Slowing Down. For now.

It couldn't last forever. For the last 12 or longer years, I've managed to eke out a new blog post every Friday.

But I've noticed over the last six months (maybe longer), I'm kinda running out of things to say. Or I'm just filling the blog up with TMI overdose of information about all of my ills and ailments. Which probably is less than riveting and entertaining early morning coffee reads. Hell, if it bores me, it's bound to bore you guys.

I've found myself scrabbling for last minute blog ideas to the point where it isn't a lot of fun any longer and kinda a stressor. I'm not giving up the blog entirely, but I'm quitting the every Friday post.

When I have something to write about, I'll post. If not, life goes on.

And that's where my priorities lie right now: trying to get my body back in shape. If I end up having all the replacements and surgeries and etcetera that doctors are chomping at the bit to give me, I'll become the $60,000 Man (out-of-pocket costs, of course). So I'm doing betterment on my part: dieting, exercise, and less (*gulp*) beer.

The blog has been a constant source of flexing my writing chops, learning, and having fun. Of course, it's also been a good selling tool for my books. But seeing as I haven't written a new book for several years, I'm kinda becoming disenchanted with the idea of knocking out a new post every week.

Of course, there will be times when things arise that I'll need to vent about, things that get my hair (if I had any) in a bunch. But do you guys really want me screaming about our orange, lying, idiotic, morally corrupt, misogynistic, crazy, dementia-ridden, racist, raping president? If you still think he's the cat jammies, I'm not going to change your mind (and if you DO still  think he's the cat's jammies, SNAP OUT OF IT!). And I can go on and on and on about Trump's ICE-holes killing American people or the fact that they were deployed to the Olympics in Italy (what were they gonna do? Start shooting the Jamaican bobsled team?) and so much more dire, horrible stuff going on in America (and by being in our path, the world). If you truly want to read about that stuff, check out the news. Although I'm about ready to quit reading the news, myself.

So my "state of the union" is healthy body first and foremost. From that a healthier mind will be born. And perhaps one of these days, I'll finally getting around to finishing my long-awaited (at least by faithful fan and writer extraordinaire Cat Cavendish) fourth Zak and Zora comical mystery book.

Until my next post then, keep your chins up, keep fighting the good fight, and enjoy life. I'll be around!

The Fall, Crawl & Bawl Ball

And there she goes! For you old-timers, do you remember these commercials that used to show up late on syndicated TV channels? Of the old lady laying on the floor and reading (quite poorly) off of cue cards and blasely announcing, "Help. I've fallen and I can't get up." The commercials that had myself and other juvie high school guys laughing and imitating all the way out to our cars to skip class?

Well, sir, I laugh no more! Never having thought it could happen to me in those invulnerable care-free days of dumb youth, now in my sixties, I stand corrected!

First a little background for those who haven't been paying attention. Over the last couple of years, arthritis has slowly, painfully taken over my body from my toes to my pretty now worthless knees to my back, and finally my thumbs. It ain't pretty. But pride still has me going upstairs to our bedroom on the second floor, even though I pretty much have to scale the stairs on all fours like Spiderman climbing a building. It usually works until I get to the top when things get scary. On the top three steps, I stand, grasp the door jam and pull myself up to safety. It's always a challenge, but I've exceeded until now. At the same time my wife happened to be out-of-town, natch.

Midnight. Friday night. For once, alcohol wasn't involved (why, you ask? Because I'm adhering to "Dry February," the shortest month of the year, double-natch). All was well until the perilous top three steps. I had almost made it, one knee lifted. And that's when my traitorous, fickle arthritic, mid-air poised knee completely decided to buckle. When the knee came down, it folded, and I fell. Hard. Mercifully I didn't go backwards down the stairs, however the left side of my chest crunched down hard on the step. Immediately, I knew I'd either broken or bruised ribs. The pain didn't stop there. My knees took quite a banging, too, to the point where they were uncomfortably numb.

Hands shaking, knees wobbling, I tried to get back to my feet to no avail. Instead I crawled up the stairs and hauled myself to the floor where I turned over, breathing deeply on the safety of the floor. BIG-ass mistake!

