Daveed Reviews

Does the Color of Your Tooth Make You Gay?

posted by daveed @ 26.9.06 2 comments

What's Your Best Friend Worth?

$2,000? That's what a guy I know paid last weekend to take his 10 year old dog to the doggie-ER because of kidney stones. Today he finds out if the dog needs to go on doggie-dialysis. If that's the case, he says he won't be able to afford that and Fido's a doggie-goner.

Huh? Dude, you're already in for 2 grand! What's another hundy or so a month?

So what's the love of your pooch worth? Do you take your sick dog to the vet and say "Only treat him if it will cost less than $X", or is the sky the limit?

That's why I love cats so much: you're less likely to get really attached to them because of their stand-offish nature and they're really easy to replace.

Tuna anyone?

posted by daveed @ 25.9.06 0 comments

Place Yer Bets!

(Roxanne, this one's for you)

Rudy has placed the Over/Under at Monday and took the under, meaning that she thinks the metal rod that's holding my collar bone together will finally poke through my skin before Monday.

That shiny, metallic looking thing you see "under" the scab is not a refelection from the flash, it's the end of the pin.

My hump. My hump. My hump, my hump, my hump.

Rudy's plopped down a ten spot on the under. I declined to bet, as that would be too Pete Rose of me.

Just remember that the house gets 10% of all action.

Love,

Lumpy

posted by daveed @ 22.9.06 6 comments

Not Funny

Last night I tried to make a joke. Here's how it went:

"Last week while Melissa was out of town on business she cheated on me - "

(dramatic pause for effect)

"She ate meat!"

(Uproarious laughter)

Problem is not everyone heard the part that was supposed to be funny.

Please pass it on.

posted by daveed @ 20.9.06 2 comments

The OR

Thursday

Like yesterday, much of this day is a blur, too. I think I needed to be at the Baylor Surgi-Center by 12:00 for my scheduled 1:00 PM out-patient procedure. Thank goodness Rudy was around to keep track of these "minor" details. Rudy also kept track of how many meds I could take and when.

Today I got a full-on shower. Well, semi-full-on, because we kept the water off my right shoulder and arm. Feeling clean does make a difference.

Prior to the surgery, I was connected to an IV drip and a wedge-shaped cushion was placed under my knees. All I could think of was how much this pillow reminded me of The Liberator (hey, does that come in pink velvet?).

I am aware that anytime you are under anesthesia or cut on, there are risks. Oddly, there wasn’t even a fleeting moment when I was scared or even just nervous about what was about to happen to me. Perhaps some of it was the blanket my mind had put over the events of the last few days, but, mostly, I think I just knew that the sooner this was done, the sooner I would get on to getting better. Hurry up, Doc! Let’s get it on!

The anesthesiologists arrived and started to wheel me away. One last kiss from Rudy and “Happy Hour” commenced. I was out before I made it to the OR.

***********************************************************************************

I was rudely awakened by a faceless woman shoving a Styrofoam cup filled half full with ice and sprite into left hand. I was told to “drink up”, which I did with the help of the provided straw. Then I passed out again.

Soon after (I think), I was again rudely awakened when my liberator was ripped from under my knees. Melissa was there and I was told to get up and get dressed. I guess it was closing time and we were being booted.

Everything was happening really slowly. There seemed to be a fluffy layer of cotton over my entire body, especially in my mouth. Melissa helped me step into my pj bottoms and Beanered my shirt around my neck. A wheel chair appeared in which I was told to sit in while Melissa fetched the car. I was wheeled out a back door and helped into the front seat of the family ambulance and we were off. The whole thing had a very back alley feel to it.

I felt like a bobble-head doll on the way home. At some point another, succulent smoothie was placed in my hands and, despite the continuous brain freeze, I sucked the straw like a Hoover. I remember pulling into our driveway and seeing my brother’s truck in front of the house. “Hey, Andrew’s here” I astutely observe.

Before Rudy had even put the car in park, Andrew had swing open my door and was unfastening my seat belt. He helped my swing my legs out of the car and, with one hand on my left arm and the other behind my head (sorority girl style) to protect my head from any further bumps and bruises, gingerly helped me to a standing position. He then led me through the house and to the bedroom. Melissa had already relocated the house’s pillow collection from the couch to the bedroom. I was lowered to the bed, propped up with pillows and tucked in. I garbled some sort of thanks and was back in la-la land. I’m guessing it was about 5 PM.

