Three hours in the urgent care clinic, confined to a room full of coughing people, one heartbreaking baby girl who wheezed terribly while crying, another baby who promptly vomited in the corner.
Most of us wore masks and did a complex shuffle to allow old or frail people to sit down. First we wrote our names on an admission sheet, and then we waited to be called for registration. I sat on a small table and read my book, always listening for my name, and also listening to the other names and the deft ability of clinic workers to pronounce Hispanic surnames, Arabic ones, Japanese ones, East Indian ones.
There were very few hitches to break the monotony of everybody staring at everybody else. First was the woman who kept returning to insist that she be allowed to get an H1N1 shot, even though she wasn't in a high-risk group. She'd argue, the receptionist would explain, she'd argue some more, she'd leave the clinic in anger, and five minutes later she'd come back again.
Other hitches were the people who signed the admission sheet without actually having their children present, and then were called to registration to have their ruse revealed. After having already waited ninety minutes in line, these people were sent home to get their children, only to return and go through the whole process all over again.
The rest of us, I suspect, had a subdued loathing for the angry people and the rule-breakers, and then we smiled inside when their efforts were thwarted. WE were sitting quietly and following all the rules. COMPLIANT mothers were entertaining their children for three hours out of their busy day. By vicariously enjoying the punishment of others, we reaffirmed our own worthiness, even though we were wearing hot facemasks and sitting for hours with extremely sick people.
There was a dignified old man who refused all offers of seating, only to collapse gently when a chair became naturally available. An impromptu trio of cynical strangers entertained themselves by the free telephone. A small boy reached out and tilted my book up to see what it was, and perhaps to read the blurb on the back: "Jerry Cornelius copulates, hallucinates, devastates..."
"I don't know how much longer it will take," the receptionist kept saying. "Probably hours. Everybody's in the same situation, you'll have to take your turn."
After I got my H1N1 shot they sent me out the back door, to reduce my exposure to sick and coughing people. A black, swollen bruise has slowly formed and now I have TWO useless biceps. Tiny virus, stay away from me until I am fully immunized.
Showing posts with label sickness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sickness. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, July 06, 2009
The Looming Swine Flu
I just spent twenty minutes in the front seat of a car next to a coughing swine flu sufferer. Then I spent another ninety minutes sitting in a small, stuffy studio with her. And I handled her papers. And her CD cases. I might as well have stuck a cotton swab into her throat and then stuffed it in my nose, I was that exposed.
I practiced breathing in various strategic directions, and I handled her possessions by the corners, and I washed my hands repeatedly. I even kept my fingers away from my face, which is sheer torture for me. If I could have worn a surgical mask I would have.
There's no point, though; if significant numbers of people around me are going to get this flu then I will too, I ALWAYS get the flu. The fact that I've avoided it so long is absolutely shocking.
I'm writing this as a prediction: tomorrow I will be as much a physical wreck as she was. If not, however, then I will cheerfully toast my fragile immune system and thank my lucky stars.
I practiced breathing in various strategic directions, and I handled her possessions by the corners, and I washed my hands repeatedly. I even kept my fingers away from my face, which is sheer torture for me. If I could have worn a surgical mask I would have.
There's no point, though; if significant numbers of people around me are going to get this flu then I will too, I ALWAYS get the flu. The fact that I've avoided it so long is absolutely shocking.
I'm writing this as a prediction: tomorrow I will be as much a physical wreck as she was. If not, however, then I will cheerfully toast my fragile immune system and thank my lucky stars.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Scattered Impressions of Injury and Recovery
I'm not an athlete and I don't take physical risks, but I've always had a disregard for the positioning and protection of my body. I might whine about painful shoes or a sore throat, but that only happens when I'm feeling self-absorbed or when the pain has become excruciating.
So it's galling -- but unsurprising -- that I've buggered up my right shoulder with a series of small injuries, boundary-testing, half-baked corrective techniques and general lack of concern. Over two months I progressed from an aching joint to acute tendon inflammation, atrophied muscles, and a possible cartilage tear. By gradually restricting the usage of my right arm to the half-dozen movements which don't cause me pain, I've managed to forget -- both mentally and physically -- how a healthy arm actually moves.
When I try to do certain everyday things with my right arm -- rotate my palm, put my hand over my stomach, reach to the right, or even THINK about putting it ANYWHERE behind my back -- I am met with either shooting pains or total weakness. The pain is bad but the weakness is just plain disconcerting...the muscles simple stop working. I begin to feel like I'm pushing my arm through a concrete wall, even though there's nothing visible in the way. I have, quite literally, withered my shoulder muscles.
An interesting thing about this injury is what it does to your sleep. I've gotten to the point where I finally CAN fall asleep without too much pain, but during the night my tendons strain and tense and bunch up, and by 3am I wake up in agony and have to do my exercises again. Then I sleep on the couch, whose shape keeps me in a position which doesn't hurt my arm too much.
The good news is that my ailment is relatively common and it is possible to fix it, but it takes a lot of time and work. I am amazed at the skill of my physiotherapist as she twists, shakes, and wobbles my skeleton and says "Aha, this is the exercise we'll do next." And after a week of exercising, that invisible concrete wall moves another few inches and I can bend my arm just a bit more.
Often I'm left standing at a machine with two handles at the sides, like an exercise bike for the arms. I have to pump away at it for ten minutes or so while staring at the single framed newspaper article hung on the wall, a story about a local boxer who benefited from physiotherapy. Each time I use this machine I pick one word from the article at random, and I read the article slowly until I find a word which starts with the same letter. Then I continue reading until I find another word which starts with the letter that the previous word ENDED with. I can do this three times before I'm ordered to use another machine, something more stimulating with pulleys and weights.
Sometimes a co-op student puts lubricant on my shoulder and rubs a small metal object over it, an ultrasound device which is incredibly painful when it somehow resonates the bone in my forearm. Once the physiotherapist wrapped a belt around her waist, then put my arm through the belt and rocked it back and forth as though she was comforting it. Unfortunately that caused my arm to freeze up in excruciating agony for several minutes -- a sensation I've previously described after slipping on ice or falling down while drunk -- so I don't think we'll do the belt thing again. When this "freeze up" happens it is followed by two days of dull ache in my bicep.
Usually, however, I leave physiotherapy with an extraordinary feeling of relaxed well-being. We always end with fifteen minutes of electroshock...well, they hook electrodes up to my shoulder and I gradually turn it up until my arm is jumping around like a fish in a bucket.
