It’s time to finish what I’ve started, no more cliffhangers, no more time restraints, today is the day. If you are new to my blog, welcome. If you are a new reader the first blog on my adventure is the December 17, 2008 blog, you might want to start reading that post first, and read forward. For those of you court ordered to this blog, because of some evil deed, I agree this is cruel and unusual punishment. However, you are here so you might as well make the best of your situation, there are cots in the back, you may sleep off your sentence.
I wish I could tell you what happened inside the operating room, I am sure it would be riveting reading; however I was sleeping at the time. Apparently my surgeon takes a dim view of patients watching his procedures. I can only assume he chooses secrecy. I really shouldn’t tell you, but I have it on good authority he uses high tech, top secret operating tools. Tools that if they were to fall into the wrong hands it would be catastrophic to world peace; the thought I was placed in a trance to prevent me feeling intense pain crossed my mind but was dismissed.
I really can’t say how long the surgery lasted. Security at the hospital is stellar; prior to my surgery they removed my glasses and watch. I can understand why they removed my glasses, I can’t see without my glasses. If I were to wake during the procedure I would be unable to see a thing. I suppose sight during certain operations is considered National Security risks?
I don’t know how long I had been asleep, remember they removed my watch; all I know is I was shaken awake by an unknown assailant. “Mr. Raballard my name is Brucie and I’m going to take you to your room” I was too groggy to pay much attention or put up any kind of resistance. The ride to my room was nondescript, I slept all the way. I was jarred awake when I was transferred from gurney to bed. Mrs. Raballard and Daughter Raballard were in my room waiting for me. Tears rolling down there cheeks, both smiling brighter than the sun. The recovery was going to be a breeze; I had such a great support team. Wrong, oh not the part about my support team being great, the part about my recovery being a breeze. The breeze part was further then the truth then any cliché could imagine.
I was promised a three day hospital stay. Three days from start to finish. I hate hospitals, I fear them, I have a sever case of Hospitalstayaphobia. Three days in the hospital for me is an eternity. I figured I would sleep most of the days away so I could do three days. I might have been able to do three days, we’ll never know, I wasn’t given that option. No sooner had I been placed into my hospital bed my fever skyrocketed, my blood sugar doubled, and my blood pressure went up. Somewhere between the operating room and my room I had contracted pneumonia. My three day hospital stay flew out the window; I was stuck in the hospital until I was well. The only positive thing I could look forward to was my morphine cocktail every two hours.
OK let’s review my condition 1) I am stuck in a place I hate. 2) I just had major surgery. 3) I have a deadly disease, which I have to recover from before I can recover from my surgery. 4) The nurses see nothing wrong with giving me another habit (morphine) 5) my roommate was in the hospital to detox. He would actually howl at the moon while swearing at the staff. I am not a happy camper; well I am not a happy camper for only a few minutes every two hours. It is hard to be unhappy doped up on morphine.
The remainder of my stay is quite humiliating and embarrassing, so I will close my eyes and type the rest of the story, in hopes I can get through it without blushing. GUIyfkopannb akwojnabs k aiwnk, Oh dear I forgot I don’t touch type, I hunt peck type.
There are certain parts of the body that kind of swell up to enormous sizes directly after prostate cancer surgery. I will not tell exact parts, but I will give you an example. My marbles turned into bowling balls, and I was able to bowl for almost three weeks after the surgery.
I was suppose to get up and walk every few hours, the only problem with that was every time I stood up I would bleed from unseen places. Not a simple stream of blood, I was the Niagara Falls of bleeding.
Let me paint you a picture, I am weak from surgery/pneumonia, I have to walk every few hours to gain my strength, and every time I get up I leave a trail of blood, and I am going “bowling”. Not a pretty picture.
My three day hospital stay stretched into ten days. My pneumonia disappeared. My roommate checked himself out of the hospital. I was released into the loving arms of my support team. I was now free to finish my recovery in the comforts of Raballard Manor. My bowling days lasted for a few more weeks, I was able to return to work just after Thanksgiving, all was right with the world. Well as right as I am allowed. It seems as if the world isn’t right unless I have an adventure to overcome. My cancer is gone; I won’t have to go on that adventure again. My next adventure is humiliating and embarrassing. My next adventure starts March 3, with another meet and greet at the hospital. I won’t go into the details of my next adventure, but I will give you a tiny clue. You have seen the little boy fountain?
Ok I have finished, the tale is over. I hope you enjoyed my cancer. Please return for my next adventure, coming to a blog near you.
As always, I miss you when you are not here, so please come back.
PS The poor souls court ordered to my blog are still sleeping in the rear of my blog, let’s not awaken them when you leave.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
February 23, 2009
I hope my readers/reader doesn't mind if I get serious for one post.
The time when I met Mrs.Raballard is drawing nigh. I met her in a San Diego chat room on AOL.
I had just moved to Anaheim from Salt Lake City. It was very late at night, or very early in the morning, maybe we chatted through late night, early morning. All we did was chat that fatefull night/morning, we scheduled a date a few chats later. The rest is history.
She decided she did not want to go on our planned date, and as she could not reach me she decided the best thing to do would be to go on that date.
The date was good, we both had a great time, however it was not meteroic good.
Love to me had been elusive, everytime I fell in love, I came away with my heart in tatters.
The following poem was not written for Mrs Raballard, I wrote it almost 4 years prior to meeting her. I tell people that visit my web site I wrote this for a freind who decided I was not the right person to fullfill her dreams. That is partially true. I wrote this poem for a wild-eyed dreamer, who had given up on love. Namely myself.
MAY YOUR
May your life be full of sunshine. Even when your skies are gray.
May you find the strength to go on when you think you've lost your way.
May the smiles you get from others be the warm fulfilling kind.
May your dreams that you are dreaming be easier to find.
