January 10: Flying Saucer, Doctor's Appointment, In a Zoo

When Billy finally got home to Ilium after the airplane crash, he was quiet for a while.  He had a terrible scar across the top of his skull.  He didn't resume practice.  He had a housekeeper.  His daughter came over almost every day.

And then, without any warning, Billy went to New York City, and got on an all-night radio program devoted to talk.  He told about having come unstuck in time.  He said, too, that he had been kidnapped by a flying saucer in 1967.  The saucer was from the planet Tralfamadore, he said.  He was taken to Tralfamadore, where he was displayed naked in a zoo, he said.  He was mated there with a former Earthling movie star named Montana Wildhack.

To paraphrase Han Solo, here's where the fun begins in Slaughterhouse Five.  Billy time jumping.  Billy abducted by aliens and kept in a zoo with the beautiful Montana Wildhack.  Suddenly, Vonnegut's Dresden book morphs into a 1950s porno science fiction flick.  Billy becomes a prophet and a patient.  You're not quiet sure if he's telling the truth or belongs in a mental institution.

I had a doctor's appointment today.  Saw a liver and digestive disease specialist.  As I was sitting in the exam room, waiting for the doctor to appear, I stared out of the windows.  There's a snowstorm blowing through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan right now, so the scene below looked almost like a Christmas card.  Cars mounded with snow.  The air a frenzy of white.

Waiting for a doctor to show up is a humbling experience.  I wasn't quite sure what he was going to say, what course of treatment he was going to recommend.  I was sort of at the mercy of a man that I had never even met.  I sort of felt like Billy Pilgrim in the zoo on Tralfamadore.  A specimen to observe and probe.

Thank goodness, the doctor was nice.  A little too serious, but that's okay.  When you're talking about family histories of bleeding ulcers and stomach cancer, you probably want a guy who's earnest and concerned.  (Please don't worry.  I do not have a bleeding ulcer or stomach cancer.  Those were just a couple of the questions the doctor asked.)

I left the hospital with an appointment for an upper endoscopy.  I walked out into a world of cold and white.  There's always a strange stillness that descends in a snowstorm.  I felt like I was stepping into an Edward Hopper painting, the world all muffled and lonely.  Like I was entering the deserted Automat.  So it goes.

That was Saint Marty's afternoon.  In a zoo on Tralfmadore. Waiting for the alien probe.

October 3: Done For, Doctor's Appointment, Shingles Fairy Tale

"I'm done for," she replied.  "In a day or two I'll be dead.  I haven't even strength enough to climb down into the crate.  I doubt if I have enough silk in my spinnerets to lower me to the ground."

Okay, so I'm not quite as bad off as Charlotte.  However, I have been feeling really poorly this last week.  Pressure in my ear.  Pain on the top of my head.  Difficulty when I swallow.  I thought it was some kind of sinus infection, so I made an appointment to see a doctor this afternoon.

When I got to the appointment, the doctor looked in my ear.  She turned off the lights in the exam room and checked out my eye.  Then, she ran her hand lightly over the side of my scalp that's been giving me trouble, saying, "Does this hurt?"  It did.

Well, the doctor didn't come up with a definitive diagnosis, but she's hasn't ruled out...shingles.  No, I haven't had any rashes.  No, I don't have any oozing sores.  However, to be on the safe side, the doctor prescribed me a prophylactic shingles medication.  "It won't do any harm," she said.

So, here I sit, the day before Saint Marty's Day Eve, feeling a little like a leper.  I'm not done for, like Charlotte, but I feel itchy all over my body.  I can't stop scratching.  I know it's all psychological, but it's driving me crazy.

Once upon a time, a handsome, young carpenter named Job lived on the outskirts of the kingdom of Shingles.  Job built barns for the farmers, stools for the pub, windmills for the local green energy hippies.  Job had everything he wanted.

Then, one day, Job's house burned down, his tools disappeared, all his teeth fell out, hair sprouted on his palms, and pus wept from his pores.