I don’t really remember if I ate anything that night. I do remember at some point Melissa was sleeping next to me and it was dark outside.

About mid-night I woke up, very uncomfortable and with sharp pains in my lungs, a common side effect of the general anesthesia ( I later learned by reading my discharge papers that I was supposed to take deep breathes and cough as much as possible after the operation to help clear the gook out of my lungs. Good thing someone took the time to tell me this).

No matter how I wriggled and squirmed, I could not find a position in bed that was either comfortable or eased the pain in my chest. I maneuvered myself out of bed, waking Melissa. She popped up like a jack-in-the-box and asked if everything was alright. I told her I was going to take a pee. I did, but I also never came back to the bedroom.

I went to the living room and played Deaf Man’s Musical Chairs, as I moved from chair to bar stool to couch to recliner, trying to find one that would offer a position that would allow me to sleep with out putting any stress or pressure on my chest. I eventually stuffed several pillows around my waist and placed one on my chest to rest my chin on and drifted in and out of sleep in this rather awkward position.

posted by daveed @ 16.9.06 0 comments

The D O C

I don’t remember too much about Wednesday. I drifted in and out of “sleep” most of the morning. Melissa is fortunate enough to be able to work from home in a pinch, so I could hear her talking on teleconferences as I came and went.

What should have been the most memorable part of any day was when Melissa tried to make me more presentable by giving me a sponge bath. Apparently, Mr. Happy was aware of the grave nature of my condition and was appropriately reserved. Good or bad? You decide.

Shortly before 2 PM, Melissa loaded me up in the Hassan Ambulance and we left to see Dr. Dickson. I want to call him Dr. Dick, the Bone Specialist…do I digress?

The trip over and the wait are both a blur. I do know that we were in an examination room in an acceptable amount of time and, soon after that, interfacing with Dr. Dick-son’s Physician’s Assistant. I’m never really sure what a PA is. Is she just a glorified nurse? A full-fledged doctor that prefers to assist rather than take the reins?

Whatever the case, Dr. Dick-son’s Physician’s Assistant is large and in charge. Probably about 5’4” and very, very plump. Not fat, mind you, but more like she was wearing layer apon layer of clothing rather than just 1, single layer. Her nearly-white hair was painfully pulled back into a bun that would pass quite nicely as a Non Invasive face Lift, giving her a some what astonished expression.

Despite the dulling effects of the meds I was on, she hurt me. Not that she did anything to me physically; it was her manner that was excruciating. She was LOUD and spoke SHARPLY and FORCEFULLY. She wanted everyone within ear shot to know that SHE KNEW HER STUFF. She plopped a figure 8 brace on the examination table and said I would most likely get trussed up in one of these and she blew out of the room, leaving sheets of paper floating to the floor in the vacuum her departure created.

Eventually, Dr. Dick-son came in to see me. He looked at the X-Rays, then my clavicle-boner, and started to discuss surgery as an option. He used the words “Impending Doom” to describe the bone attempting to break the skin on my shoulder, as in "it ain’t compound, but it is for all intents and purposes", and described the procedure.

My clavicle was broken in 2 places. He would make an incision along the natural line of the clavicle, and a second one just behind the shoulder, above the shoulder blade. Then, he would insert a rod down through the clavicle to allow for the bone to knit properly aligned. The outer end of the rod would be bent to keep it in place and left just under the surface of the skin so it could be easily removed when its job was done. And, oh, as long as we have your arm prepped, I’ll go ahead and open up your hand to be sure your tendon’s OK.

Rudy and I looked at each other for a moment. I deferred to her, seeing how her outlook was not affected by narcotics, and so the date was set for the next day at 1 PM.

Along the way home Rudy stopped at Smoothie King and bought us each a smoothie. I rode the rest of the way home with my lips glued to the straw, slowly, gently suckling away. The Ritz cracker of smoothies!

That evening, my brother’s family came by to check on me. My 3-year old neice, Karson, was warned so many times about not jumping on Uncle Dave that she skirted me the entire time she was at the house. Quinten, 13, avoided looking at my shoulder at all costs. Mitchell, 11, would only take his eyes off my shoulder and the protruding bone long enough to bend over at the waist and put his hands on his knees, weary hoopster-style.

Later in the evening, teammates Robbie and Troy popped in. I think Robbie had Shiner, but I had to take a rain check. What we talked about and how long they actually stayed is beyond me. It was just cool that they stopped by and didn’t expect a lot from me in terms of playing host.