Today I made overtures to the Guelph hospital in order to get an MRI, since the therapist (and by extension me) is concerned that the cartilage in there is torn. Apparently it can take up to five months to secure an MRI so I have plenty of time to prepare myself for the giant needle they'll be sticking INTO my shoulder, though the figure-skating worker at the medical supply store told me that "there are ways to get in faster." She didn't tell me more...she just sold me six feet of rubber tubing for my daily exercises.
I also got an X-ray in a tiny, deserted, run-down clinic that appears to be run by a husband and wife comedy duo. I got undressed in a closet and then stood in a dark room in front of hundreds of pounds of equipment. The man put a rubber girdle on me and ran back and forth taking pictures, occasionally slipping them into a cupboard marked "Exposed." Terrible scrabbling sounds came out of this cupboard even though nobody was around. I turned to the left and came face-to-face with an enormous poster of a muskrat, the only decoration in the entire place.
The prognosis so far? Months of exercising, expensive physiotherapy appointments, and drinking WITHOUT falling down. In the meantime, frenetic drag shows at Club Renaissance are strictly verboten: quick-changes involving zippers between my shoulder blades and slipping dresses over my head are simply not going to happen. But I'll still be doing shows in Guelph near the end of March, since they're relatively sedate and I'm sure I can wrangle a dresser from the chilled-out organizers.
So it's galling -- but unsurprising -- that I've buggered up my right shoulder with a series of small injuries, boundary-testing, half-baked corrective techniques and general lack of concern. Over two months I progressed from an aching joint to acute tendon inflammation, atrophied muscles, and a possible cartilage tear. By gradually restricting the usage of my right arm to the half-dozen movements which don't cause me pain, I've managed to forget -- both mentally and physically -- how a healthy arm actually moves.
When I try to do certain everyday things with my right arm -- rotate my palm, put my hand over my stomach, reach to the right, or even THINK about putting it ANYWHERE behind my back -- I am met with either shooting pains or total weakness. The pain is bad but the weakness is just plain disconcerting...the muscles simple stop working. I begin to feel like I'm pushing my arm through a concrete wall, even though there's nothing visible in the way. I have, quite literally, withered my shoulder muscles.
An interesting thing about this injury is what it does to your sleep. I've gotten to the point where I finally CAN fall asleep without too much pain, but during the night my tendons strain and tense and bunch up, and by 3am I wake up in agony and have to do my exercises again. Then I sleep on the couch, whose shape keeps me in a position which doesn't hurt my arm too much.
The good news is that my ailment is relatively common and it is possible to fix it, but it takes a lot of time and work. I am amazed at the skill of my physiotherapist as she twists, shakes, and wobbles my skeleton and says "Aha, this is the exercise we'll do next." And after a week of exercising, that invisible concrete wall moves another few inches and I can bend my arm just a bit more.
Often I'm left standing at a machine with two handles at the sides, like an exercise bike for the arms. I have to pump away at it for ten minutes or so while staring at the single framed newspaper article hung on the wall, a story about a local boxer who benefited from physiotherapy. Each time I use this machine I pick one word from the article at random, and I read the article slowly until I find a word which starts with the same letter. Then I continue reading until I find another word which starts with the letter that the previous word ENDED with. I can do this three times before I'm ordered to use another machine, something more stimulating with pulleys and weights.
Sometimes a co-op student puts lubricant on my shoulder and rubs a small metal object over it, an ultrasound device which is incredibly painful when it somehow resonates the bone in my forearm. Once the physiotherapist wrapped a belt around her waist, then put my arm through the belt and rocked it back and forth as though she was comforting it. Unfortunately that caused my arm to freeze up in excruciating agony for several minutes -- a sensation I've previously described after slipping on ice or falling down while drunk -- so I don't think we'll do the belt thing again. When this "freeze up" happens it is followed by two days of dull ache in my bicep.
Usually, however, I leave physiotherapy with an extraordinary feeling of relaxed well-being. We always end with fifteen minutes of electroshock...well, they hook electrodes up to my shoulder and I gradually turn it up until my arm is jumping around like a fish in a bucket.
Today I made overtures to the Guelph hospital in order to get an MRI, since the therapist (and by extension me) is concerned that the cartilage in there is torn. Apparently it can take up to five months to secure an MRI so I have plenty of time to prepare myself for the giant needle they'll be sticking INTO my shoulder, though the figure-skating worker at the medical supply store told me that "there are ways to get in faster." She didn't tell me more...she just sold me six feet of rubber tubing for my daily exercises.
I also got an X-ray in a tiny, deserted, run-down clinic that appears to be run by a husband and wife comedy duo. I got undressed in a closet and then stood in a dark room in front of hundreds of pounds of equipment. The man put a rubber girdle on me and ran back and forth taking pictures, occasionally slipping them into a cupboard marked "Exposed." Terrible scrabbling sounds came out of this cupboard even though nobody was around. I turned to the left and came face-to-face with an enormous poster of a muskrat, the only decoration in the entire place.
The prognosis so far? Months of exercising, expensive physiotherapy appointments, and drinking WITHOUT falling down. In the meantime, frenetic drag shows at Club Renaissance are strictly verboten: quick-changes involving zippers between my shoulder blades and slipping dresses over my head are simply not going to happen. But I'll still be doing shows in Guelph near the end of March, since they're relatively sedate and I'm sure I can wrangle a dresser from the chilled-out organizers.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Itis Family
Good golly, my apartment is just stuffed full of healthiness.
Bronchitis
I went to the Urgent Care Clinic when I lost half my hearing last week, and the doctor cheerfully informed me that I was suffering from bronchitis. I've never had it before and I don't even feel like I have it now -- no wheezing or rattling or anything -- but that's why He's The Doctor.
After rushing me through the diagnosis and prescription, the doctor asked me what I did for a living. I told him I was a technical writer. He then launched into a spiel about product design which lasted at least ten minutes, and I'm not exaggerating.
He said that products should require no documentation whatsoever. He said we need to spend money on better human interfaces. He pulled a Blackberry out of one pocket and an iTouch out of the other, and proceeded to describe all of their features and differences (pretending the iTouch was his iPhone, which he didn't have on him), concluding that the iPhone was perfectly engineered and that even his autistic son was capable of using it.
It was difficult to get a word in, but I did my best. I explained that simple products with single workflows require little or no documentation, but software is rarely like that, and the more flexible a product is the more documentation it requires. I explained that everybody has a different level of competence and background knowledge. I explained that his iPhone appeals to a very different market than his Blackberry, generalized to "hip consumer" versus "conservative businessman." I also wondered if his autistic son would be able to understand all the options for interfacing the iPhone with different products or use all of its options without a manual, but I was sort of afraid that would sound belittling.