The whole kingdom of Shingles stopped hiring Job for carpentry work, and Job's friends shunned him.  When Job went shopping at the farmer's market, he had to ring a cowbell and shout, "Unclean!  Unclean!"

Moral of the story:  if your name is Job, change it.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Does this guy have shingles?

June 15: Doctor's Appointment, Father's Day, Classic Saint Marty

It's almost time for bed.  Midnight in Paris is almost over.  I can hear my wife in the kitchen, getting ready to go to sleep.  It's been a very nice Father's Day.  Tomorrow, I throw myself back into real life for another week.  It's funny.  I spend the majority of my time at a job that monopolizes my life.  Yet, I only really feel alive on the weekend, away from that job.  I'm actually looking forward to going to my doctor's appointment tomorrow afternoon because I get to leave work early (and be lectured about my weight by a physician with almost no personal skills, but that's another subject).

I know I'm not unusual in these feelings.  I have many friends, however, who are doing exactly what they want to do with their lives.  Their work isn't work.  It's joy.  Being in their company makes me anxious.  Jealous.  Unhappy.

But I don't want to go down that road this evening.  I want to enjoy these last few moments of the weekend.  Quiet, restful moments.

Today's Classic Saint Marty comes from Father's Day two years ago.

June 17, 2012:  Father's Day, Eggs and Hot Dogs, McDonald's

Today, I'm going to let my daughter and son write my post for me.  What follows below are letters they wrote to me today in honor of Father's Day.  For the record, I do love eating scrambled eggs and hot dogs, and I do not work at McDonald's.

Saint Marty wishes all the fathers out there a happy Father's Day.

From my daughter (11 years old):

My daddy is 36 years old.

His hair is brown and his eyes are brown.  My dad likes to wear a beret.  He loves to eat eggs and hot dogs.  He is smart because he knows how to be nice and care for everyone.  My daddy works hard at running and keeping us happy.  Daddy always tells me that he loves me, even when he's SUPER mad at me.  It makes my daddy happy when he sits down with the family, and he'll read to us.  If he could go on a trip, he could go to the tundra lodge with us.  I really love it when daddy laughs.  If I could give my daddy anything, It would be more love.  My favorite thing about daddy is that he is my loving, caring, smart, awesome daddy.

From my son (3 years old) with help from Mommy:

My Daddy is 3 and 4 years old.

His hair is brown and pink and his eyes are blue and purple and red.

He loves to eat strawberries, bananas, and Sissy's ice cream.  He is smart because he knows me and the crayons. 

My Daddy works hard at McDonald's.  (Sissy suggested that answer.)

It makes my daddy happy when he's with Mommy.

If he could go on a trip, he would go to the food store and get me 2 big trucks and a big, HUGE dump truck and I want a big, blue beep-beep.

If I cold give my daddy anything, it would be I don't know--I want to get Daddy a big truck for his birthday.

My favorite thing about my Daddy is I like to poop on him.  I like to give him a big, fat kiss.

Confessions of Saint Marty

February 13: Bad to Worse, Sick Kid Again, Long Night

Well, my day/afternoon/evening just went from bad to worse.

My daughter has a sore throat and ear ache.  Another sick kid.  The earliest appointment with the pediatrician we could secure was at 6 p.m.  My wife is going to a meeting of her women's group from church.  Therefore, I'm going to be dragging my three-year-old son along to the doctor's appointment with my daughter.  Then I will be dragging them both to the pharmacy to pick up whatever antibiotic she gets.  Then I will be dragging them home and putting them to bed.  I don't see this night ending 'til right around 8:30 p.m. or so.

The above schedule doesn't even take into account the reading and prep I have to do for teaching tomorrow, either.  That pushes my night back 'til 10:30 p.m. or so.  The meager supply of patience I had this morning has pretty much been used up.  At the moment, I want to hurt someone.  I'm going to need that 20-minute drive home just to prepare myself for the rest of the night.

Sometimes life doesn't just give you lemons.  Sometimes life gives you a big old pile of horse manure.  You can't do much with that pile except spread it around and hope something good starts growing.

Saint Marty needs to start fertilizing.

Anyone got a shovel?