Author's note: this entry was completed while I waited for an Ambien to kick in. Please excuse any Riner-like spelling.

posted by daveed @ 14.9.06 5 comments

EEWW!

posted by daveed @ 14.9.06 1 comments

The ER

The next time I need a ride to the emergency room and my choice is to either walk or let Kyle Russell drive me, I’m taking the sole train. Dude is easily the funniest, wittiest guy I know, hands down, and he’s always on. But, trying to contain guffaws of laughter while keeping your clavicle from popping through your skin is no easy task. And the next time I need to drive a load of nitro glycerin or ancient artifacts across even a mildly bumpy road, KR will not be my choice of driver. He must have a little ADHD working, because he gets so wrapped up in just talking, I think he forgets that he’s driving. Then it comes crashing back to him as he’s heading for the cement divider at the toll tag reader, and he snaps to, throws the wheel around for a moment to correct, then gets back into his stand-up.

At the entrance to the ER, Kyle jogs in to find a wheel chair. He returns a few short moments later and says one’s on the way, and, sure enough, there’s Nurse Fokker to wheel me into triage (why do they insist on using military terms?). Fokker explains that he’s just getting off duty, but wanted to get me in and let me know that he felt my pain, as he was just getting back on his skate board after breaking his collar bone. Once I’m checked in, Kyle runs off again to properly park and to put on clothing a little more flattering than the Tenzing Lycra.

I imagine that everyone that goes to the ER assumes that their injury is the worst of any patient there and will undoubtedly receive treatment immediately. I now realize that you don’t want to be the first guy that gets to see the doc, because that really means your more effed than anyone else. Thankfully, or not, it took a while to get treatment.

A nurse enters and takes some vitals and offers me some meds. I opt for the oral, because I’m a man’s man. I get a pill and she leaves.

Kyle returns sporting the latest GQ style: dress shoes and socks, cargo shorts and a short sleeved dress shirt. Now that he no longer has to use 1% of his brain to drive, he is doing his best to be sure that if I don’t have any broken ribs, I will before he leaves. Bryd Man joins us and is enough distraction for Kyle that my ribs are safe – for now. Soon, Rudy’s with us and Kyle gives up completely and turns on the telly to check out Dancing with the Stars.

At some point I’m wheeled off for pictures. The X-Ray tech asks me to stand in front of metal box that looks like it would protect Clark Kent. I can do that. I’m still cradling my arm to my chest, and that just won’t do for the type of shot she wants. I guess she wanted me to show her sexy, and you can’t do that when your boobs are covered by your forearms.

“Can you move your arms down?”

I take a deep breath and lower my arms.

“Oh, my god” she says (btw, it’s never good when you are in the ER and you hear a member of the staff use those or similar words).

“What?” I’m wondering if I have a big booger hanging from my nose, which, even under these circumstances, would be tacky.

“Your clavicle!”

I put my left hand on top of my shoulder and I can feel something sticking up that I did not want to feel at that moment – dare I say it? – a boner. Yes, protruding up at a 45 degree angle away from my head, about half way between my neck and the tip of my shoulder was the jagged, pointed piece of my clavicle, still under the skin but straining very, very hard to get outside for a proper look-see.

The room started to swim a little, I began to tremble (great for X-Rays), my mouth tasted a little more coppery, I started to sweat profusely (thank god I was properly hydrated!) and my pain level went from a smirking 2 up to a grimacing 4.



By the time I was rolled back into Trauma Room 2, I was a mess.

I big, bald man, Billy, and a short, loud, trashy blonde woman, Lisa, marched in and started spraying my road rash with watered down Palmolive and then scrubbing the rash with gauze pads. Billy, noticing the vein sticking out on my temple and the chattering of my teeth, asked if I wanted a real pain killer. I nodded, and Billy returned with a syringe filled with fluid that felt like it contained gasoline as it entered my butt cheek. They left to let the meds go to work.

Kyle caught sight of the finger poking out of the top of my shoulder and became visibly weak-kneed. He soon left for home. Ha! Take that!

The nurses returned to finish cleaning my road rash. A PA was called to examine the gaping hole between my first and second knuckle, probably the first part of me to come in contact with the ground. I was asked to move my middle finger. I did. Rudy gamely took a peek (I, on the other hand, kept watching Harry Hamlin butcher that poor woman’s toes) and said she could see the tendon moving back and forth and some bone. The PA was afraid that I had nicked the tendon, so she loosely laced the hole together and told us to mention it to the orthopedic surgeon the next day.