It took me forever just to turn over on my stomach. I couldn't sit up. My ribs and stomach muscles pained me to much and gave no support. Getting my elbows up failed several times, my arm muscles newly weakened as well. Finally, I flipped over on my stomach. Where I crawled to our bed. Now our bed is extremely high off the floor because we have an entire storage unit beneath the bed that would be the envy of John Wayne Gacy. Having made it to the side of the bed, I managed to get to my knees and tried to hoist myself up to no avail. Time and time again when I managed to get one foot painfully off the floor beneath me, I'd try to rise up but my debilitated body and worthless knees weren't having it and tossed me back down again. Crawling around, my knees beginning to burn from the carpet and strain, I searched around trying to MacGyver some steps up to bed. Clothes didn't work, not solid enough. Books were a no go, too slippery. Nothing else in sight.

A lightbulb struck me in the head (and why not? Everything else had been struck and restruck again). I thought I'd crawl to the bathroom and hoist myself up onto the toilet since it was a lower target. If I could get into a sitting position, I should be able to climb up into a stance from there. On the way there, I unbuckled my jeans, pulled them down to my ankles, thinking that while in there I'd take care of business. BIG-ass mistake #2.

You guys ever tried to crawl bare-kneed on tile floor. Ouch! Using my head, the only part of my body not in excruciating pain, I grabbed a towel and put it beneath my knees. Too late, they already looked like hamburger. And it was useless anyway. The only part of my body that was barely working to give me leverage up were my arm muscles and they were woefully diminished by all my previous rescue efforts.

I crawled back to bed, tried again and again. Every time I thought I'd make it, my knee would toss me back down like Hulk Hogan on a mad bender.

Resigned to my fate, I decided to just sleep on the floor. That lasted about ten minutes. No pillow, no cover,  add horrible pain to the ribs, all seemed futile. Having rested my body I got up on my hands and knees and gave it one more shot. My shaking hands pressed onto the floor, slowly, painfully, shaking like I was in a California earthquake, I pulled my knee into position and rose. Closer, closer, almost there. When I felt myself nearly standing, I took no chances and dove for the bed. Success! Well partially. Half on the bed with just my feet dangling over, I rolled to my back, feet still dangling. I needed to kick off my jeans. One foot out. Onto the next. Gravity, deciding to have some laughs, took over and pushed me back down to the floor in another agonizing, defeating fall.

ARRGHHHH! I've fallen and I can't get up, indeed! For the second time, I tried to sleep on the floor. And that's when I realized the ultimate in body insults: on the way out of bed, apparently I had piddled in my boxers. Gross! And ew. 

Okay. No wife. No phone as I had left it downstairs. And who would I have called at 2:30 in the morning anyway? I was already humiliated enough as it was, but the fact I piddled my shorts made the deciding factor that I wouldn't call anyone now. Even if I could get to my phone. 

My knee towel was standing by, so I mopped up with that. Desperate I scoured the room for any last bright ideas. Inspiration struck. Around the corner there was one of many huge bookshelves. I had overloaded it and a shelf had broken. But there was another detachable empty shelf that I pulled out. A make-shift crutch to get off of one knee and onto my feet was the idea. I grabbed it, crawled back to the seemingly unachievable bed in front of me and propped the shelf beneath my right underarm. I pressed down. Agony arose throughout my body anew as I strained the last parts of my body that weren't damaged already. Wobbly. Little by little. Almost there! And...eureka! I was on my feet! A very early Christmas miracle! Not taking any chances I turned around, still hunched over on my too-short crutch and hopped backward into bed. Slowly, I was able to pull my legs and feet up behind me. The light still on, my socks still on, not about to get under covers at this point, I finally--at sweet long last--passed out.

The next morning (well, four hours later), I awoke to immense pain everywhere. I felt like a huge semi had run me over and decided that it was so much fun, it reversed for a second go. Muscles I never knew I had screamed in pain. I could hardly move. Even though it took me about an hour to pull on new jeans, I made it. I snagged my shoes, a shirt and socks, didn't bother with them yet and put them in my lap, and slid down the stairs. Finally able to stand at the bottom. (Why I didn't think to do that last night is beyond me. I could've slept in the guest bedroom. D'OH!)

I never knew the act of sitting down (more like plummeting down at this point) could hurt so much. Getting up was worse, to the point where I elicited little screams that I'm glad no one heard. I must've lost ten pounds the next couple of days because it hurt too much to go to the refrigerator. A great diet plan, but not for everyone. And going to the toilet? Forget about it! I would fall down on it from necessity, but getting up was a dreaded exercise in long-lasting effort and pain, my weakened and strained arms no longer giving support.