When you look into your past, may you look without regret
of people, places or things you would be better to forget.
May you find your happiness as you pass on through the years
But remember you receive wisdom, when lessons are learned from your tears.
May the love you find in your life be the kind you know will last,
the kind of love that will free your heart from the pain of the past.
When it becomes time to look into that final bright light.
May you look secure in the knowledge you have loved and loved right.
There is no doubt in my mind I have now loved and loved right.
The time when I met Mrs.Raballard is drawing nigh. I met her in a San Diego chat room on AOL.
I had just moved to Anaheim from Salt Lake City. It was very late at night, or very early in the morning, maybe we chatted through late night, early morning. All we did was chat that fatefull night/morning, we scheduled a date a few chats later. The rest is history.
She decided she did not want to go on our planned date, and as she could not reach me she decided the best thing to do would be to go on that date.
The date was good, we both had a great time, however it was not meteroic good.
Love to me had been elusive, everytime I fell in love, I came away with my heart in tatters.
The following poem was not written for Mrs Raballard, I wrote it almost 4 years prior to meeting her. I tell people that visit my web site I wrote this for a freind who decided I was not the right person to fullfill her dreams. That is partially true. I wrote this poem for a wild-eyed dreamer, who had given up on love. Namely myself.
MAY YOUR
May your life be full of sunshine. Even when your skies are gray.
May you find the strength to go on when you think you've lost your way.
May the smiles you get from others be the warm fulfilling kind.
May your dreams that you are dreaming be easier to find.
When you look into your past, may you look without regret
of people, places or things you would be better to forget.
May you find your happiness as you pass on through the years
But remember you receive wisdom, when lessons are learned from your tears.
May the love you find in your life be the kind you know will last,
the kind of love that will free your heart from the pain of the past.
When it becomes time to look into that final bright light.
May you look secure in the knowledge you have loved and loved right.
There is no doubt in my mind I have now loved and loved right.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
February 21, 2009
It has been a week of amazing discoveries. Welcome to the grand opening of my bi-weekly “WHAT I LEARNED”. I have a few blogs, which I follow I enjoy reading them. I have decided to promote these blogs, well I am promoting them without mentioning names. I wouldn’t want to cause any embarrassment. Just to know I am following a blog could cause embarrassment. Therefore, no names will be mentioned to protect the innocent, keep cosmic harmony, and prevent an overwhelming leaving blogspot stampede.
I learned that in Texas, there must be some kind of law that in order to drop off children to grandparents’ tumbleweeds need to be involved.
There is a certain talented multi-tasking woman somewhere in Texas. She amazes me every time I see her online. Not only does she have time to write her paranormal novel, but also she is able to keep up an excellent blog, and spend time twittering, she also reads. Not just reads, she has a list of books she is reading long enough to fill my local library.
I would like to thank the girls on the prairie; I had no idea that I would be a perfect candidate to be the next great Romance Novel writer. Especially since I admitted, I am not a romantic post on Valentines Day. It appears the prerequisite for Romantic Novel writing is a great love for cheesy old TV westerns. Who knew that my love for Bonanza could turn into a career in Romantic Novels?
I learned that I should avoid Sony Readers like the plague. I can’t afford one in the first place, but I hear they are highly addictive. I think the exact words were that the reader was as addictive as chocolate and caffeine. I don’t know about you, but I can’t afford another bad habit. I just got addicted to Twitter and Facebook, I don’t need to attend any Sony Reader addiction meetings, “Hello my name is Raballard, and I’m addicted to reading.” Sorry but my free addictions will have to do for now.
I don’t know how I got this far in my life without writing a Haiku. I, like writing, do not do well when composing Haikus’. If finding an Agent requires the art of Haiku, then I am in big do-do. The Haiku contest was fun, but I don’t think my Haiku will be read anytime soon.
Another Agent chimed in how to write a query letter. The letter should have more story lines and less about the author. I need get back to my query; I am so boring I have not added anything about me. I suppose I could make up a fantastic blurb about my past life. Maybe aliens, that would be cool, Wait, abducted me, I have it, I was abducted by aliens and forced to write a historical account of their home planet. “Dear agent, I have no writing credentials on Earth, but I have quite a fan base on the Planet Thastursge”
I was so naïve when I started writing my little book, I thought all that was needed was a great story line, and boy was I wrong. You also need patience, a strong sense of survival, and determination.
Writing is a dangerous career toes are stepped on. Rejection comes with the territory. I don’t know if I am ready for all that. I hope I can rise to the required level and hang in there. So far so good, the internal battle has had very few casualties. I have found a few great friends along the way. Giving up is not an option.
Finally, I learned I had to step up my determination a notch or two. I read about Author Christopher Nolan, who passed away this last week. Talk about determination, he overcame great obstacles to become a writer. He attached a pointer on his head to write. This person truly wanted to be a writer. If I had to write with a pointer on my head, I am sure nothing would be written. You would be reading a blank screen. I find it hard to write when I am infected with the Bubonic Plague. An attached head pointer would be unbearable
OH ya, I almost forgot, my good friend reminded me to stay away from peanut butter.
It looks as if I have run out of time again; I had so much more to share. I really learn a lot when I read my friends blogs. Maybe next time you can sit next to the fireplace and read along with me. Please come back.
I learned that in Texas, there must be some kind of law that in order to drop off children to grandparents’ tumbleweeds need to be involved.
There is a certain talented multi-tasking woman somewhere in Texas. She amazes me every time I see her online. Not only does she have time to write her paranormal novel, but also she is able to keep up an excellent blog, and spend time twittering, she also reads. Not just reads, she has a list of books she is reading long enough to fill my local library.
I would like to thank the girls on the prairie; I had no idea that I would be a perfect candidate to be the next great Romance Novel writer. Especially since I admitted, I am not a romantic post on Valentines Day. It appears the prerequisite for Romantic Novel writing is a great love for cheesy old TV westerns. Who knew that my love for Bonanza could turn into a career in Romantic Novels?
