the cold never bothered me anyway

Who ever imagined that a lingering cold would land me in the hospital? Certainly not me. But, here's how it happened.....

My family and I had just returned home from a fun, whirlwind vacation in Walt Disney World. We were four adults, traveling in my tiny Toyota RAV4 packed with our luggage and in each other's close company for nearly 32 hours of actual "car time," as we opted to drive from Philadelphia to central Florida (and back) instead of taking the more modern method of flight. But, still we had a great time. That is, until we realized that our little caravan had turned into a rolling Petri dish during our return trip. My son, who makes his living as an on-air host at a local radio station, was the first to exhibit the scratchy throat and stuffy nose symptoms of an oncoming cold. His girlfriend, ever the trooper, fought off a few sniffles and I could feel that feeling in the back of my throat as well. By the time we got home, my son had to miss a few more days of work and I began to display the full-blown effects of an early Autumn cold. I waged the battle with over-the-counter remedies that really don't work. 

For three consecutive nights before bed, I downed a shot of Walgreen's version of NyQuil, not event the real stuff, just a store-branded equivalent. It wasn't doing a thing for my illness, yet I still continued to take it. 

Every morning, I wake for work and shuffle to the bathroom, where as part of my regular ritual, I take a 10 mg tablet of Amlodipine (for high blood pressure) and a 10 mg tablet of Lipitor for... gosh, I'm not even sure. On Tuesday, however, at 6:30 am, I shuffled into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, unscrewed the lid of the Amlodipine bottle and, suddenly, this was my view...

I could see my peripheral vision closing in like so many movie special effects simulating someone looking thorough a pair of binoculars. I knew I was about to pass out. I was totally aware of the fact that I was about to pass out. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my side on the bathroom floor, my knees curled up towards my chin. I could feel the bathmat bunched up underneath my prone body. "Wow!," I proudly thought to myself, "I knew I was about to pass out and I had the wherewithal to sit down of the floor." I lay on the floor for a few more seconds before slowly righting myself, still offering self-congratulation for my clear thinking in a potential moment of crisis. However, when I glanced around, my Amlodipine pills were scattered all over the bathroom floor, the empty bottle laying on its side under the radiator. "Oh," I silently reconsidered, "I guess I wasn't such a quick thinker." I began to search for and gather up the pills that littered the floor until I opened my eyes to find myself flat on the floor once again. Except this time, my hand was cocked and (luckily) cradling my head. But I could feel that the back of my head was wet. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and held it to the back of my head. I also spotted a smear of blood on the tile floor near the bath tub. I slowly got to my feet with the aid of the solid tub as a support. I shuffled back to the bedroom and gently shook my still-sleeping wife.

"Susan," I whispered. She stirred lazily. "I just passed out in the bathroom," and just to panic her even more, I added: "Twice."

I shambled over to my side of the bed and literally plopped forward, my face burying into my pillow.

Mrs. P, now fully jarred awake, asked, "Do you want to go to the hospital?" I replied with the standard answer, as approved to maintain my membership in good standing in the Indestructible Male Member of Society Club. I, of course, answered, "No." And, in case the membership committee was lurking nearby, monitoring my responses to such masculinity-threatening questions, I sealed my stance with "I'll be alright." What an idiot!

Three hours later — that's right, I laid there for three hours, drifting in and out of consciousness while my wife applied bags of ice and wet towels to the wound on the back of my head. Finally, she said, "Y'know this cut on your head could probably use a stitch or two. You should probably go to the hospital." Still not giving in, I conceded under the pretense of "I'll go... if it will make you happy." Not me. This was all just to pacify my wife. 

I managed to pull on some clothes and she drove to the hospital. I sat in the passenger's seat with a paper towel clamped to the bleeding laceration on my head. Mrs. P and I explained our presence to the reception nurse in the emergency room and I was immediately admitted. Suddenly, a swarm of attentive medical personnel descended upon me like seagulls on a stray french fry on the beach. I was poked and prodded, questioned and researched. The nurse who seemed to be running things, a burly guy who resembled "Newman" from Seinfeld, pointedly asked "When did this happen?" and, when given the answer, frowned and scolded "You should have come in at 6:30!" I could feel every accusing eye in the room accusing me even more.

It was decided that I would stay in the hospital for 24-hour observation. Before I was placed in an actual room, I was subjected to a barrage of tests — a CAT scan, an EKG and others with equally-cryptic sounding acronyms. I was hooked up to a heart monitor whose leads were affixed to my hirsute torso with extremely sticky leads. There seemed to be a serious concern about the accuracy of the readings and proposal of shaving some of my chest hair was brought up several times. In the end, the leads were adjusted and my chest was spared.

