Fun With Eye Surgery!

I swan (and you all KNOW how much I hate swanning), once you hit a certain age, it all goes careening quickly downhill from there. Take my latest checkup with my optometrist...please!

"Stuart, your cataracts have grown," said the doctor.

"Um...does this mean surgery?"

"I'm afraid it does."

Of COURSE it did. So off to an ophthalmologist I went, my wife riding shotgun. When the nurse tested my left eye, apparently I couldn't even read a six-inch tall single black letter. Which prompted my wife to laugh (tough crowd, tough crowd).

So Dr. Doogie Howser (I have shoes older than him) came in and told me he was going to hack off my cataracts.

"Wait...what? Wait!"

"I'll go in there and slice your cataract off and replace the cloudy filter on your eye with a new filter."

"AIEEEEEEEEEEEEE," I said.

The day of the procedure I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything. Already it had started out miserably.

When I got to the surgical center, there were over a dozen people (all appearing disgruntled) in the tiny waiting room. Once they called me back, all sorts of fresh hell broke loose.

They handed me paper after paper (with the tiniest print ever; ironic, yes?) that I couldn't read and told me to sign them. Then the nurse put me through a barrage of questions. ("Name, date of birth, favorite boy band, etc."). Once they found a bed for me, they took me into a massive room with about twenty beds, with a variety of people laying on them, looking like some kind of war-time hospital room. There were moans and groans and snores. I very much wanted to get outta there.

A different nurse came in and went through all of the same damn questions again ("Stuart West, April 1961, Back Street Boys, etc.") and they began to put eye drops on me.

"To help numb your eye," said the nurse.

"Ahhh...please give me a lot of it," I said.

Then I noticed this old, shaky, bald, hunched over man wobbling around, clearly in worse shape than I was. I wondered why they let this clearly out-of-it patient roam freely through the room until he stopped by my bed and picked up a chart.

"Hi, Steve, I'm--"

"Stuart," I corrected even though he had no interest in getting my name right.

"I'm Mark, the anesthesia nurse."

Pause. Blink. Ponder. He waited for my response. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Really?"

"Now this chart says you're...160 pounds and 5'6" tall..."

"Yeah, no. That's a mistake," I said. "A big mistake."

The wrinkles on Mark's head crinkled like ripples in a pond. "Hmmm. Now...which eye is being operated on?"

"My left one," I said.

"You left your eye where?"

"No. My left eye. Left!"

"You left your eye where?" Mark repeated before finally cracking a smile.

"Ohhhhhhhkay, I see what you did there, Mark. Eye humor." I so wanted to tell him that his joke wasn't funny nor did it even make sense, but I was kinda at everyone's mercy.

"Are you feeling pretty relaxed after the medicine we gave you?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I haven't had any medicine!"

"Hmmm." With that Mark waddled off to the guy next to me where he continued to harass the patient with his tired, same ol' schtick.

Soon they began to roll me into the surgical room, aka "The Polar Experience." Cold doesn't even begin to describe it.

"How're you doing, Stuart?" asked an unseen nurse.

"Kinda nervous. Um, could I get some medicine to relax me? Maybe? Please?"

The nurse laughed. Then strapped my head down to the point where I couldn't move. "Dr. Howser works under a microscope, so don't move a muscle," she directed.

Dr. Howser whizzed in (at least I assume it was him) and said, "Okay, we're going to start now. You won't feel a thing."

"Promise?"

The operation began. A series of bright lights blinded me (well...blinded me even more than I was) while a nurse kept squirting stuff into my eye. Soon I could see and feel something working around the perimeter of my eye. Cutting into it!

"Alright, we're halfway through. I cut out the cataract," said Dr. Howser.

"Great," I said, tied down and at a loss for words.

"We're in the home-stretch now." Soon enough it was done. They unwrapped me and put a plastic "shield" over the eye. 

"Wow," I said. "I can already tell that I can see better." I wasn't really sure if that was true or not, but I couldn't think of what else to say.

"Well..." said Dr. Howser. "That was a huge cataract."

They wheeled me back into the war room, where I immediately hopped out of bed, ready to get the hell out of there before they started hacking at my eye again.