I learned that I should avoid Sony Readers like the plague. I can’t afford one in the first place, but I hear they are highly addictive. I think the exact words were that the reader was as addictive as chocolate and caffeine. I don’t know about you, but I can’t afford another bad habit. I just got addicted to Twitter and Facebook, I don’t need to attend any Sony Reader addiction meetings, “Hello my name is Raballard, and I’m addicted to reading.” Sorry but my free addictions will have to do for now.
I don’t know how I got this far in my life without writing a Haiku. I, like writing, do not do well when composing Haikus’. If finding an Agent requires the art of Haiku, then I am in big do-do. The Haiku contest was fun, but I don’t think my Haiku will be read anytime soon.
Another Agent chimed in how to write a query letter. The letter should have more story lines and less about the author. I need get back to my query; I am so boring I have not added anything about me. I suppose I could make up a fantastic blurb about my past life. Maybe aliens, that would be cool, Wait, abducted me, I have it, I was abducted by aliens and forced to write a historical account of their home planet. “Dear agent, I have no writing credentials on Earth, but I have quite a fan base on the Planet Thastursge”
I was so naïve when I started writing my little book, I thought all that was needed was a great story line, and boy was I wrong. You also need patience, a strong sense of survival, and determination.
Writing is a dangerous career toes are stepped on. Rejection comes with the territory. I don’t know if I am ready for all that. I hope I can rise to the required level and hang in there. So far so good, the internal battle has had very few casualties. I have found a few great friends along the way. Giving up is not an option.
Finally, I learned I had to step up my determination a notch or two. I read about Author Christopher Nolan, who passed away this last week. Talk about determination, he overcame great obstacles to become a writer. He attached a pointer on his head to write. This person truly wanted to be a writer. If I had to write with a pointer on my head, I am sure nothing would be written. You would be reading a blank screen. I find it hard to write when I am infected with the Bubonic Plague. An attached head pointer would be unbearable
OH ya, I almost forgot, my good friend reminded me to stay away from peanut butter.
It looks as if I have run out of time again; I had so much more to share. I really learn a lot when I read my friends blogs. Maybe next time you can sit next to the fireplace and read along with me. Please come back.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
February 19, 2009
Stop the presses. I have an important announcement. It is with the great pleasure to announce that I do not have the common cold. I have a very bad case of Bronchitis, I am so happy. If I had the strength, I would do the happy dance, between my coughing and wheezing. You see Mrs. Raballard was not 100% right. When I informed her I had the Bubonic Plague, she insisted I had a common cold, not I had Bronchitis. She didn’t even mention the possibility of something other than the cold. Ok maybe she mentioned the possibility of Bronchitis a few days later. I am excited Mrs. Raballard was semi-wrong.
I had another appointment with my family physician today. However, I chose to go to Dr. Pepper’s partner Dr. My Eyes. It is not that I don’t trust Dr. Pepper, he is an adequate doctor. He was unavailable, so I settled on Dr. My Eyes, although I had never seen him before.
I arrived at my appointment on time (no shock there), as I was the only patient, my wait time was short.
My turn came in a matter of minutes. This time the receptionist weighed me, well kind of. Seems as if the receptionist made extra money as a Carney, she took one look at me and guessed my weight within 3 pounds. I was then taken to an examining room and told I would be seen shortly.
I barely had time to sneak in a decent nap when the door opened, followed by Nurse Sue E Ryhmes, she felt my biceps and declared my blood pressure was slightly higher than it should be. She left as quickly as she entered.
I was in the middle of a coughing fit when the door burst open. Dr. My Eyes goose-stepped into the room. He placed his dangling monocle into his left eye. “Ve don't need to examine you, do ve. I see notzzingkt. You haf Brunkhitus” He took a quick look at my file, and then slammed it shut. “I see you haf been gifen a Antibiotic, goot. You haf been takingkt your medicine hafn't you? Ve haf vays uff makingkt you take your medicine.”
I assured him I had been taking my medicine on a regular basis. The doctor looked at me with suspicion, snapped his feet together and gave me a curt salute. “Gutten Tag. Herr Raballard.”
My appointment was now officially over, I was free to escape,
I have Bronchitis, there is a cure, and I will survive. However, Mrs. Raballard might not be able to live this mistake down. She was semi-wrong I was semi-right. For those at home keeping score, she is still right 99.999999999999% of the time.
I had another appointment with my family physician today. However, I chose to go to Dr. Pepper’s partner Dr. My Eyes. It is not that I don’t trust Dr. Pepper, he is an adequate doctor. He was unavailable, so I settled on Dr. My Eyes, although I had never seen him before.
I arrived at my appointment on time (no shock there), as I was the only patient, my wait time was short.
My turn came in a matter of minutes. This time the receptionist weighed me, well kind of. Seems as if the receptionist made extra money as a Carney, she took one look at me and guessed my weight within 3 pounds. I was then taken to an examining room and told I would be seen shortly.
I barely had time to sneak in a decent nap when the door opened, followed by Nurse Sue E Ryhmes, she felt my biceps and declared my blood pressure was slightly higher than it should be. She left as quickly as she entered.
I was in the middle of a coughing fit when the door burst open. Dr. My Eyes goose-stepped into the room. He placed his dangling monocle into his left eye. “Ve don't need to examine you, do ve. I see notzzingkt. You haf Brunkhitus” He took a quick look at my file, and then slammed it shut. “I see you haf been gifen a Antibiotic, goot. You haf been takingkt your medicine hafn't you? Ve haf vays uff makingkt you take your medicine.”
I assured him I had been taking my medicine on a regular basis. The doctor looked at me with suspicion, snapped his feet together and gave me a curt salute. “Gutten Tag. Herr Raballard.”