After all the tests were completed, a friendly young intern entered the curtained ER area. He told me he was there to close up my wound. He asked me to roll over on my left side and he positioned himself behind me, completely out of my line of vision. Taking this into consideration, he happily narrated the entire procedure to me, as he irrigated, cleaned and ultimately stapled the four-inch gash closed with what sounded like the stapler I have on my desk at work. He admired the eleven staples he inserted into my scalp, even removing and replacing two that he just "didn't like the looks of," I helplessly obliged as he readjusted his handiwork. At last count, Mrs. Pincus was only off by nine.

I was given ample time to rest and then I was transported by wheelchair to the room that would be my home for the next day. I was hooked up to an electronically-monitored IV that would be my constant companion for the next 24-hour period. Then began the parade of more hospital workers, each with a different task all ending with me. I had my blood pressure taken every few hours and four different people, each claiming to be from "the lab" took blood from my left arm at regular intervals. I believe they were actually using their plasma harvest to paint a room nearby.

Late on Wednesday afternoon, with all tests concluded and determinations made, I was released from my hospital ordeal. It was decided that my syncope episode (that's hospital lingo for "fainting") was caused by a viral illness, i.e. a cold — although I have received plenty of contrary assessments from friends and relatives with no medical background whatsoever. I also have what looks like a zipper running up the back of my head and I still get a little light-headed when I stand up too quickly or change the position of my head. Oh, and I suffered a mild concussion, so that self-diagnosis of "sleeping it off" was probably not a good idea. According to a sign placed outside of my hospital room, I have been labeled a "fall risk." So, there's a burden I must carry with me for the rest of my life. Kind of like "smart ass."

And, I still have that damn cold.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's not easy being green

Yesterday, I emerged from the train station stairs at 16th Street and was handed two bottles of V8 Heathy Greens® by a young lady manning a large, gaily-decorated cooler. A swarm of my fellow commuters and fellow members of the Philadelphia workforce surrounded the young lady, all with eager hands extended. Obviously, most humans like free things. Pretty much anything, as long as it's free. Grab it while you can! Don't worry, there will be time later to give it a careful examination to determine if it is of any merit. If it's something of value, great! You just scored it at no cost. If not, it can always be tossed. No time wasted and no harm done. So, I grabbed a couple of the free, brightly-labels bottles and crossed the street to my office. Once at my desk, I fired up my computer, set the bottles aside and went to work.

I have been a vegetarian for nearly ten years (you can read that stupid story here). Over the past year, however, I took a good, hard look at my food intake. I cut out all forms of sweets — cookies, candy, ice cream, cake. I have made a conscious effort to include more fruits, vegetables and nuts in my regular diet. I began snacking on trail mix (without chocolate chips or M & M's) and banana chips instead of my usual Reese's Cups. I rarely drink soda, choosing to quench my thirst with flavored sparkling water. I have gotten more adventurous, actually eating string beans and broccoli and even the trendy kale — stuff I would have never previously touched in a zillion years. 

As the noon hour rolled around, I glanced away from my computer screen for a second and caught a glimpse of the two bottles V8 Heathy Greens® that I had shoved off to the side this morning when I sat down at my desk. I picked one of the bottles up and scanned the ingredients panel. It included such healthful ingredients as "yellow carrot juice, cucumber juice, celery juice, green bell pepper juice" and other vegetables that I was not aware has a single drop of juice in them. Less appetizing components of the product were "spinach water and romaine lettuce juice." To make the combination more palatable, it also contained apple juice and pineapple juice, two actual juices that I have had (and enjoyed)  before.

Green is the color
of my true love's juice.

I filled a cup with ice from our office's communal ice dispenser and returned to my desk. I popped the lid of one bottle and poured the contents over the ice. The opaque label had concealed the true color of the product. It was the color of some liquid that, if discovering it on your driveway, you'd be prompted to have your mechanic give your car a thorough inspection. Cautiously, I raised the cup to my lips and took a hesitant sip — probably too big a sip for something I was unsure about in the first place.

It tasted like old peas — cold, withered, left on a forgotten dinner plate in the sink.

I looked at the cup, now only partly filled with the dark green liquid. The more I looked at it, the more it resembled antifreeze. Old antifreeze.

I reread the ingredients, trying to identify the various vegetables by the aftertaste on my tongue. I couldn't pinpoint a single one. Instead, the full combination left my mouth with the flavor of a freshly-cut lawn. I wondered about a possible meeting of the Research and Development Department in the V8 Divison at Campbell's Soup (V8's parent company). "Hey," I imagined a food scientist declared, "I think I have the perfect combination!" As the other members of the team sampled the prototype, someone must have commented on the color and taste — only to have the criticism shot down by a supervisor. "No, no! It's fine! Who cares about the color of a drink anyway? Especially not the health nuts that are in our target demographic! Besides, Coca-Cola is the color of shit, and look how that stuff sells!"

I got up from my desk, walked to the sink near the office coffee machine and dumped the remaining V8 Heathy Greens® down the drain. I poured myself a cup of cleansing water and took a healthy swig.

Water is healthy, too.... right?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com