Plus there were people in the waiting room who'd been sitting there for over two hours, waiting for an available doctor.
Anyway, I'm on these horse-pill antibiotics and ephedrine decongestants, which are NOTHING like the nightclub drugs they can supposedly be turned into, but they do sometimes give me goosebumps. My hearing has returned, but when I blow my nose I sometimes hear a weird squeltching noise.
Tendonitis
A different doctor -- from Waterloo Sports Medicine -- has diagnosed me with acute rotator cuff tendonitis, which means that a tendon inside the bony part of my right shoulder has become terribly inflamed. He described it as "a simple problem that's very difficult to fix," and said it came about "through a series of trivial mishaps all coming together." Those mishaps included slipping on the ice, bashing it against a wall, reaching too far behind me, learning to play the bass, and putting on an insane outfit three weeks ago that involved multiple zips and buttons in the middle of my back.
Today was my first day of physiotherapy. It's incredible what these people know about bones. I have to do a few exercises which involve lying down and lifting an umbrella, and she even told me how I can sleep without waking up in pain every hour: lie on my back with a pillow on my stomach, my right arm resting on the pillow.
This sounds good but it's like having a chubby person lying on me. A chubby person wearing cordouroy.
That's why I'm up right now writing this. Totally changing my sleeping positions -- which I've no doubt had since I was, well, a toddler -- will take some getting used to.
Conjunctivitis
On Friday, Zsa Zsa's right eye began to leak. That eye has always tended to get a tiny bit crusty, but now it's literally dripping water and -- if we're lucky -- little streaks of pus. I tried to treat it with cotton balls dipped in hot salt water (thanks mom!) but that hasn't helped, so today we went to see the vet.
The vet was less concerned with her eye than she was with Zsa Zsa's well-documented kidney problems. I was like, "Yeah, I know, she's on a swift decline with no solution short of an organ transplant, and the next step will no doubt be to put her to sleep...but what about her GROSS EYE?"
Conjunctivitis, predictably. Twice a day I'm squeezing little lines of goop onto her eyeball, which is less disturbing than it sounds. What's most disconcerting is the way the goop oozes out of the tube ENTIRELY ON ITS OWN VOLITION, as though it were alive. Also disconcerting was the bill.
Bronchitis
I went to the Urgent Care Clinic when I lost half my hearing last week, and the doctor cheerfully informed me that I was suffering from bronchitis. I've never had it before and I don't even feel like I have it now -- no wheezing or rattling or anything -- but that's why He's The Doctor.
After rushing me through the diagnosis and prescription, the doctor asked me what I did for a living. I told him I was a technical writer. He then launched into a spiel about product design which lasted at least ten minutes, and I'm not exaggerating.
He said that products should require no documentation whatsoever. He said we need to spend money on better human interfaces. He pulled a Blackberry out of one pocket and an iTouch out of the other, and proceeded to describe all of their features and differences (pretending the iTouch was his iPhone, which he didn't have on him), concluding that the iPhone was perfectly engineered and that even his autistic son was capable of using it.
It was difficult to get a word in, but I did my best. I explained that simple products with single workflows require little or no documentation, but software is rarely like that, and the more flexible a product is the more documentation it requires. I explained that everybody has a different level of competence and background knowledge. I explained that his iPhone appeals to a very different market than his Blackberry, generalized to "hip consumer" versus "conservative businessman." I also wondered if his autistic son would be able to understand all the options for interfacing the iPhone with different products or use all of its options without a manual, but I was sort of afraid that would sound belittling.
Plus there were people in the waiting room who'd been sitting there for over two hours, waiting for an available doctor.
Anyway, I'm on these horse-pill antibiotics and ephedrine decongestants, which are NOTHING like the nightclub drugs they can supposedly be turned into, but they do sometimes give me goosebumps. My hearing has returned, but when I blow my nose I sometimes hear a weird squeltching noise.
Tendonitis
A different doctor -- from Waterloo Sports Medicine -- has diagnosed me with acute rotator cuff tendonitis, which means that a tendon inside the bony part of my right shoulder has become terribly inflamed. He described it as "a simple problem that's very difficult to fix," and said it came about "through a series of trivial mishaps all coming together." Those mishaps included slipping on the ice, bashing it against a wall, reaching too far behind me, learning to play the bass, and putting on an insane outfit three weeks ago that involved multiple zips and buttons in the middle of my back.
Today was my first day of physiotherapy. It's incredible what these people know about bones. I have to do a few exercises which involve lying down and lifting an umbrella, and she even told me how I can sleep without waking up in pain every hour: lie on my back with a pillow on my stomach, my right arm resting on the pillow.
This sounds good but it's like having a chubby person lying on me. A chubby person wearing cordouroy.
That's why I'm up right now writing this. Totally changing my sleeping positions -- which I've no doubt had since I was, well, a toddler -- will take some getting used to.
Conjunctivitis
On Friday, Zsa Zsa's right eye began to leak. That eye has always tended to get a tiny bit crusty, but now it's literally dripping water and -- if we're lucky -- little streaks of pus. I tried to treat it with cotton balls dipped in hot salt water (thanks mom!) but that hasn't helped, so today we went to see the vet.
The vet was less concerned with her eye than she was with Zsa Zsa's well-documented kidney problems. I was like, "Yeah, I know, she's on a swift decline with no solution short of an organ transplant, and the next step will no doubt be to put her to sleep...but what about her GROSS EYE?"
Conjunctivitis, predictably. Twice a day I'm squeezing little lines of goop onto her eyeball, which is less disturbing than it sounds. What's most disconcerting is the way the goop oozes out of the tube ENTIRELY ON ITS OWN VOLITION, as though it were alive. Also disconcerting was the bill.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Whining, Pain, Fury, Midnight Special
After almost two weeks of a really bad cold, on Tuesday I started feeling really good...I was getting healthy again!
That night I caught the flu, or something similar. Then today, while walking up my stairs, I slipped on some ice and pinwheeled my damaged right arm, and I was literally paralyzed with pain...it was like somebody had run over it. I couldn't even breathe and everything went white-hot around me.
I stumbled upstairs and got into the shower so I could spray some high-pressure warm water on it, and while I was washing my hair...I lost the hearing in my left ear. It's some congestion-related thing.