My appointment was now officially over, I was free to escape,
I have Bronchitis, there is a cure, and I will survive. However, Mrs. Raballard might not be able to live this mistake down. She was semi-wrong I was semi-right. For those at home keeping score, she is still right 99.999999999999% of the time.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
February 17, 2009
I had a pow-wow with my Sherpa Guide/Adventure Planner/Doctor yesterday. It is official; I have been scheduled for another adventure. However, before I can tell you about my upcoming adventure I must finish my current adventure. I have had several requests concerning my adventure. I have carefully considered each one of them, and decided to continue anyway. Are we ready? OK ready, set go. Wait, I should give a quick synopsis of my adventure up to this point.
Here is a very quick synopsis, (1) I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in September. (2) I chose surgery to remove the cancer. (3) I was attacked by vampires dressed as blood bank volunteers. (4) Finally I was poisoned by my doctor. That about does it, you have been caught up. We are now current, D. Day, the day of my surgery.
BUZZZZZ-BUZZZZ, my alarm clock woke us up at 4:30 in the morning, we were suppose to be at the hospital at 5:30. I don’t know why the hospital felt the need to schedule my surgery so early. I had no problem with the early time, but Mrs. Raballard and Daughter Raballard were not happy with the time. Daughter Raballard takes time to transform from her zombie like sleep to the beautiful daughter she really is and 4:30 in the morning is too early for the transformation to take place.
We arrive at the hospital 20 minutes early, not that I’m excited to be there, My OCDness goes into high gear when time is involved, I feel the need to be on time to all appointments. The best way to assure you will be on time is to get to your appointment early.
I was ready my support team was not. We walked into the lobby, Mrs. Rabalalrd’s head on my shoulder, clutching her favorite blanky. Daughter Raballard stomped into the lobby arms outstretched Frankensteinish. We were quite a sight.
Heading straight to the check-in desk, we are given a “your name came up, and your seat is ready buzzer. I knew restaurants used them, I had no idea the technology had been adopted by the health care community also. I patiently await my buzz, while my support team slept on. A tech, with a clipboard entered the lobby, I swear he looked just like Igor, “Raballard, Raballard” my buzzer hissed at me at the same time. I told the hunch backed lab tech that I was Raballard. The tech checked my new lovely hospital supplied bracelet, he had to be sure I was who I claimed I was. (Editors note: I have not Goggled this yet, but I am sure there are very few people impersonating prostrate cancer patients. I am also certain if you are the one to stand up when a name is called out for the surgery, you are who you claim to be.)
Satisfied he motioned me, and my support team to “walk this way”. The four of us leave the lobby and pass through a set of double doors, Mrs Raballard slugs me in the arm. I look surprised; although I knew the reason, she slugged me. I take things literally, when the tech instructed me to walk this way, I was doing just that. As I walked, I dragged my left leg behind me. I was mimicking the lab tech, trying my best to walk his way. Mrs. Raballard was not amused.
We were escorted to the holding cell, where I was given a tie from the back, southern exposure robe, a fancy blue paper helmet, and a pair of brown slipper socks. The socks clashed with the rest of my surgical uniform, so I refused to wear them. After changing into my early Surgical Halloween Costume, I was ordered to lie on a rock hard, tiny gurney and wait my turn.
Before long a continual parade of hospital, staff march into and out of my cell. The first being the staff in charge of admittance, I feel sorry for her, she is so addicted to my space she pushes a computer along through out her travels. My pastor drops by to say hi, I secretly know he has deadlines to meet. He wants to publish my demise in the next week’s church bulletin. The doctor, anesthesiologist, janitor followed my pastor’s visit.
I don’t know when it happened but someone had unbeknownst to me had slipped a elephant tranquilizer into my I.V. The last two to enter my room were Guido and Lefty. It was now my time. Guido and Lefty were there to wheel me to my next destination.
For those among you that have not had the pleasure of a similar adventure you might be surprised my next destination was not the operating room. I was escorted to a staging area, full of other people going on their own adventures.
We dropped of Daughter Raballard in the waiting room on our way to the staging area. Mrs. Raballard was able to join me while I waited.
Guido assured me the vultures circling the staging area where actually just family, waiting for news of loved ones. I was also comforted when they told me the person dressed head to foot in a hooded black robe was not the grim reaper. It was the hospital administrator on her way to a Halloween Party.
The remainder of my journey was hazy at best. I can only assume Mrs. Raballard’s sworn testimony that I requested that a Dr. House or any of his staff not be allowed to assist. I knew I had cancer, and if any of you watch House know my concern,
I was asleep by the time I was escorted into the operating room.
Dang, where does the time fly? I am out of time. I will have to continue my adventure another time. I promise to complete it before my next adventure begins.
Please come again, pull up a rocking chair and sit a spell. You are missed if you are not here.
Here is a very quick synopsis, (1) I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in September. (2) I chose surgery to remove the cancer. (3) I was attacked by vampires dressed as blood bank volunteers. (4) Finally I was poisoned by my doctor. That about does it, you have been caught up. We are now current, D. Day, the day of my surgery.
BUZZZZZ-BUZZZZ, my alarm clock woke us up at 4:30 in the morning, we were suppose to be at the hospital at 5:30. I don’t know why the hospital felt the need to schedule my surgery so early. I had no problem with the early time, but Mrs. Raballard and Daughter Raballard were not happy with the time. Daughter Raballard takes time to transform from her zombie like sleep to the beautiful daughter she really is and 4:30 in the morning is too early for the transformation to take place.
We arrive at the hospital 20 minutes early, not that I’m excited to be there, My OCDness goes into high gear when time is involved, I feel the need to be on time to all appointments. The best way to assure you will be on time is to get to your appointment early.