The following week was recovery. And I had to wear the horrible eye shield every night while I slept. But I had got through it. Until in two more weeks when Dr. Howser will slice open my other eye.

AIEEEEEEEEE!

Speaking of things that make me scream, I have to make a blatant plug for my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. It's full of horror, humor, and twists. But I'm especially proud of the final novella, "The Underdwellers." I believe it's the the scariest and most intense thing I've written. But don't take my word for it! Lay down some bucks and find out for yourself right here!

Toilet Lid Mind Blower

In our household, the breakdown of duties have been divided up. Having drawn the short straw, I got toilet cleaning detail.

Now admittedly, lately I haven't been as regular at it as I used to do (way back in the days when I had ambition and gumption {whatever that last word is}), but it's just hard to get excited about sticking your head in the toilet and scrubbing.

Years ago, my wife had given me very detailed instructions on how to clean a toilet: "You have to really stick your head inside to see the grime and gross stuff. Then you scrub and scrub and scrub...." She even bought me a special brush to take care of such matters.

It wasn't until later that she hit me with a mind-blower. "You're supposed to take the toilet seat off every time you clean!"

WHAAAAAAAT? I never knew that. Did you guys know that?

She proceeded to show me how it's done. "You twist the two knobs and yank!"

Surely I can't be the only house-husband out there who ever knew that this was a possibility, right?....RIGHT?

Google wasn't much help in aiding in my information gathering and need to feel I'm not alone in my lack of toilet knowledge. "While not all men know to remove the seat for cleaning, it's a recommended practice for ensuring a thorough and hygienic cleaning of the toilet. " Thanks Ms. Google!

I mean, where exactly are you supposed to learn this information? My parents certainly didn't teach me that info. And I sure don't remember ever seeing them remove the toilet seat.

And even though I skipped school quite a bit in my delinquent days, I'm willing to bet that toilet cleaning was never a hot topic.

I swan...I'm STILL capable of learning new stuff.

Speaking of things going down the toilet, be sure and check out my Zach and Zora comical mystery books where it's hard to believe at how low I can stoop for a laugh!

Get 'em here: Shameless Plug!

The Politeness of Brits

The politeness of our friends across the sea, the British people, never ceases to amaze me. It even extends into popular culture.

The other day I was watching an old British cop movie where the policeman (or "Bobby," if you will), pulled a pistol. He hollers (but never too loudly, mind you) after the fleeing criminal, "I shall fire this gun in the subjunctive."

Yow! You won't hear that in American cop films today! No, you'll more likely hear something along the lines of "You have the right to remain silent...forever, mother f@#$er!"

Sigh. Talk about the "ugly American."

This behavior even extends to trash TV reality junk. Lately, my daughter has hooked me on some of the trashiest TV shows in history. One is called "Love Is Blind," a ludicrous foray into bottom of the barrel humanity at its ugliest, involving numerous scandals, lying, cheating, and overall bad behavior. (Addictive though it is).

Not so the British counterpart of "Love Is Blind." Therein, the participants are exceedingly polite, scandals very rare and usually reduced to nothing more than a quick peck on the cheek that has not been revealed. In other words, very boring trash TV.

Now...why is this? Part of the reason must pertain to the old "keep a stiff upper lip" idiom usually associated with the British, wherein they generally remain calm and stoic in the face of potentially upsetting situations. Of course this can't be true all the time. Even Hugh Grant's gotta lose his temper on occasion.

Their polite behavior definitely isn't a result of their weather! No, they face ugly, gray, rainy skies on a nearly daily basis.

Maybe the British accent puts a delightful sheen on everything they say. Take for instance, a radio chat show about the importance of buttons, wherein the heavily accented host makes buttons sound fascinating. But this doesn't go any further into explaining their actual behavior.

I can definitely explain part of the "ugly American" behavior, a difference in our politicians. I've read a lot about their lousy leaders, but at least they don't rant, rave, rape, belittle, bully, lie, and ignore the US Constitution like a certain horrific president of ours. "Lead by example," so the ubiquitous "they" say.

(Following our shambles of a presidential election, BBC reporters were astounded at our choice of American presidents. All I can is "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry....")