In fact, I had strained my entire body. Add some bruised ribs and my ever-present arthritis and I was a mess. Still am two weeks later. But slowly getting better. I haven't been out of the house until yesterday (missing some freakishly warm February days), but with the aid of a cane and my wife coming home (and I gotta admit, I kinda like her taking care of me), I'm now getting around.

So, little old lady "actor" who fell and couldn't get up again, I salute you. I apologize profusely from the tips of my sprained toes to my bruised ribs and sore shoulders for laughing at your "silly" predicament. Karma had fed me a heaping spoonful of falling down whup-ass.

I don't know if any of the characters in my books have gone through as much physical pain as I had, but the folks in Godland might come close. Plus their mental anguish and emotional pain more than make up for it. Sounds like a downer, right? Instead I hope it's an edge-of-the-seat suspense thriller with tons of twists to keep you guessing and flipping through the pages. A "farm noir," a genre I made up! An especially good read if you're laid up in bed with aches and pains! Get my essential pain reliever here, recommended by 1 out of 10 critics.

MRI Fun!

I suppose it's inevitable that as one grows older, one's body wants to fight back. Everything seems to start going kerflooey at the same time.

My newest body gripe is my back. And it's a big one. Growing progressively worse on a seemingly daily basis, I'm at the point now where it's extremely painful to walk or stand 30 seconds at a time.

 So my new back doctor (and I remember the good old days when I had only one doctor; now it's a different doctor for every body part) says he wants me to get an MRI.

I said, "Great! Let's go!"

Then he waffles, hedges, says, "Wellllll...MRI's are tricky. Sometimes insurance companies don't like them."

I thought about saying, "Oh, well...I certainly want to keep the insurance company happy" but refrained from doing so.

So, after a month of haggling with insurance and scheduling people (who always sound like they're talking underwater; there was so much interference with one of them, I had to hang up as I couldn't hear or understand her), I finally had an MRI scheduled for a month away (and the scheduler laughed because I had to get there at 6:30 in the morning; I swan, it's hard to find good employees these days).

Now, I've had one other MRI in my life and that was performed on my head after I fell down once. (I kept telling them "I fell! There's nothing wrong with my head! A fall is sometimes just a fall!") After ignoring me and putting me through all kinds of tests, the nurse finally says, "I think you just fell." Anyway, that was my first MRI experience. And it didn't even begin to prepare me for my next one. I don't know if the machines had somehow become worse over the intervening years or if this was "progress," but day-ummmm!

When I got there--after walking seemingly miles of  corridors (and whose great idea was it to have people with bad backs walk a long way to get treatment?)--they shoved me into one of those stupid gowns. And how does one tie the damn thing in the back anyhow?

So I was put onto a slab in a freezing room, given earplugs (THAT was new) and rolled into a claustrophobic tube. The radiologist told me what to expect, but not really.

The best way I have to describe it is you know all of those cheesy theme parks in Orlando, Florida? The ones with those stupid simulator "rides? Where they strap you into a chair and show a film and then attack you with all sorts of kicks, jolts, tips, and whiffs of stinky stuff? That's the closest I can come to describing the ensuing terrors I found myself locked into.

First came the loud banging and clanging, followed by movement to and fro and back and forth. A barrage of horrific noises attacked me and usually ended with loud bangs and thuds, the earplugs supplying little protection. Then every once in a while, they'd lull you into a peaceful quiet where you think you're finally done, then BANG BANG CLANG BANG all over again. Sudden blasts of air shot at me like I was Marilyn Monroe standing over a sidewalk grate.

Then...at long last...it was mercifully over.

When they rolled me out, the technician asked, "So...how was it?"

"Like the worst carnival ride I've ever experienced."

But I was thrilled to be finished and (bad back or not) pretty much ran from the Chamber of Horrors.

Cut to about two weeks later. And I hadn't heard anything yet. So finally after trying to navigate the ridiculous, hardly user-friendly online portal, I managed to get a message through to the right parties.

After a day, I get a message back, "We don't have any records, reports or images of any such MRI."

Huh.

So I'm still going back and forth with them on this, hoping to God I don't have to go through it again. Ah, the modern miracle of electronics and medicine...

For a different kind of horror story, check out my book Godland. It's a tricky suspense thriller about four very different people and how destiny collides for them on a terrifying farm in Godland, Kansas. Check it out here. Reading it is mandatory.