal pain.  She spent quite a bit of time in the bathroom because she thought it was due to something she ate.  Then she went back to bed.

When I picked her up after work, she couldn't even straighten her body to walk normally.  So, she went to a local walk-in clinic that promptly sent her to the ER.  After waiting for four hours, she got into an exam room, and then they did some lab work and CT scan.  Two hours after that, the doctor told us she was suffering from an acute appendicitis.  After another two hours, she was loaded into an ambulance and transferred to another hospital's ER, where she is waiting to see the surgeon in the morning.  

I just got home.  It's after 2 a.m.  I'm beat.  In a few hours, I'll have to drive my son to school and head to the hospital.

Tonight has been full of stress and worry.  The kind of experience that really does remind me of what's precious in my life.  Sure, my jobs are important.  Ditto teaching.  Writing poetry keeps me sane.  But, when my life is distilled to its elements, here is what remains:  my wife and kids and family.  They are my gold.

Saint Marty is a rich man.



Sunday, January 30, 2022

January 30: Help Me, Compound Fracture of a Weekend, Car Accident

Santiago makes a wish . . . 

Then he said aloud, "I wish I had the boy. To help me and to see this."

When in distress or tired or desperate or alone, people often call out for help.  To God.  Friends.  The universe.

So, to end this compound fracture of a weekend, I got into a car accident this morning. 

It was a slippery road.  I was on my way to play the keyboard for a local Lutheran church.  Approaching a curve in the road, doing about 15 or 20 miles per hour, my car started to fishtail.  Before I knew it, a minivan coming in the opposite direction struck my car in the driver's door.  

The next thing I knew, my car was on the side of the road.  I was still sitting behind the wheel.  Covered in glass.  Ears ringing.  Head pounding.  I pushed the driver's door open.  Got out to see if the other driver was okay.  The world spun vertiginously.  I went and sat in my car again.  The police showed up.  then an ambulance.  I soon found myself on a stretcher in the back of the ambulance, on my way to the hospital.

After a CT scan, frustration, tears, and pain meds, I was on my way home.  Good news:  I have no head trauma.  Bad news:  my daughter's car is totaled, and I feel like I've been hit by a snowplow.

When I was sitting in the car after the accident, I did call out to the universe.  It was something like, "I am done.  Done.  Donedonedone."

I'm probably going to take tomorrow off from the library.  Still going to teach.

Then, Saint Marty may just . . . have a bowl of Cheerios with Bailey's Irish Cream.




Monday, July 6, 2015

July 6: Sister News, "Ives" Dip, Poet of the Week, Matthea Harvey, "Using a Hula Hoop Can Get You Abducted by Aliens"

This morning, I received a text about my sister at University of Michigan:

Having more MRIs this afternoon with 3 different views.  Putting a feeding tube in for nutrition today.  Dr. Burke in and said ct scan of head drastically changed from recent one in Marquette.

There were some other details in the text with some very scary medical terms (vasculitis, acute demyelination encephalopathy, and emboli).  It sounds like my sister is not really improving down at the University of Michigan.  I don't think the doctors have settled on any course of treatment because they don't really know what's wrong yet.  The MRI was postponed until tomorrow for some reason, so I'm not quite sure what "drastically changed" means.

It's been quite a long Monday.  My work day stretched on and on, like some kind of weird science fiction wormhole.  If I didn't know any better, I would have sworn that I was reliving the same moments over and over.  Of course, I am not living in a Dr. Who episode, and my day eventually ended.

Tonight, I will be working on a new poem.  Actually, it's the second part of a poem I started several weeks ago.  I was asked to write it for the sesquicentennial celebration of my wife's church.  It's quite an honor.  It's also quite daunting.  I can't imagine how poets like Maya Angelou and Elizabeth Alexander and Richard Blanco dealt with the pressure of writing poems for presidential inaugurations.

My Ives Dip question for this evening revolves around the future:

Will the future hold happiness, for my sister, my family, myself?

And the crystal ball of Mr. Ives' Christmas says:

...Ives would put some Perry Como or Bing Crosby on the big RCA console with the twenty-one-inch black-and-white TV, radio, and phonograph that his boss had given him as an extra special bonus one year, and the tree-decorating party would begin, the adults chatting on the couch, eating, everyone smoking cigarettes and watching the kids at work.

Well, that's a passage that has one leg in the past (Bing Crosby and Perry Como) and one leg in the future (kids at work).  But it's a happy passage, full of hope.  I will take that.  It reminds me of the Christmases when I was a kid, with all my siblings listening to records on my mother's record player, the tree sparkling in the corner.

Matthea Harvey is the Poet of the Week.  Her collection, If the Tabloids Are True What Are You?. combines all kinds of things I love--fairy tales, Elvis, aliens, and Shakespearean possession, to name a few.  The poems are sometimes irreverent, sometimes funny.  Always profound.

Saint Marty's life feels like a tabloid headline right now.

Using a Hula Hoop Can Get You
Abducted by Aliens

by:  Matthea Harvey

We've never taken anyone
buttoned up and trotting from point A
to point B--subway to office, office to
lunch, fretting over the credit crunch.
Not the ones carefully maneuvering their
watchamacallits alongside broken white lines,
not the Leash holders who take their Furries
to the park three point five times per day.
If you're an integer in that kind of
equation, you belong with your Far-bits
on the ground.  We're seven Star-years
past calculus, so it's the dreamy ones
who want to go somewhere they don't know
how to get to that interest us, the ones
who will stare all day at a blank piece of paper
or square of canvas, then peer searchingly into
their herbal tea.  It's true that hula hoops
resemble the rings around Firsthome, and that
when you spin, we chime softly, remembering
Oursummer, Ourspring, and our twelve Otherseasons.
But that's not the only reason.  (Do we like rhyme?
Yes, we do.  Also your snow, your moss, your tofu--
our sticky hands make it hard for us to put
things down.)  Don't fret, dreamy spinning ones
with water falling from your faces.
It's us you're waiting for and we're coming.

Beam me up!  I'm ready for a different life.