And all that time -- while I was stumbling up the stairs in absolute agony, and standing in the shower trying to figure out what had happened to my ear -- the cat was WHINING. She wanted me to put some water in the tub so she could drink it. I suddenly realized that she has NO INTEREST WHATSOEVER in my state of mind.
I don't just mean that she doesn't comfort me when I'm upset -- I would never expect that from a cat -- but she doesn't even know when I'm ANGRY. She has no idea when I need to be left alone. Standing in the shower, listening to her whine with my one good ear, holding my blazing and limp arm with my one good hand, I realized that my cat doesn't have any interest at all in my behaviour, except when I'm making her happy in some way.
So I became furious, and when I opened the bathroom door and she came bouncing in out of some futile desire to drink out of the tub, I sprayed her with the shower hose. Pain can really distort your character.
Of course I felt terrible afterward, and if she gets sick I will never forgive myself. After tracking her down to her hiding place I toweled her off and tried to make her feel better. But even now -- when my pain and frustration has dulled to a pulsing throb -- I can't shake the sudden realization: my cat does not have the LEAST CONCEPTION of how I behave, let alone how I feel.
What got me through my blue funk was a good dose of another kind of funk: the "Midnight Special 1974" DVD. Besides a few stinkers -- David Essex, Golden Earring, Neil Sedaka -- the DVD was full of goodness, but...wow, how did I EVER forget Maria Muldaur's "Midnight at the Oasis?"
I LOVE this wonderful song! I don't think I've heard it since...well, 1974, possibly. "Send your camel to bed," I mean, jeez.
But the best performance BY FAR was by B. B. King and Gladys Knight, in what appears to be a bit of an improvisation for her:
She is SO beautiful and genuine. Those eyelashes! I think it's time I gave her music a closer listen. If I ever get my left ear back.
That night I caught the flu, or something similar. Then today, while walking up my stairs, I slipped on some ice and pinwheeled my damaged right arm, and I was literally paralyzed with pain...it was like somebody had run over it. I couldn't even breathe and everything went white-hot around me.
I stumbled upstairs and got into the shower so I could spray some high-pressure warm water on it, and while I was washing my hair...I lost the hearing in my left ear. It's some congestion-related thing.
And all that time -- while I was stumbling up the stairs in absolute agony, and standing in the shower trying to figure out what had happened to my ear -- the cat was WHINING. She wanted me to put some water in the tub so she could drink it. I suddenly realized that she has NO INTEREST WHATSOEVER in my state of mind.
I don't just mean that she doesn't comfort me when I'm upset -- I would never expect that from a cat -- but she doesn't even know when I'm ANGRY. She has no idea when I need to be left alone. Standing in the shower, listening to her whine with my one good ear, holding my blazing and limp arm with my one good hand, I realized that my cat doesn't have any interest at all in my behaviour, except when I'm making her happy in some way.
So I became furious, and when I opened the bathroom door and she came bouncing in out of some futile desire to drink out of the tub, I sprayed her with the shower hose. Pain can really distort your character.
Of course I felt terrible afterward, and if she gets sick I will never forgive myself. After tracking her down to her hiding place I toweled her off and tried to make her feel better. But even now -- when my pain and frustration has dulled to a pulsing throb -- I can't shake the sudden realization: my cat does not have the LEAST CONCEPTION of how I behave, let alone how I feel.
What got me through my blue funk was a good dose of another kind of funk: the "Midnight Special 1974" DVD. Besides a few stinkers -- David Essex, Golden Earring, Neil Sedaka -- the DVD was full of goodness, but...wow, how did I EVER forget Maria Muldaur's "Midnight at the Oasis?"
I LOVE this wonderful song! I don't think I've heard it since...well, 1974, possibly. "Send your camel to bed," I mean, jeez.
But the best performance BY FAR was by B. B. King and Gladys Knight, in what appears to be a bit of an improvisation for her:
She is SO beautiful and genuine. Those eyelashes! I think it's time I gave her music a closer listen. If I ever get my left ear back.
Friday, September 05, 2008
The Skinny on the Skinny Cat
Thanks to everybody for your advice and encouragement regarding Zsa Zsa's troubles. After many trips to the vet -- including one enforced "cat daycare" in order to get a fresh urine sample -- the diagnosis is...
...inconclusive. Instead of knowing what she's suffering from, we at least have a better idea of what she ISN'T suffering from.
She doesn't have worms, for instance, which is particularly weird considering what I pulled out of her butt last week. It must have been a piece of string...or maybe a bit of undigested mouse.
She also doesn't have diabetes, and nothing is wrong with her thyroid. That's the good news.
The bad news is that her urine shows signs of approaching kidney problems...or maybe liver problems, they're not sure which. Fortunately these problems can be managed through proper diet, so we're now doing the three-day "New Cat Food Taste Test," which is kind of fun and which she absolutely LOVES.
I am instructed to keep watching her for further deterioration, and to buy a bathroom scale so I can monitor her weight. I had previously refused to get a scale because I suspect it would lead to compulsive weighing of MYSELF, but there are certain sacrifices one must make for one's unfailing companion.
As for Zsa Zsa herself, she's back to her normal behaviour, though alarmingly thin. She's just as social, active, curious, and thirsty as she always was. Her "bad spell" during the weekend may have been due to a number of things -- like the terrible heat and the worm medication I gave her -- but she SEEMED to get bad whenever I fed her Purina soft food, which I kept doing in order to comfort her. She may have developed an intolerance for something in that food. Very, very strange.
Anyway, Zsa Zsa no longer appears to be on death's door and is instead scratching back at mine. Thank goodness!
...inconclusive. Instead of knowing what she's suffering from, we at least have a better idea of what she ISN'T suffering from.
She doesn't have worms, for instance, which is particularly weird considering what I pulled out of her butt last week. It must have been a piece of string...or maybe a bit of undigested mouse.
She also doesn't have diabetes, and nothing is wrong with her thyroid. That's the good news.
The bad news is that her urine shows signs of approaching kidney problems...or maybe liver problems, they're not sure which. Fortunately these problems can be managed through proper diet, so we're now doing the three-day "New Cat Food Taste Test," which is kind of fun and which she absolutely LOVES.
I am instructed to keep watching her for further deterioration, and to buy a bathroom scale so I can monitor her weight. I had previously refused to get a scale because I suspect it would lead to compulsive weighing of MYSELF, but there are certain sacrifices one must make for one's unfailing companion.
