[2-part post combined.  BIG]
 
Warning:  Read while eating or drinking at your own risk!
 
For the last week I've felt like ET: my finger pulsing red, my belly
bloated, all I wanted to do was to get home, and all sorts of people were
after me.  The trouble is, I'm not close to as good looking as ET and I
don't have a heart-light, although my belly is now a bit lighter.  Since
my email box is FULL of inquiries regarding my latest absence, I might
as well explain to better foil the internet rumor mill, where the grist
ground is cruel gruel.
 
A week and half ago was "Photo Sunday", a day I spend with Andrew.
Andrew is in PJ school at Mizzou and since I have more than 25 years of
experience behind the camera (4 years college, 15 yrs PJ, 10 yrs politics
and actor/model portfolios), once a week we randomly select a subject
from a list and go out to shoot it.  The Sunday in question was cancelled
because of a visit from my daughter, and since Monday was a holiday, it
became the photo day.  We decided to drive down to extreme SE Missouri
to shoot the White River and some abandoned buildings, so we left in the
wee hours to get down there by daybreak.  Andrew was going to practice
underwater photo techniques and I was scouting for places to shoot model
portfolio pictures next spring.
 
Andrew is not allowed to use his digital beast and instead uses one of
my film cameras, and I generally shoot 120 roll film and 4x5 sheet film
with one of my view cameras.  If I really like what I am shooting, I'll
use an 8x10 view camera, but not this time.  I had been feeling nasty-bad
all day and had for more than a week.  I had a horrific backache that
strangely didn't hurt worse when I lifted the 90 pounds of camera
equipment I was toting into the bush a couple of miles.  I shot my 20
plates while Andrew was playing in the water with my Nikonos, and I went
back to the truck about 3 pm.  I was bizarrely not hungry, even
nauseated, so I was sipping my favorite beverage, tart lemonade mixed
50:50 with mountain berry fruit juice, waiting for my son to wander back.
That was about the time when I suddenly decided I needed to inspect the
ground very carefully while curled in a fetal position.  It was a spur of
the moment decision and it is amazing what you can see when your nose is
in the dirt.
 
Now, I've been wrestling a "non-lupus lupus-like" autoimmune disorder for
the last decade.  For some reason it tends to target connective tissue,
so I've had a few corrective surgeries during that time to correct damage
done by various autoimmune flares.  Both of my shoulders and knees have
been 'scoped and fixed, as have a few other important places, so when I
am butt-nekid, I look like I've been a high-school archery target.  I've
also had my belly zipped open nearly a half-dozen times, with four bowel
resections.  There has been other stuff, but the problem that really bugs
me the most is the methotrexate I take has made the hair on the top of my
head somewhat thin, and all the medicines have made me prematurely gray,
as in "my beard is dead white except for the areas near the corners of my
mouth where it looks like I've been drooling tobacco juice" prematurely
gray (that's my story and I'm stickin' to it, ok buddy?).  I call it my
"Wolfman Bob" beard, and if you are too young to remember Wolfman Jack,
well, too bad fer you, ahh_oooooo!  Anyway, the bowel resections are
always at the location of the prior surgery because the autoimmune
disorder attacks the scar tissue, creating an inflamed region and causing
it to swell and cut off the flow of goods, so to speak.  It's not good to
have your goods back up; in fact it's kinda crappy.  Lately I'd been
having the kind of intense pulsating, cramping pain only a person who has
had a bowel obstruction can understand, but because the amount of large
bowel I have left is in short supply, I have been putting off getting it
fixed.  I've been adamant about it because I didn't want surgery to
interfere with my trip to Europe to talk at the Fret symposium.  It is
not that I have a particular phobia about pooin' in a plastic bag, but I
just want it to be in my camping toilet, not a bag glued to my side.  I
might be pig-headed, but I'll put that one off until my guts starts
making chitterling sounds and I start to chitlins in my pants.  I guess
you can say I'd rather be anal-retentive than anal-releasive.
 
The problem was exacerbated when I went up to Chicago to talk at their
show.  One of the controls of a partial bowel obstruction is to watch
what you eat (my obstruction was about 90-95%-I know because I had a cat
scan and barium study before I left for Chicago).  Things like fiber,
spices, and even size of portions can have a devastating effect.  My
problem is, I adore exotic food.  No, I mean I!  REALLY!  ADORE!  EXOTIC!
FOOD!  Well, not soured milk or eggplant or okra or mushrooms or anything
else of a scatological nature, but I will happily devour pretty much
everything else that doesn't crawl out of my reach.  In Chicago, I quite
literally stuffed myself with foodstuffs that did not agree with me.  You
know that point when you are so full you wish you had a megaesophagus so
you could take another bite?  When you are so full that just breathing
hurts?  I had things to do and places to see after the show, but I was
forced to cut everything short to go home, still finding the time to
inspect every public "facility" between Chicago and St.  Louis, and a few
that weren't so public unless you were driving by at the time.  You know
the squinty-eyed look and straining sounds that come from a ferret after
eatting rubber?  That was me, only I was uglier, more squinty-eyed, and
louder.  By photo day, I thought I was over the worst of it, but all I
did was kick-start big trouble in little colon.  Little did I know that
I had started an autoimmune flare that would tie my intestines into a
Celtic knot.  Make that a western necktie; the type that hang from
hangin' trees.
 