At some point, Brydie disappeared and Robbie replaced him, along with his 8year old son, Kaden, who had also recently broken his collar bone. Kaden would not look at me, totally grossed out by the bone protruding from my shoulder.

One more shot for pain and I was released. Rudy used the trauma scissors to cut off what remained of my kit. She helped me balance while I feed first one foot, then the other into a pair of pajama bottoms. A button up shirt was draped over my shoulders. “Button it Beaner style” I mumbled. She accommodated, buttoning only the top button.

Rudy took me home where she applied Tegaderm to my leg, buttocks and shoulder. She gathered nearly every pillow in the house and got me all comfy on the couch, complete with a water bottle filled with ice and water and an old quilt under me to catch the road rash drippings. Then she ran off to pick up the scripts that we had dropped off at Wallgreens on the way home.

She set up shop on the other wing of our sectional, ignoring my muted complaints, and slept there in case I needed anything. Every time I was awake, she was, too, asking me if everything is OK.

My sleep that night was more of a daze. I felt that I must have woken up 100 times, my head buzzing from the meds and aching from being used as a landing pad. I would then close my eyes and, with a little effort, be back in my daze.

posted by daveed @ 13.9.06 0 comments

Skin's Over-Rated

The moment just before impact takes forever, yet happens in the blink of an eye. You have time to realize how fucked you are, and then it’s happening.

*************************************************************************************

This is the 4th time I’ve eaten it in the last 10 months. Before that, it had been years since I’ve tasted the street. Not sure what the increase in tastings means.

The first of these was in December on a training ride with 3 teammates. The strongest of us was dragging the rest of us along in a tight paceline when he moved left as the road turned to allow those in his draft to stay in his draft. Because my eyes were rolled back in my head from the effort of staying on the wheel that was on his wheel, I was a bit slow to react to the shift in the paceline. I fought for what seemed like 5 minutes to keep my balance after my front wheel made contact with the rear wheel in ahead of me. The ironic thing is that the rear wheel I rubbed was that of Troy “Crash” Owens, the nickname he earned by biting it some 10 times in 2005. Being a good friend, I took advantage of every opportunity to remind Troy of how small the number on the Days Without An Accident chart was. I even went so far as to take his new bike aside when I was sure no one was looking to make sure it knew what it was in for. Pay back’s a bitch, I guess. Also funny to note is that we had just caught and passed a tri-dork when this happened. I’m sure we made his day, mostly because roadies are always making fun of tri-dorks for being bad bike handlers.

Next was an unfortunate run in with one of the traffic cones they put out at the Tuesday Night Crit course in April. Some jackass in front of me knocked it into the pack where it bounced off several bikes before knocking me over. A group of Beaners that are always there to watch their homies race were there to remove my shoes, pick me up off the pavement and offer me an orange crush, claiming the sugar would make me feel better. I started to decline the soda because I generally don’t drink pop, but accepted because he was so sincere and earnest that I thought to refuse would be rude and bad Karma.

After that was when the OKC Velo guy that washed out next to me at the State Crit, taking me out in the fastest turn on the course. In my pathetic attempt to avoid him, I blew my front tire out. Once that happened, the rim caught the pavement and I high-sided my bike, launching through the air head over heels. A well placed bale of hay caught me, face first. As I was flying through the air, watching the hay bale approach, I remember thinking that this was prolly going to hurt. After cursing the rider that took me out sufficiently, I marched up to the start line, shouldering my bike, to get my free lap and get back into the race. It’s hard to look manly in lycra, even harder while prancing along in cycling shoes. Needless to say, all my friends/family/teammates that bore witness to this moment were sufficiently humored.

Still don’t know what happened Tuesday. I was second coming out of the final turn of the final lap, though not sure what my gap was. Ahead of me, maybe 20 meters, was a rider in pink that is actually taller and thinner than I am. I could sense that he was fading, so catching him was a good probability, but fending off the charging pack was still to be determined. Once out of the turn, I stood up to sprint, a long way to the line, sure, but I could see shadows on the pavement behind me, giving me some urgency. I needed more gear, so I clicked down to my 11.

When I shift under load, I try to time my shift so that I click when my right foot is about 10 or 11 o’clock. I let up on my stroke just a hair to let the shift take place as easily as possible, then, once I feel/hear the shift, I give it all I have left. After I clicked and started to bring my foot down, my chain skipped. Not once, but skipped like every other tooth was broken.
The only way to accurately describe it is to say it would be like running up stairs bindfolded, taking them 2 or 3 at a time. The stairs stop and give way to nothing, just air and space. You keep going, expecting them to continue because you can’t see. Your next stride goes up and you drive it down, but there’s nothing there. The force of your stride starts the direction of your tumble.