As for Zsa Zsa herself, she's back to her normal behaviour, though alarmingly thin. She's just as social, active, curious, and thirsty as she always was. Her "bad spell" during the weekend may have been due to a number of things -- like the terrible heat and the worm medication I gave her -- but she SEEMED to get bad whenever I fed her Purina soft food, which I kept doing in order to comfort her. She may have developed an intolerance for something in that food. Very, very strange.
Anyway, Zsa Zsa no longer appears to be on death's door and is instead scratching back at mine. Thank goodness!
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
To Gentlemen Who Occasionally Want to Kick the Cat
So yes, I'm still alive, but I've had "one of those weeks." Not only was I spectacularly sick, dealing with money troubles, canceling all my social appointments, and taking my car into the shop...but through all this my cat was urinating on the basement floor.
You might know what stale cat pee smells like: sharp, evil, headache-y. If the Wicked Witch of the West ever got over her hydrophobia and took a pee, I bet it would smell like that.
Feverish, snotty, and exhausted, I kept on scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing...and then, a few hours later, the pee was back with its attendant odour. Things reached a head when, on Saturday night, I brought a person into my apartment who physically FLINCHED at the front door, and then suggested we "open a window and turn on the fan." And not just because I'm so damn hot.
The next day I scrubbed the basement floor again, and I bought baking soda and spread it around. Then -- in a moment of inspiration -- I put a deep ceramic saucer on the ground where she tends to pee. Lately she's been urinating directly in that saucer, which I quickly empty -- the smell isn't NEARLY so bad when it's fresh and unable to ooze into anything.
Why has she started doing this? I suppose it began with her bladder infection; maybe she associates the litter box with stress and pain now. It's time to buy her a new box anyway.
As for the infection itself, I've been sticking pills down her throat twice a day for almost two weeks, so supposedly the problem is gone. Once I have vacuumed and cleaned up the detritus of The Cloistered Sickly Muffy, my apartment will once again be safe for visiting.
PS: Why does that guy in the picture want to kick his cat? "It usually isn't any antipathy to Tabby's furry innocence...it's just that you're out of sorts...brain groggy...nerves jumpy...every man has had such days. Possibly you're smoking the wrong cigars."
The advertisement says that Muriel cigars will NEVER get on your nerves, and will "fetch you up at the end of the day with a smile as sweet as a baby's." Shiver.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Sick Long Weekend Catch-Up
Since I am too ill to spend my night dancing and my head is too foggy for bloggin', here's a quick update.
- My cat has not pooped as of yet.
- One nice thing about having a spiffy new computer is that the old games -- which I could barely play on their lowest settings -- can now be played with maximum eye-candy. So "Return to Castle Wolfenstein" looks particularly good. I just have to remember that it's more effective to shoot enemies in the head instead of the groin.
- Want to see a great scary movie? I highly recommend "The Ruins." Holy vegetable-infested cow!
- Yesterday I decided I wanted to drive to a lake. I looked on the map for the one closest to me, then drove all the way to Floradale to find it. And guess what...there's no lake there! There's a tiny one, but the enormous one depicted on the map just didn't seem to exist.
- I did NOT receive the "Record Save and Sell" this Friday, which is a good sign.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Sherlock Holmes Solves Some Mysteries
The Case of the Oily Foundation
Even if you have a singularly oily T-Zone, purchase a non-greasy prep lotion such as the one marketed by Quo. It will give you that "fresh-faced lass" smoothness and also prevent your foundation from sliding off.
It was worth being mocked by a cosmetician to solve this case.
Yesterday's Gluteal Soreness
You're wondering why you woke up with a mysterious muscle-soreness running all down your right side? It's because you spent the day previous chasing a duckling under the cars in the parking lot. Seriously, Muffy, have you not yet learned that nature is cruel? You must rest your old bones.
The Mystery of the Early-Morning Cat
Have you not noticed that the cat ONLY does her early-morning yowling when the balcony door is open? Had it not occurred to you that this door lets in an uncommon amount of light, making the bedroom brighter than usual? Have you yourself not been fooled by this illumination?
It's not a wonder that your cat is being fooled, as she is dim-witted.
The Strange Case of the Rotting Vegetable Odour
It's garbage day, and all your windows are open! While YOU eat food which is so packed with preservatives that its half-life is measured in centuries, others eat fresh provender which decays more quickly.
So not to worry, my dear Muffy...that smell is coming from outside!
Even if you have a singularly oily T-Zone, purchase a non-greasy prep lotion such as the one marketed by Quo. It will give you that "fresh-faced lass" smoothness and also prevent your foundation from sliding off.
It was worth being mocked by a cosmetician to solve this case.
Yesterday's Gluteal Soreness
You're wondering why you woke up with a mysterious muscle-soreness running all down your right side? It's because you spent the day previous chasing a duckling under the cars in the parking lot. Seriously, Muffy, have you not yet learned that nature is cruel? You must rest your old bones.
The Mystery of the Early-Morning Cat
Have you not noticed that the cat ONLY does her early-morning yowling when the balcony door is open? Had it not occurred to you that this door lets in an uncommon amount of light, making the bedroom brighter than usual? Have you yourself not been fooled by this illumination?
It's not a wonder that your cat is being fooled, as she is dim-witted.
The Strange Case of the Rotting Vegetable Odour
It's garbage day, and all your windows are open! While YOU eat food which is so packed with preservatives that its half-life is measured in centuries, others eat fresh provender which decays more quickly.
So not to worry, my dear Muffy...that smell is coming from outside!
Monday, June 02, 2008
Owwwww!
Beware: you can bruise your feet with high heels.
This happens to me so infrequently that I forget about it every time, but during some circumstances -- like jumping around on a stage at the Holiday Inn during Guelph Pride -- I manage to damage my feet in an incredibly painful way.
It feels like a constant burning inside the ball of my foot, which becomes a sharp pain each time I take a step. Since my foot doesn't actually swell up or anything when this happens, I assume that the bruising is of some tissue deep inside...a muscle or a joint or something.
The last time this happened was when I tried to break in a pair of very high feather mules. The deceptive thing about this is that the pain doesn't actually start until a few hours later, so you've got no warning that something's wrong until it's time to recover. And that takes days of hobbling around and inspecting your foot for gangrene.
So be careful, girls...feet will only take so much.
This happens to me so infrequently that I forget about it every time, but during some circumstances -- like jumping around on a stage at the Holiday Inn during Guelph Pride -- I manage to damage my feet in an incredibly painful way.
It feels like a constant burning inside the ball of my foot, which becomes a sharp pain each time I take a step. Since my foot doesn't actually swell up or anything when this happens, I assume that the bruising is of some tissue deep inside...a muscle or a joint or something.