I was ready my support team was not. We walked into the lobby, Mrs. Rabalalrd’s head on my shoulder, clutching her favorite blanky. Daughter Raballard stomped into the lobby arms outstretched Frankensteinish. We were quite a sight.
Heading straight to the check-in desk, we are given a “your name came up, and your seat is ready buzzer. I knew restaurants used them, I had no idea the technology had been adopted by the health care community also. I patiently await my buzz, while my support team slept on. A tech, with a clipboard entered the lobby, I swear he looked just like Igor, “Raballard, Raballard” my buzzer hissed at me at the same time. I told the hunch backed lab tech that I was Raballard. The tech checked my new lovely hospital supplied bracelet, he had to be sure I was who I claimed I was. (Editors note: I have not Goggled this yet, but I am sure there are very few people impersonating prostrate cancer patients. I am also certain if you are the one to stand up when a name is called out for the surgery, you are who you claim to be.)
Satisfied he motioned me, and my support team to “walk this way”. The four of us leave the lobby and pass through a set of double doors, Mrs Raballard slugs me in the arm. I look surprised; although I knew the reason, she slugged me. I take things literally, when the tech instructed me to walk this way, I was doing just that. As I walked, I dragged my left leg behind me. I was mimicking the lab tech, trying my best to walk his way. Mrs. Raballard was not amused.
We were escorted to the holding cell, where I was given a tie from the back, southern exposure robe, a fancy blue paper helmet, and a pair of brown slipper socks. The socks clashed with the rest of my surgical uniform, so I refused to wear them. After changing into my early Surgical Halloween Costume, I was ordered to lie on a rock hard, tiny gurney and wait my turn.
Before long a continual parade of hospital, staff march into and out of my cell. The first being the staff in charge of admittance, I feel sorry for her, she is so addicted to my space she pushes a computer along through out her travels. My pastor drops by to say hi, I secretly know he has deadlines to meet. He wants to publish my demise in the next week’s church bulletin. The doctor, anesthesiologist, janitor followed my pastor’s visit.
I don’t know when it happened but someone had unbeknownst to me had slipped a elephant tranquilizer into my I.V. The last two to enter my room were Guido and Lefty. It was now my time. Guido and Lefty were there to wheel me to my next destination.
For those among you that have not had the pleasure of a similar adventure you might be surprised my next destination was not the operating room. I was escorted to a staging area, full of other people going on their own adventures.
We dropped of Daughter Raballard in the waiting room on our way to the staging area. Mrs. Raballard was able to join me while I waited.
Guido assured me the vultures circling the staging area where actually just family, waiting for news of loved ones. I was also comforted when they told me the person dressed head to foot in a hooded black robe was not the grim reaper. It was the hospital administrator on her way to a Halloween Party.
The remainder of my journey was hazy at best. I can only assume Mrs. Raballard’s sworn testimony that I requested that a Dr. House or any of his staff not be allowed to assist. I knew I had cancer, and if any of you watch House know my concern,
I was asleep by the time I was escorted into the operating room.
Dang, where does the time fly? I am out of time. I will have to continue my adventure another time. I promise to complete it before my next adventure begins.
Please come again, pull up a rocking chair and sit a spell. You are missed if you are not here.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
February 15,2009
I survived another Valentine’s Day. Don’t take it the wrong way but Valentine’s Day has never been my favorite holiday. This might have been caused by the wrong choice of spouse, or a spot of bad porridge. I’m getting better. Mrs. Raballard and I have been married for 51/2 years, and with each passing year I loathe Valentine’s Day less and less.
Another thing about Valentine’s Day is the day is set aside for the romantics. I will be the second one to admit, I am not romantic. Mrs. Raballard knew this before she married me, and married me anyway. It’s not that I don’t love her; she knows I love her with all my heart (pacemaker included). I tell her constantly about my undying love, I just have no idea how to show it.
This blog is not about Valentine’s Day, nor is it about love. It’s about trying to get into any kind of a restaurant on Valentine’s Day without a reservation.
OK I here you all snickering. Some of you might be echoing Mrs. Raballard’s response. “YOU didn’t get a reservation? I said you should get a reservation weeks ago.” Yes she asked me to get a reservation; yes I had every intention of making a reservation. I have a good excuse. I forgot.
I do have an innate dislike for reservations anyway, most likely caused by my OCD condition. Let me give you an example. Say you make a reservation at Red Lobster, you are duty bound to eat at Red Lobster. It is etched in stone, there is no way out. Any semblance of spontaneity has been chucked out the window. If I were to wake up on the day we had reservations and find that today was not a good day to eat at a restaurant with an “R” in its name, I would be doomed. I made the reservation in advance, I had no idea that my cosmic anti “R” day would strike on that particular day. My universe would swing out of kilter. To simplify this blog, I Raballard did not make a reservation.
Informed by my know-it-all wife that it would be virtuously impossible to find a place to eat at such a short notice, and we should try The Village Inn first. I of course told her everything would be alright, while I was trying to decide if 3:59 on a Saturday gave sufficient time to make a reservation for 5 o’clock.
“Hey Mr. Flyby The Seat of Your Pants” (one of her endearments for me) maybe if we get there early we might be able to get in.
What have we got to lose? Springfield Missouri is a small town in Southwest Missouri. The population is just over 200,000 (which is small in my book). There is a Chinese Buffet on practically every corner. There are plenty of other fine restaurants to go around. I am positive we will find one.
Our first choice was Logan’s Steakhouse, after circling the parking lot, and the adjacent parking lots, we decided we weren’t in the mood for steak anyway.
TGI Fridays was our next choice. I am positive if we had chosen that restaurant on Friday we would have been in luck. Patrons were overflowing into the street.
We had similar luck at Chili’s, Chucky Cheese, Crispy Cream, The Mall Food Court, and The Café at Borders.