But no, I believe that the overall politeness attributed to the British comes down to cultural norms. Ms. Google, my research assistant agrees with me, where she explains "politeness and good manners are seen as important in British culture passed down through generations." (The only American "Norm" I can think of is the overweight barfly on "Cheers.")

Collectively, we as a nation could learn a lot from our British friends (and please, let's remain friendsies despite the actions of our president!).

Hey ho, speaking of ugly Americans, there're plenty of them staying at one of the Midwest's finest bed 'n breakfasts, the Dandy Drop Inn. See how I, as an author, corrected their bad behavior in my horror thriller, Dread and Breakfast!

The Secret To Cutting Good Cheese

 

On occasional weekend nights, my wife and I enjoy dinners of wine and cheese (and not to worry, Mom Patricia! Carrot sticks, too, I promise! We mustn't forget the carrot sticks!).

Recently, we agreed it sounded good for Sunday.

"But," my wife warned, "I'm cutting the cheese. I've never liked the way you cut the cheese."

"What? All of these years and you've never told me that you don't like the way I cut the cheese!"

"Yes, I have."

"What's wrong with my cutting of the cheese, for crying out loud?"

"You cut the pieces way too big and you do too much."

I thought about it, grumbled and groused and finally said, "I'm sorry you don't care for the way I cut the cheese."

We let that one hang in the air like a smelly...well, you know.

Later that night--after I carefully inspected her cheese cutting "prowess"--I remarked, "There's no difference in the way you cut the cheese than the way I cut the cheese!"

"Yes there is."

"No, there's not. These pieces are just as big as mine. I don't know what you're talking about!"

"When you cut the cheese, you always make huge chunks," she said.

"No I don't!"

"Yes, you do."

Before our war on cheese escalated, I said, "I really don't want to argue now. Maybe about in an hour."

She laughed and said, "It's a date!"

But I whispered, "I cut the cheese much better than you do."

Speaking of stinking up the place, check out my Zach and Zora comedy mystery series. Zach, a good-hearted (but very, very dumb) male stripper has the unfortunate luck of stumbling across quite a few murdered bodies. And it's always up to his long-suffering, usually pregnant sleuth sister to bail him out of trouble! Check out the zany hijinks and fun murder mysteries here!

Mom's In The Army Now...

Even as a kid, I was a tree-hugging pacifist. So when I first became aware of the draft, the possibility of my being torn from the safety of my parents' protection and thrust into battle terrified me.

So at the age of six or so, I cried, "Mommy...I don't wanna get drafted!"

My Mom hugged me and said, "Shh, shh, shh. Don't worry. If you get drafted, I'll go with you."

That worked--temporarily--to assuage my childhood fears.

But I started thinking of the larger ramifications...

"Oh great googly-moogly! My eyes have to be playing tricks on me! Either that or you knuckleheads have finally driven me around the bend! Private West! Is that your mother behind you?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"My stars and garters! Now I've seen everything! Both of you drop and give me 20!"

"Yes sir!"

Or maybe this scenario...

"Hey, West! Is your mommy gonna dig your foxholes for you?"

"You boys shut up before I come over there and scratch your eyes out!" (This was my mother's favorite terrifying threat whenever she thought her darling little boys were being mistreated.)

So I took my concerns back to my mom. "Mommy...you wouldn't really scratch the other soldiers' eyes out, would you?"

"It depends on how they treat you," she replied.

This scared me, but at the time bigger issues started to swim around in my boyish brain. "Why don't ladies get drafted?"

"Because we have babies."

"Oh." I pondered this. It made absolutely no sense and just seemed unfair overall. "Well...why don't men have babies?"

"Because they go to war," she replied without hesitation.

Which just confused me even further. Besides the very odd correlation of giving birth to war, I didn't understand the world at all. And it just got more confusing as I grew older.

Matters weren't helped when my parents rarely told me the truth about anything when I was a child. (Don't even get me going on the topic of sex.)

My takeaway from this nostalgic reexamination is this: If you get drafted, bring your mother. And always wear clean underwear because you never know when a tank might run over you.

Now that I'm being nostalgic and all about my parents, check out my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy. My protagonist's parents are based on my own (although--to my knowledge--my mom was never a witch). The fun starts here!