The last time this happened was when I tried to break in a pair of very high feather mules. The deceptive thing about this is that the pain doesn't actually start until a few hours later, so you've got no warning that something's wrong until it's time to recover. And that takes days of hobbling around and inspecting your foot for gangrene.
So be careful, girls...feet will only take so much.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Sicko II
How are YOU spending "Family Day?" I'll be spending it with the seven million members of my own personal family: the bacteria that are currently running rampant through my body.
Yes, I know, I was sick only last month. Once again somebody has leaned directly into my face and shouted "I'm sick!" at me, therefore instantly passing on their infection. As much as I'd like to lay such people low with a swift backhand swipe, I'm afraid that doing so would just expose me to additional (and nastier) infections.
So far I've mostly just been lying under blankets to keep me and my family warm. Things haven't been so bad, but I notice now that one relative has just discovered my lungs. There goes the neighbourhood! You know what they say: you can't pick your family.
Having written this, I feel like I've just run a marathon.
Yes, I know, I was sick only last month. Once again somebody has leaned directly into my face and shouted "I'm sick!" at me, therefore instantly passing on their infection. As much as I'd like to lay such people low with a swift backhand swipe, I'm afraid that doing so would just expose me to additional (and nastier) infections.
So far I've mostly just been lying under blankets to keep me and my family warm. Things haven't been so bad, but I notice now that one relative has just discovered my lungs. There goes the neighbourhood! You know what they say: you can't pick your family.
Having written this, I feel like I've just run a marathon.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Gravol
I've been having an awful time getting to sleep lately. I was at the end of my rope and about to have a nervous breakdown when Tanzi suggested the obvious: maybe my sleeping schedule had simply gotten out of whack and I needed to reset it by conking myself out with medication?
She suggested Gravol and I was willing to try anything.
REAL Gravol -- not the herbal stuff -- is now kept behind the drug store counter, either because it's being abused or because people are stealing it. In front of a bunch of elderly people I admitted that I was using it as a sedative, which is not what Gravol is generally used for, and I felt mighty embarassed until I realized that most of those old people were probably buying erectile aids and extra-strength laxatives.
My only previous Gravol experience was ten years ago, when I was spending a week's vacation with a friend in Toronto. Stricken by the flu the night I arrived, she gave me Gravol so I could get through a shopping trip, and I vividly remember standing in the middle of the Eaton Centre saying "I don't know where I am, I can't see anything properly, please lead me to a safe corner somewhere." It was a strange drug experience that I only now understand is the effect of taking TOO MUCH Gravol, which some folks do for fun. This is probably why it's kept behind the counter.
Anxious to avoid hallucinations, I took only one pill at 9pm last night. By 9:30 I was feeling disconnected and sleepy, but I'd spent the last two weeks feeling that way so I'm not sure how much of that was the Gravol. I got into bed and read until 10pm, by which time I felt ready to sleep. I was calmly unconcerned about the growing numbness in my extremities, ready to sacrifice a finger or a toe for a good night's sleep. I dozed off immediately and slept like a total log, not dreaming, until 5am when I woke up for a bathroom break.
As though compensating for the seven hours without dreams, my last two hours of sleep were jam-packed with bizarre, vivid imagery. By 7:30am I was fully awake, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to go to work with all of my toes intact.
I feel much better today and hopefully this has done the trick. As for the efficiency of Gravol, either it really does give you a powerful drowse-on or I suffered one heck of a placebo effect. I hadn't gambled on the hand-and-foot pins-and-needles, but my circulation is worse than normal so most people shouldn't have a problem with it. Still, I have to say that if you're going to take it, see your doctor and don't blame me if you die.
Thanks, Tanzi!
She suggested Gravol and I was willing to try anything.
REAL Gravol -- not the herbal stuff -- is now kept behind the drug store counter, either because it's being abused or because people are stealing it. In front of a bunch of elderly people I admitted that I was using it as a sedative, which is not what Gravol is generally used for, and I felt mighty embarassed until I realized that most of those old people were probably buying erectile aids and extra-strength laxatives.
My only previous Gravol experience was ten years ago, when I was spending a week's vacation with a friend in Toronto. Stricken by the flu the night I arrived, she gave me Gravol so I could get through a shopping trip, and I vividly remember standing in the middle of the Eaton Centre saying "I don't know where I am, I can't see anything properly, please lead me to a safe corner somewhere." It was a strange drug experience that I only now understand is the effect of taking TOO MUCH Gravol, which some folks do for fun. This is probably why it's kept behind the counter.
Anxious to avoid hallucinations, I took only one pill at 9pm last night. By 9:30 I was feeling disconnected and sleepy, but I'd spent the last two weeks feeling that way so I'm not sure how much of that was the Gravol. I got into bed and read until 10pm, by which time I felt ready to sleep. I was calmly unconcerned about the growing numbness in my extremities, ready to sacrifice a finger or a toe for a good night's sleep. I dozed off immediately and slept like a total log, not dreaming, until 5am when I woke up for a bathroom break.
As though compensating for the seven hours without dreams, my last two hours of sleep were jam-packed with bizarre, vivid imagery. By 7:30am I was fully awake, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to go to work with all of my toes intact.
I feel much better today and hopefully this has done the trick. As for the efficiency of Gravol, either it really does give you a powerful drowse-on or I suffered one heck of a placebo effect. I hadn't gambled on the hand-and-foot pins-and-needles, but my circulation is worse than normal so most people shouldn't have a problem with it. Still, I have to say that if you're going to take it, see your doctor and don't blame me if you die.
Thanks, Tanzi!
Friday, January 25, 2008
Deathbreath
On Saturday night a friend walked into Club Abstract with her scarf over her nose. I said "It's cold out, isn't it?" and she shook her head and mumbled a reply. I leaned in close and said "Pardon?" She pulled down her scarf and yelled "No, I've got STREP THROAT!"
This was basically like spraying infected phlegm directly on my tonsils. No amount of recoiling or huffing or puffing would change the fact that I'd gotten a huge whiff of bacteria in my face, and two days later I was down with the flu, exhausted and feverish, missing appointments and neglecting my work.
Lying on the couch, dazed and with all of my immediate responsibilities piling up around me, I imagined what my brains would look like if I were -- just for example -- shot in the head. I figured my brains would be so full of infected gook that they would slowly crawl away from me. This is because I've been watching all those horror movies, and also because I tend to get a bit pessimistic when I'm ill.