I had a brilliant idea; we should see just how bad our economy really is. Our next choice was a $35 dollar a plate Brazilian Restaurant. You know the type? It is a restaurant where they bring you all kinds of yummy meats on a skewer. This is not a place for vegetarians. We manage to get past the PETA picketers, find a place to park. The waiting list for placing your name on the list for placing your name on the seating list is 40 minutes.
I was a bit discouraged by this time, and more than perturbed at Mrs. Raballard from her constant “It’s OK”. It wasn’t OK I was getting hungry, we had to fill our tank up for the second time, and I was beginning to loathe Valentine’s Day again.
Around 9:30, tired and hungry, we pulled into a McDonalds near our home. I tipped the maître de an extra $5 to get us near the top of the list. Mrs. Raballard said it wasn’t the maître de, I disagreed, and we placed our name on the list, and waited the required 40 minutes for our name to come up. I ate my Happy Meal in silence, silently fuming.
Should I have made a reservation? Probably, Mrs. Raballard is always right. Will I make a reservation next year? Probably not, I am still OCD, and always will be.
(PS I am thinking of making a “What I have learned from other Blogs” a bi-weekly Blog. The last one seemed to go over well. Comment me and let me know what you think. I always love comments)
Another thing about Valentine’s Day is the day is set aside for the romantics. I will be the second one to admit, I am not romantic. Mrs. Raballard knew this before she married me, and married me anyway. It’s not that I don’t love her; she knows I love her with all my heart (pacemaker included). I tell her constantly about my undying love, I just have no idea how to show it.
This blog is not about Valentine’s Day, nor is it about love. It’s about trying to get into any kind of a restaurant on Valentine’s Day without a reservation.
OK I here you all snickering. Some of you might be echoing Mrs. Raballard’s response. “YOU didn’t get a reservation? I said you should get a reservation weeks ago.” Yes she asked me to get a reservation; yes I had every intention of making a reservation. I have a good excuse. I forgot.
I do have an innate dislike for reservations anyway, most likely caused by my OCD condition. Let me give you an example. Say you make a reservation at Red Lobster, you are duty bound to eat at Red Lobster. It is etched in stone, there is no way out. Any semblance of spontaneity has been chucked out the window. If I were to wake up on the day we had reservations and find that today was not a good day to eat at a restaurant with an “R” in its name, I would be doomed. I made the reservation in advance, I had no idea that my cosmic anti “R” day would strike on that particular day. My universe would swing out of kilter. To simplify this blog, I Raballard did not make a reservation.
Informed by my know-it-all wife that it would be virtuously impossible to find a place to eat at such a short notice, and we should try The Village Inn first. I of course told her everything would be alright, while I was trying to decide if 3:59 on a Saturday gave sufficient time to make a reservation for 5 o’clock.
“Hey Mr. Flyby The Seat of Your Pants” (one of her endearments for me) maybe if we get there early we might be able to get in.
What have we got to lose? Springfield Missouri is a small town in Southwest Missouri. The population is just over 200,000 (which is small in my book). There is a Chinese Buffet on practically every corner. There are plenty of other fine restaurants to go around. I am positive we will find one.
Our first choice was Logan’s Steakhouse, after circling the parking lot, and the adjacent parking lots, we decided we weren’t in the mood for steak anyway.
TGI Fridays was our next choice. I am positive if we had chosen that restaurant on Friday we would have been in luck. Patrons were overflowing into the street.
We had similar luck at Chili’s, Chucky Cheese, Crispy Cream, The Mall Food Court, and The Café at Borders.
I had a brilliant idea; we should see just how bad our economy really is. Our next choice was a $35 dollar a plate Brazilian Restaurant. You know the type? It is a restaurant where they bring you all kinds of yummy meats on a skewer. This is not a place for vegetarians. We manage to get past the PETA picketers, find a place to park. The waiting list for placing your name on the list for placing your name on the seating list is 40 minutes.
I was a bit discouraged by this time, and more than perturbed at Mrs. Raballard from her constant “It’s OK”. It wasn’t OK I was getting hungry, we had to fill our tank up for the second time, and I was beginning to loathe Valentine’s Day again.
Around 9:30, tired and hungry, we pulled into a McDonalds near our home. I tipped the maître de an extra $5 to get us near the top of the list. Mrs. Raballard said it wasn’t the maître de, I disagreed, and we placed our name on the list, and waited the required 40 minutes for our name to come up. I ate my Happy Meal in silence, silently fuming.
Should I have made a reservation? Probably, Mrs. Raballard is always right. Will I make a reservation next year? Probably not, I am still OCD, and always will be.
(PS I am thinking of making a “What I have learned from other Blogs” a bi-weekly Blog. The last one seemed to go over well. Comment me and let me know what you think. I always love comments)
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
February 11, 2009
I took my friend’s advice this morning and visited my doctor. My friend advised me that if the Bubonic Plague went untreated it could lead to death or something even worse. Early this morning I delegated Mrs. Raballard to arrange an appointment with my family doctor.
Let me tell you little about my family doctor, Dr. Pepper, he is a wonderful backwoods, backwards doctor. He shuns modern technology, my kind of doctor, sort of.
The exam begins the usual way; he always asks the same question, “What’s ailing ya’ll?”
I proudly proclaim that I have the bubonic plague, and I would like to cure it while I still had the time. His eyes brightened, I knew it had been ages since he had seen a good case of the plague. I decided I should not mention my impending kidney failure, due to drinking Phosphopoison prior to my last surgery.
“Ah ha, taint seen no plague round these parts fer ages. I spect we should check it out” do you see why I love my doctor. The nurse came in to check my temperature, apparently she is a mother. Dr. Pepper took a pencil from behind his ear and jotted down a few figures “That’s ok missy, ya’ll don’t need to be exact when you are cyhperin tempyatures” he thanked the nurse as she departed. “Looks as ifn we needs to check your lungs.”