So there I was, deep in the southern Missouri Ozarks and closer to
Nashville or Little Rock than home, with a pain in my belly that
qualified for the weepy-faced "10" you see on the chart at the emergency
room.  So Andrew pilots my beautiful red pickup truck south with me
prostrate in the back, only stopping once to refuel at a truck stop where
passersby must have thought a revival meeting was taking place inside the
shell covering the bed, me loudly mentioning the Lord's name so often.
 
We made it to the emergency room, where I wandered into the lobby bent
over like a pretzel, clutching an abdomen that seemed to be speaking in
tongues, when what seemed to be a 12-year-old girl behind the counter
asked, "Kineye hep yawl?" (say it as fast as you can to get the true
linguistic effect).  I tried my best to respond, but was in so much pain
that I couldn't remember what the Southern words were for "Get me a
doctor, I'm dying you prepubescent twit."  Luckily, my multilingual son
said something in southern I think translated as "gunshot wound with
hepatic mouse herpes" or something like that, so I was whisked back to a
room where they can strip off your clothing and dignity at the same time
they make you think they are doing you a favor.  I mean, who doesn't love
being in intense pain, stripped nekid, and showing their pimply butt to
strangers?  I'd pay good money for it!  I was asked how much pain I was
in, which at the peak of each blessed cramp was a "10", but since the
pain was only periodic, they averaged it down to a "5" so they wouldn't
have to give me anything for it until after every doctor in the states of
Arkansas and Tennessee tried to digitally manipulate my tonsils using the
southern route.  I swear those docs were lined up, out the door, and down
the street, each one bragging about how long and fat their fingers were.
Now I know why they are called "southern gentlemen." I felt like I was
abducted by a horde of anal probing aliens.  I got so many fingers I
thought I was driving in Manhattan.  At least I now know the salute of
the colorectal surgeon and why no one will shake their hands.  I'd better
not say anything else because they always get their revenge in the end.
 
[How's the joke go?  They use two fingers just in case their patient
wants a second opinion?  BIG]
 
After a stint in the ER long enough to qualify for W's military service
(and infinitely more dangerous), I "rented" a nice little room in "Motel
Sick" where automatons beeped and clicked and buzzed and screamed at all
hours of the night and otherwise made sleeping a thing of the past, but I
didn't care as long as the one single automaton that clicked and beeped
each time I pushed a specific button managed to work its pharmaceutical
magic.  I would drool, but I didn't care.  In fact, I didn't care if my
blanket slipped off, exposing my full moon in the open window facing the
street, where a gaggle of Sunday school teachers were marching up the
walk giggling at the crack I just made.
 
Later the next morning, the docs took me to OR, stuck a 'scope in my
belly AND another one up my bootie, injected all sorts of magical
elixirs and potions into places where the sun don't shine, snipped a
few adhesions, and then thoughtfully decided (without awakening me to
participate in the discussion) to remove an older abdominal scar and give
me a new belly-button, cut out a foot or so of extra intestine that was
in the way, reconnect the plumbing, and pumped me so full of pain meds
that I am still drooling, yet strangely happy and wondering what my name
is.  I can still go to Europe, and with a few meds and a serious promise
to watch what I eat I'll be just fine (yeah, I'll watch what I eat as it
goes into my mouth!).  And, I have a videotape of the blessed event so I
can eat popcorn and watch what was seen on the scopes in the privacy of
my own home!  I think I'll burn it to DVD and sell them on eBay: Bob C's
Colorectal Exploration and Enrichment, opening bid only $1.  Yeah, when
I get the hospital bill, I'm sure I'll think of it as "enrichment."  Did
you know that when I was checking out, I was actually asked if I would
settle the bill before I left?  I wonder if bill collectors will chase
me to Europe...anyone there want to adopt a Bob?
 
Anyway, that's the story, but if you want to add to my internet mystique,
I suggest you tell people I was shot by an old timer who thought I was
raiding his still.  Oh, better yet, nearly eviscerated by a jealous
husband, angry when his wife praised my, um, well-muscled legs.  Or, you
can say I was experimenting with a new form of ferret enrichment and
confused infinite exploration with intestinal exploration.  Nah, just
tell the same lie I do for all my scars: I got them shooting republican
politicians.
 
Oh Lord, I mean't PHOTOGRAPHING republican politicians "shooting" is just
an expression...I sure hope Homeland Security didn't read that line....
 
Bob C:  [log in to unmask]
[Posted in FML issue 4672]