I suddenly remembered something my father had told me a long time ago. He said that if everybody would stay isolated for a week, the flu would be eradicated...anybody who had it would manage to kill it, and it wouldn't be able to travel to anybody else. This was quite an awe-inspiring thought when I was younger but not so much now, especially since most flu strains can survive on doorknobs for ninety days (why they hang around on doorknobs I don't know).
So assuming we could all stay isolated for NINETY days...what about people who have medical emergencies during that period? Or the people who work at essential services, maintaining hydro and telephones? What about people who live in one-room apartments with a bunch of children? What about the flu strains that cross species barriers, or strains that mutate naturally while within a host?
No answers there, but this got me wondering about the "flu season" in general, and why we tend to get the flu during the winter time. My mother always said it was because we didn't "bundle up" enough outside, therefore compromising our immune systems. But it turns out that mom isn't always right, and that nobody really knows why the flu travels so well in the winter.
In any case, this will be a weekend for much sleep and for catching up on the things I should have done, and also for mourning the fingernail I broke at the grocery store today. Please, I implore you: go out and do something exciting, and then tell me that you had a terrible time so I won't be jealous.
This was basically like spraying infected phlegm directly on my tonsils. No amount of recoiling or huffing or puffing would change the fact that I'd gotten a huge whiff of bacteria in my face, and two days later I was down with the flu, exhausted and feverish, missing appointments and neglecting my work.
Lying on the couch, dazed and with all of my immediate responsibilities piling up around me, I imagined what my brains would look like if I were -- just for example -- shot in the head. I figured my brains would be so full of infected gook that they would slowly crawl away from me. This is because I've been watching all those horror movies, and also because I tend to get a bit pessimistic when I'm ill.
I suddenly remembered something my father had told me a long time ago. He said that if everybody would stay isolated for a week, the flu would be eradicated...anybody who had it would manage to kill it, and it wouldn't be able to travel to anybody else. This was quite an awe-inspiring thought when I was younger but not so much now, especially since most flu strains can survive on doorknobs for ninety days (why they hang around on doorknobs I don't know).
So assuming we could all stay isolated for NINETY days...what about people who have medical emergencies during that period? Or the people who work at essential services, maintaining hydro and telephones? What about people who live in one-room apartments with a bunch of children? What about the flu strains that cross species barriers, or strains that mutate naturally while within a host?
No answers there, but this got me wondering about the "flu season" in general, and why we tend to get the flu during the winter time. My mother always said it was because we didn't "bundle up" enough outside, therefore compromising our immune systems. But it turns out that mom isn't always right, and that nobody really knows why the flu travels so well in the winter.
In any case, this will be a weekend for much sleep and for catching up on the things I should have done, and also for mourning the fingernail I broke at the grocery store today. Please, I implore you: go out and do something exciting, and then tell me that you had a terrible time so I won't be jealous.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Xena to the Sickbed
Bad flu, sore body, snotty head. Dusty apartment. Cold weather.
"Aei-yi-yi-yi-yi!" It's Xena, come to rescue me! Or rather to bumble through the rest of the first season, which Jason & Craig loaned to me so long ago. Xena to keep my eyes and my head busy while the rest of my body moans. Something to think about that doesn't require any effort. A rousing theme-song you can sing along with. Tom Atkins playing the same character he always plays, but on horseback. Bruce Campbell's funny eyes.
I like Xena when she's funny. I like Gabrielle too. I wonder if any women have ever felt empowered by this show. I wonder how blatant the lesbian overtones were meant to be. "Is There a Doctor in the House?" was a crazy hodge-podge of medical drama, social commentary, and breech-birthed centaur, plus an old guy yelling "MY TEMPLE!" How can you make a gripping program about emergency medical procedures when all you have are some hollow reeds, a sword, a hypnotizing candle, and "Gabrielle, make compresses out of those cobwebs"?
Callisto was a good villain. More Charon as vaudeville comedian, please. Two episodes in a row, Xena disguised herself as a bride in order to capture a bad guy. In about six episodes in a row she said "I have stopped the blood to your brain. You will die in sixty seconds." Whenever the show gets boring you can play "guess the accent that the actor is hiding." Whenever it starts to hurt, take a Tylenol.
Ooooo, back to sleep, I think.
"Aei-yi-yi-yi-yi!" It's Xena, come to rescue me! Or rather to bumble through the rest of the first season, which Jason & Craig loaned to me so long ago. Xena to keep my eyes and my head busy while the rest of my body moans. Something to think about that doesn't require any effort. A rousing theme-song you can sing along with. Tom Atkins playing the same character he always plays, but on horseback. Bruce Campbell's funny eyes.
I like Xena when she's funny. I like Gabrielle too. I wonder if any women have ever felt empowered by this show. I wonder how blatant the lesbian overtones were meant to be. "Is There a Doctor in the House?" was a crazy hodge-podge of medical drama, social commentary, and breech-birthed centaur, plus an old guy yelling "MY TEMPLE!" How can you make a gripping program about emergency medical procedures when all you have are some hollow reeds, a sword, a hypnotizing candle, and "Gabrielle, make compresses out of those cobwebs"?
Callisto was a good villain. More Charon as vaudeville comedian, please. Two episodes in a row, Xena disguised herself as a bride in order to capture a bad guy. In about six episodes in a row she said "I have stopped the blood to your brain. You will die in sixty seconds." Whenever the show gets boring you can play "guess the accent that the actor is hiding." Whenever it starts to hurt, take a Tylenol.
Ooooo, back to sleep, I think.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
In Fact Actually Sicko
I know I said a few weekends ago that it was time for me to get sick, but somehow the moment didn't arrive until last night. Lethargy, runny nose, headache, desire to be away from humanity. So tonight I'm at home watching Michael Palin's "Pole to Pole" and looking forward to a bath.
Earlier, my mother dropped by to enact her peerless "mom-shui," this time with a rug for the bathroom door, a much-needed family heirloom footstool, and...the oddest craft I've ever seen: a woman's face made of wire for hanging jewelry on. It's just this side of ugly, to the point where it becomes fascinating, appropriate, and suddenly beautiful.
So me and my (as yet nameless) wire roommate will share a cozy night of reading. Feet up, snuggled in, only slightly missing the rest of the human race and the joy of dancing.
Earlier, my mother dropped by to enact her peerless "mom-shui," this time with a rug for the bathroom door, a much-needed family heirloom footstool, and...the oddest craft I've ever seen: a woman's face made of wire for hanging jewelry on. It's just this side of ugly, to the point where it becomes fascinating, appropriate, and suddenly beautiful.