Remember, I said he shuns modern technology? Correct me if I’m wrong, but hasn’t the stethoscope been around long enough to be declassified modern technology? Dr. Pepper claims he hears an annoying thump, thump whenever he uses one of those new fangled contraptions. He prefers to place his ear next to your chest; it is by far more accurate.
He placed his ear to my chest and thumped my back as if it were a melon. Satisfied with his diagnoses he stood up and wiped his hands on my shirtsleeves. “Taint got no Boobinic Plague, what you gots is what we call in the medical perfession as a common cold. To bad, ya’ll know thar taint no cure for that?”
As a precaution, I was given a prescription for some kind of “cilion” I can’t pronounce, nor spell, patted on the head, handed my lollipop, and told to pay on my way out. “Ya’ll come back ifn ya’ll get one of them life treatenin’ diseases, I’ve been a hankerin’ ta have a whack at one of em”
As I left his office I turned and informed him how mistaken he was, and how he would regret his decision. He of course looked at me as if I was crazy. In disgust, I lifted my no longer plague infested hand to show him the green lollipop he knows I prefer orange.
There you have it, my doctor’s visit. I am on the road to recovery; it is just a common cold. I’ll get over it.
I now have to face Mrs. Raballard and admit she was right. She always is.
Let me tell you little about my family doctor, Dr. Pepper, he is a wonderful backwoods, backwards doctor. He shuns modern technology, my kind of doctor, sort of.
The exam begins the usual way; he always asks the same question, “What’s ailing ya’ll?”
I proudly proclaim that I have the bubonic plague, and I would like to cure it while I still had the time. His eyes brightened, I knew it had been ages since he had seen a good case of the plague. I decided I should not mention my impending kidney failure, due to drinking Phosphopoison prior to my last surgery.
“Ah ha, taint seen no plague round these parts fer ages. I spect we should check it out” do you see why I love my doctor. The nurse came in to check my temperature, apparently she is a mother. Dr. Pepper took a pencil from behind his ear and jotted down a few figures “That’s ok missy, ya’ll don’t need to be exact when you are cyhperin tempyatures” he thanked the nurse as she departed. “Looks as ifn we needs to check your lungs.”
Remember, I said he shuns modern technology? Correct me if I’m wrong, but hasn’t the stethoscope been around long enough to be declassified modern technology? Dr. Pepper claims he hears an annoying thump, thump whenever he uses one of those new fangled contraptions. He prefers to place his ear next to your chest; it is by far more accurate.
He placed his ear to my chest and thumped my back as if it were a melon. Satisfied with his diagnoses he stood up and wiped his hands on my shirtsleeves. “Taint got no Boobinic Plague, what you gots is what we call in the medical perfession as a common cold. To bad, ya’ll know thar taint no cure for that?”
As a precaution, I was given a prescription for some kind of “cilion” I can’t pronounce, nor spell, patted on the head, handed my lollipop, and told to pay on my way out. “Ya’ll come back ifn ya’ll get one of them life treatenin’ diseases, I’ve been a hankerin’ ta have a whack at one of em”
As I left his office I turned and informed him how mistaken he was, and how he would regret his decision. He of course looked at me as if I was crazy. In disgust, I lifted my no longer plague infested hand to show him the green lollipop he knows I prefer orange.
There you have it, my doctor’s visit. I am on the road to recovery; it is just a common cold. I’ll get over it.
I now have to face Mrs. Raballard and admit she was right. She always is.
Friday, February 6, 2009
February 6, 2009
I have the Bubonic Plague. Mrs. Raballard insists it is only a cold, but I know she is mistaken. She is a wonderful wife, and a fantastic mother, however her knowledge of plague symptoms are limited. Sure, she can feel your forehead and guesstimate your temperature with unheralded accuracy.
If by chance, Mrs. Raballard is right, and she usually is, then I am sure I have yellow fever, typhoid, malaria, or diphtheria. What ever I have, I feel icky. I can only hope I have one of the fatal, disfiguring diseases and not common cold. No, I have not lost my mind actually the wish for a horrible disease over the common cold is pure genius. Last time I checked there is not a cure for the common cold; all you can do is suffer until the cold decides you have had enough. Yellow fever, typhoid, malaria, diphtheria and the Bubonic plague all have a cure.
There is a slight hitch in my plan. My internet, magic eight ball, or etch-a-sketch has yet to locate a doctor that practiced medicine between the early twentieth century and medieval age.
To my dismay, I must suffer through my ailment. Unfortunately, I don’t feel yucky enough to miss work. I pretend I have a common cold and shuffle off to work. I informed my supervisor if he was to find me sleeping at my desk he was not to worry. I would actually be in a plague-induced coma; I would never sleep on the job.
I have to go; I just got a hit on my web search for medieval surgeons. It was nice talking to you. If by chance you come back and find me staring intently into my computer screen, there is no need to worry. It is just me searching for my cure. However, is you feel so inclined to worry feel free to call 7-1-1.
What, you have never heard of 7-1-1? It is almost like 9-1-1, with the exception of the need for speed. The EMT’s can take their time, please ask them to stop for donuts. It appears this Merlin guy my search found is some kind of myth. I might be here for awhile.
If by chance, Mrs. Raballard is right, and she usually is, then I am sure I have yellow fever, typhoid, malaria, or diphtheria. What ever I have, I feel icky. I can only hope I have one of the fatal, disfiguring diseases and not common cold. No, I have not lost my mind actually the wish for a horrible disease over the common cold is pure genius. Last time I checked there is not a cure for the common cold; all you can do is suffer until the cold decides you have had enough. Yellow fever, typhoid, malaria, diphtheria and the Bubonic plague all have a cure.