I remember the front end of my bike starting to hop badly as my pedal stroke met with no resistance. Then I’m down and sliding and covering my head and neck in case I’m run over by someone’s chain ring.

Thankfully, I didn’t bring anyone else down with me.

I’ve been first on a crash scene plenty of times. My first effort is try to relax the crashee and get him to breathe normally. Practice what you preach? Nope, not me. I couldn’t stop writhing about on the pavement (probably resulting in more road rash), nor could I stop breathing like a birthing mother that had failed Lamaze class at high altitude. By now, people were around me, reminding me to breath slowly, but I just couldn’t do it. Finally I began to relax a little, but then went back into my huffing and puffing fit. Big Bad Wolf got nothing on me.

I knew my right shoulder hurt really badly and I was clutching it with my left hand while cradling my right arm to my chest with my left arm. I was certain I had broken my collarbone, and part of me was holding my shoulder expecting to feel the jagged end of bone sticking out of my flesh while another part was sure that the longer and tighter I held my shoulder would somehow diminish the amount of damage.

I slowly became aware of all the faces hovering over me. Some were right next to mine, others upside down, others yet peering over the heads of the people in front of them. I vaguely remember trying to say something entertaining or witty.

An argument ensued about whether or not my helmet should be removed. Protocol states that you leave the helmet in place until you are sure there are no neck injuries as the helmet helps support the head when you are prone on the pavement, but the Bryd Man wanted to take it off because the accident had twisted the helmet on my head so that the chin strap was “more like a tourniquet”. I believe a compromise was reached and the chin strap was released.

The same beaners that plucked me off the street in April were there and offered me a packet of Gummy Life-Savers. I gobbled them down, dapped the Beaner and looked at him wistfully for more.

Turns out that the stork in pink I was chasing just before the crash is an EMT. He was summoned and started poking and prodding me. All my huffing and puffing had created quite arid conditions in my mouth, so I asked for water. Cold, wet water was poured in my mouth and over my head by ROF May. The helmet was finally removed and replaced by an airline pillow, also compliments of the Beaners (those dudes ROCK). I talked trash to the Stork, telling him that I would have caught him. An ambulance was called, which was canceled moments later b/c I did not want to incur the expense.

I became painfully (pun?) aware that I was holding up the start of the evening’s headline event, the A Race, and decided I needed to remove myself from the race course. I wondered if I could just lay there for a while longer and let them race around me, or if it would be a good idea to let myself be dragged off by my feet.

Finally, I stood. The Love Muscle’s SUV was magically there waiting to wisk me off to a yet-to-be-determined ER. R. Brown missed the start of the A Race so he could meet Kyle and me at my car, where Robbie gave me my wallet and cell phone. All cyclists are more concerned with their bike than they are with their injuries, so Robbie assured me he would get my fallen steed home safely (Robbie was allowed to enter the race having only missed a few laps. He went on to bridge up to the break and take 2nd overall).

Disclaimer:

This entry was pulled from an email sent to a friend and is not an original blog writing. For some reason, I feel compelled to mention that, and to mention that Biker Chick has granted permission for use of this as a blog. Thanks, and thanks for making me smile.




Also, I have these words for my blogging nemesis, the Biking Beaner: BRING IT. Why so confrontational? Because he’s a Beaner? Because he looks like Shrek, but with no ass? No. Well, maybe, but also because I’m sure he’ll have some quip ready for me like he did after my previous visit to the ER when he said “hey, magn, ju call that a cut magn? I get worse cuts on my way to knife fights, homes”.

posted by daveed @ 11.9.06 0 comments

Your Meat is Safe Around Me

Unless it smells like fish, that is.

And only 'til the end of October.

That's right, I've sworn off meat, phallic or otherwise.

Rudy and I have decided to go vegetarian for the next 60 days. I'm not really sure why, but we did. In fact, I'm not really sure which of us is to blame.

Fish is OK, although my brother, Andrew, calls that "convenient" and "cheating". Hey! Who died and made you the Vegetarian Referee?

We debated going full-on Vegan (like being full-on pro?) but Rudy decided that wearing non-leather shoes would make our feet smell.

That's logic and reasoning I don't argue with.

posted by daveed @ 5.9.06 0 comments