So me and my (as yet nameless) wire roommate will share a cozy night of reading. Feet up, snuggled in, only slightly missing the rest of the human race and the joy of dancing.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Early Morning Observations
For your edification:
- My cat's stomach does NOT run on daylight savings time.
- It is very easy to take off false eyelashes...they just pull off. But last night BOTH of them were firmly and impossibly stuck to my real eyelashes, and it took ten painful minutes with tweezers to pull them off. I have no idea how this happened.
- If I don't manage 365 blog entries this year I will consider myself an outright failure.
- My one superpower is the ability to postpone illness until after an event has finished. For two weeks an autumn cold has been lurking in the darkest recesses of my body, asking repeatedly "can I come out and play?" and jacking up my blood sugar. This afternoon, after birthday and Hallowe'en and Kink show and breakfast, I will lay spread-eagled on my living room floor and scream "TAKE ME!" And it will.
- I dreamed that I was walking to work in the rain, and my cat was following me, and we accidentally stumbled over the hidden entrance to Reverend Phelp's basement. I woke up before I learned anything juicy, but I DID see that they keep all of their paperwork in cheap cardboard filing cabinets.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
The Repentent Drinker
You're looking at an example of the old addage, "God looks after drunk and stupid people." This is my left boot. Doesn't look much like a boot, does it? Fortunately the heel only detached while I was limping into my apartment and not at any point earlier...for that alone I can be humbly thankful. If the heel had done this earlier I don't know WHAT I would have done.Hallowe'en. My birthday night out. Seeing Dan Haner -- who I haven't seen in about two years -- back from Calgary. Wearing a costume that *I* thought was obvious but just confused everybody else. Drinking too many shots and filling up my stomach with awfulness. Head spinning, speech slurring. Wind, rain, sleet, and snow. Escorted out of the bar by the sweet busboy. Catching a cab instantly. Heel falling off. Lots of vagueness involving showers, weeping, and vomiting up something that looked like 3M Scotch tape. A disappearing cat. Calling Vanilla at 1:30am to please please please share my suffering and distract me. Thank goodness for Vanilla. Reality check. Wind whistling through the windows. Shivering and being a total suck. Spinning myself to sleep at 5am watching John Candy and Eugene Levy. The usual nightmare about needing to take a plane someplace but being unable to find the ticket. Daylight Savings Time. Awake for breakfast and a snowstorm. Listening to Aimee Mann and thinking what a beautiful birthday, what a horrible aftermath, and what was that stuff I threw up?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The New West: Mysterious 19th Century Ailments
As part of my personal mission to learn more about the country I live in (and to have fun doing it), I'm reading a fascinating book called "The New West." It's a straight-forward collection of reports from the North-West Mounted Police filed during 1889.
These prototypical mounties had only been around for 16 years by that point. They were still suffering growing pains as they tried to keep up with explosive settlement, the coming of the railroad, forest fires, cattle theft, and some decidedly uneasy relationships with the Native Americans.
I've only just started reading the book, but I'm struck by the reports filed by Senior Surgeon A. Jukes (who, I've just discovered, testified that Louis Riel was not insane) and his group of assistant surgeons. They provide handy tables of all the illnesses they treated during the year. Many of them are easy for a 21st century reader to understand, but there are plenty of cases of Freaky 19th Century Ailments with weird names.
To educate you (and myself), I've done a bit of research. And if you're a really dedicated hypochondriac, try these ones on for size:
Extra-special credit goes to Rudy's List of Archaic Medical Terms. This just goes to show that no matter what weird thing you're curious about, you'll find a website for it eventually.
These prototypical mounties had only been around for 16 years by that point. They were still suffering growing pains as they tried to keep up with explosive settlement, the coming of the railroad, forest fires, cattle theft, and some decidedly uneasy relationships with the Native Americans.
I've only just started reading the book, but I'm struck by the reports filed by Senior Surgeon A. Jukes (who, I've just discovered, testified that Louis Riel was not insane) and his group of assistant surgeons. They provide handy tables of all the illnesses they treated during the year. Many of them are easy for a 21st century reader to understand, but there are plenty of cases of Freaky 19th Century Ailments with weird names.
To educate you (and myself), I've done a bit of research. And if you're a really dedicated hypochondriac, try these ones on for size:
- Two officers spent almost a month recovering from Bilious Fever. It's an intestinal flu/fever that keeps on coming back to haunt you. I've always assumed this caused your stomach to bloat.
- Eighteen unfortunate fellows dealt with Cephalalgia, which isn't a deadly tropical amoeba...it's just a headache!
- Choria took one man seventy days to recover from. It's the infamous St. Vitus' Dance, a symptom of several different illnesses (such as Huntington's disease and rheumatic fever).
- Lumbago -- AKA lower-back pain -- was pretty popular and easily overcome.
- I'm totally confused by Odontolgia, which is listed as a "disease of the nervous system." There are lots of online references to Odontologia, but they're all in Spanish and probably refer to some medical field. Maybe a toothache?
- Good old Catarrh, a chronic inflammation of the mucous membranes.
- One poor guy caught Furunculus and was still being treated by the time of the report. It's a boil. Why don't we hear about boils and carbuncles anymore? Either because our hygiene is better or because we just call them big pimples nowadays, is my guess.
- Three (possibly) uncircumsized men complained of Balanitis, a penile inflammation. The Mounted Police didn't have many opportunities to bathe, apparently.
- Yikes, Desquamative Nephritis took three months to kill a police officer. It's a nasty inflammation of the kidneys.
- One man had Orchitis, an inflammation of the testicles. But don't worry...he got over it!
- Two men suffered Eruptions! I have no idea what this means. Testicles again?
- I sense a trend here...another two men from Calgary spent ten days being treated for Spermatorrhoea, which Swami Sivandra of Rishikesh says has "eaten away the very core of the heart of many brilliant youth." Amazing that a grown man would go to the doctor because he's having wet dreams...those Victorians!
- Incidentally, there was a single tapeworm lurking around Calgary in 1889, poor lonely thing.
- Varix was a horribly swollen vein.
- For guys who were so good with their horses, they sure got kicked by horse a lot.
- When is a police officer felonous? When he's suffering from an infected fingertip! That would be a good joke. Actually, no, it wouldn't.
Extra-special credit goes to Rudy's List of Archaic Medical Terms. This just goes to show that no matter what weird thing you're curious about, you'll find a website for it eventually.
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