There is a slight hitch in my plan. My internet, magic eight ball, or etch-a-sketch has yet to locate a doctor that practiced medicine between the early twentieth century and medieval age.
To my dismay, I must suffer through my ailment. Unfortunately, I don’t feel yucky enough to miss work. I pretend I have a common cold and shuffle off to work. I informed my supervisor if he was to find me sleeping at my desk he was not to worry. I would actually be in a plague-induced coma; I would never sleep on the job.
I have to go; I just got a hit on my web search for medieval surgeons. It was nice talking to you. If by chance you come back and find me staring intently into my computer screen, there is no need to worry. It is just me searching for my cure. However, is you feel so inclined to worry feel free to call 7-1-1.
What, you have never heard of 7-1-1? It is almost like 9-1-1, with the exception of the need for speed. The EMT’s can take their time, please ask them to stop for donuts. It appears this Merlin guy my search found is some kind of myth. I might be here for awhile.
Monday, February 2, 2009
February 2, 2009
I spent my pre-super bowl day reading the blogs of my friends. I follow a few on a regular basis, I even have one particular blog prominently displayed in my Favorites on my cell phone.
I learned even heroes get discouraged. I read all about super husbands. Although that one made me cry, I thought Mrs. Raballard had a super husband. I of course will have to bow to the real super husband. I learned how difficult Eighth Grade was in 1895, I almost remember that first hand. I learned how to format query letters. (thanks EJ) I will most likely get the same great form letter rejections, but my query will look spiffy. I read about the crazy truck driver in Kansas City.
I enjoyed reading my friends blogs, however it did lead to a stark realization. I am not a writer. I have no idea how to tug at the heart stings with flair. I am unable to advise on marital bliss. There is no way I can convince the reigning super husband to relinquish his thrown for the real super husband.
I can't begin to tell you how discouraged I get, without coming out whiny. That blog was a work of art. It should win the Pulitzer prize awarded to blog. I am discouraged on a daily basis. I have a constant struggle to keep going and not to give up.
I can't even remember 8th grade, let alone tell you how hard it was. (Actually school was never hard for me)
You would fall off of your chair in shear horror if I were to tell you how to format your query letter.
I don't know if I am a recovering perfectionist, an optimistic pessimist, or a gloom and doom humorist. I am also not a writer. I am a story teller. I can twist my cancer into a humorous tale. I have the ability to make people smile with my words, they might not be formatted correctly, or spelled right, but even I have to admit they are funny. It is also fun to write.
I will let you in on a little secret. Mrs. Raballard had never read one of my blogs. Until last Friday at Chilli's, she had forgotten her book and wanted something to read. My blog site is also posted in my favorites. This was a great place for me to be in, she had nothing to read and I my blog was at my disposal. After reading the Menu one more time, my wife submitted to my torture. She read my blogs and loved them.
If a reader comes to my blog in hopes of sage advise, I suggest you try one of the amazing blogs I follow. Well actually if they are here looking for advise I might suggest therapy.
If a reader is looking for a sanctuary from daily struggles, a place they can smile, have a good time, please pull up a chair. The fireplace is always lit. There are plenty of easy chairs, or cots for the comatose.
For the rare adventurers out there feel free to click on the follow button. I will try my best to be entertaining.
For any of you that have read previous blogs, I have revised them. The revision is slight and you might not notice they have been revised, but they have. I have deleted two that just couldn't measure up to my low standards.
Please come back, I truly miss you if you stay away too long. Feel free to leave a message, I promise not to tell anyone you have read my blog.
I learned even heroes get discouraged. I read all about super husbands. Although that one made me cry, I thought Mrs. Raballard had a super husband. I of course will have to bow to the real super husband. I learned how difficult Eighth Grade was in 1895, I almost remember that first hand. I learned how to format query letters. (thanks EJ) I will most likely get the same great form letter rejections, but my query will look spiffy. I read about the crazy truck driver in Kansas City.
I enjoyed reading my friends blogs, however it did lead to a stark realization. I am not a writer. I have no idea how to tug at the heart stings with flair. I am unable to advise on marital bliss. There is no way I can convince the reigning super husband to relinquish his thrown for the real super husband.
I can't begin to tell you how discouraged I get, without coming out whiny. That blog was a work of art. It should win the Pulitzer prize awarded to blog. I am discouraged on a daily basis. I have a constant struggle to keep going and not to give up.
I can't even remember 8th grade, let alone tell you how hard it was. (Actually school was never hard for me)
You would fall off of your chair in shear horror if I were to tell you how to format your query letter.
I don't know if I am a recovering perfectionist, an optimistic pessimist, or a gloom and doom humorist. I am also not a writer. I am a story teller. I can twist my cancer into a humorous tale. I have the ability to make people smile with my words, they might not be formatted correctly, or spelled right, but even I have to admit they are funny. It is also fun to write.
I will let you in on a little secret. Mrs. Raballard had never read one of my blogs. Until last Friday at Chilli's, she had forgotten her book and wanted something to read. My blog site is also posted in my favorites. This was a great place for me to be in, she had nothing to read and I my blog was at my disposal. After reading the Menu one more time, my wife submitted to my torture. She read my blogs and loved them.
If a reader comes to my blog in hopes of sage advise, I suggest you try one of the amazing blogs I follow. Well actually if they are here looking for advise I might suggest therapy.
If a reader is looking for a sanctuary from daily struggles, a place they can smile, have a good time, please pull up a chair. The fireplace is always lit. There are plenty of easy chairs, or cots for the comatose.
For the rare adventurers out there feel free to click on the follow button. I will try my best to be entertaining.
For any of you that have read previous blogs, I have revised them. The revision is slight and you might not notice they have been revised, but they have. I have deleted two that just couldn't measure up to my low standards.
Please come back, I truly miss you if you stay away too long. Feel free to leave a message, I promise not to tell anyone you have read my blog.
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