Salmonellosis 3

In April of 2001 I experienced the single most traumatic event of my lifetime until that point. I entered Hazrlden and they required a blood draw.

When I went into the hospital 13 years later because I thought I might be dying, the Doctor told me the same thing. Immediately I felt like running. I'm not afraid of needles, I'm afraid of having blood drawn, or getting/having/or even hearing about surgery. (Just now I wanted to find out the proper name for those phobias, and I gave up in about three seconds because of all the danger words I saw as a result of my search.) I knew I went pale, and I remember walking away from the Doctor with a sheet of paper in my hand for the evil blood people, and I found Curt and we went to the proper floor. Waiting in the lobby was terrifying. I knew that at any moment they could call my name and I wasn't sure if I could stand up without passing out. I'm up in my head a lot and when I start thinking about all of the possibilities.....

Anyhow, my name was called and I shyly stood and admitted I was the chosen one. She told me I looked nervous and I'm sure I told her something very nice about her ability to observe and mention things. I could see the chair through tunnel vision as I made my approach and I felt the urge to vomit. I didn't, and I sat. The mean woman went about her routine like I was some normal customer and I made her aware of my fear. She didn't slow down. "Can't we talk about this?" I pleaded. She was in no mood. Bitch.

She produced an alcohol wipe and rubbed it vigorously against my arm in the bad place that bad people shouldn't touch. That was enough to make me see stars. I couldn't breathe, so I couldn't tell her to stop. Black. Quiet. Safety.


I woke up to being attacked by three women. Two were holding me down and one was stabbing me repeatedly in the lower armpit (I don't know if there's a term for the other side of the elbow). They were saying things  but I couldn't understand them. They may have been taunting me.

Suddenly, all of my senses came flooding back. I could feel the needle leaving as my hearing and sight started to aid my brain again. The nurse said  "It looks like your color is coming back." Thanks

It was over. For the first time in 10 days, something took my mind off of the pain I felt. What a world.

Twenty minutes later the Doc called me in to tell me that all of my blood appeared to be normal. I was literally pissed that I had to go through all of that for nothing. He then told me about the next test we would do. I listened. I remained calm. "What?"

Salmonellosis 2

Even with the pains and unbalanced diet I put myself on as a result of what I didn’t yet know was Salmonella, I decided it was OK to go on a little drinking bender in a remote hunting shack somewhere outside of Lanesboro. As I mentioned at the end of the last post, this shack had no toilet. It was a trailer surrounded by grass, surrounded by taller grass, and eventually dense forest and vegetation. It was winter time but the snow had not yet fallen.  It is beautiful down in southeast Minnesota, and this location was no exception.

For the first few days of the illness, I had been crawling to the bathroom in my apartment 20-30 times per day. As I restricted my food intake, the trips became less frequent. By the sixth or seventh day I was able to venture outside of my apartment without fear of shitting in my pants. Mind you I had not been to see a Doctor yet because I thought whatever I had would simply run its course, which would turn out to be true after a $2,000 bill. Anyhow, it was deer hunting season and I had already purchased my license so I was going to go.

We got to the shack and proceeded to drink at our normal pace which was quite heavy. Definitely beer, maybe Jägermeister, and definitely beer. (It seems to never fail. I’m sitting at Nina’s enjoying a cup of amazing coffee, and the creepiest fucking guy with a cartoon fat face and a terrible cough sits right next to me. He’s wearing more cologne than I own, and his mouth is hanging open. It’s 6:58am and we’re the only two people in here.) I held my poops pretty well that night. When I woke up at 4 to get ready, the urge hit and I stepped outside.

The following is the story of the worst single shit I have ever had in my life. I was wearing coveralls and they needed to come all the way off in order for them to not get covered in feces. It was coming out like right now and that’s when I forgot how to use a zipper. The struggle was real, I felt like I was in one of those horrible Japanese game shows where you try to hold in your mud for as long as possible. It was below zero outside and I was sweating. I was also swearing, mad for being so foolish as to leave myself out in the middle of nowhere without the basic necessities. Finally, the zipper worked and I jumped out of the coveralls and I sat over the top of a giant sideways log. I remember how sharp the frozen bark felt on my bare ass as I tried to find a position in which my poop would hit the ground, and I wouldn’t crush my testicles and pee on my leg. I sat, and I pushed. That was the worst part about the whole sickness. Not so much the terrible cramping, but the feeling of horrible gas bubbles that wouldn’t go away for days. I mean, it always felt like I had to go but I couldn’t, even after I had. I felt a movement. Then, it happened. I heard a pop followed by a muffled, guttural splash of hot jelly hitting frozen dead grass, I did not miss the log. I let out a laugh/sigh of relief, and just sat there. I was so cold, but the thought that I could maybe just push out a little more kept me in that awkward state for a few more minutes. There would be no more poop, and there would be no deer. And most importantly there was no toilet paper. Fuck.

It was the day before Thanksgiving when my friend Curt took me to the hospital in Rochester. I thought I had entered the E.R. at Olmsted Medical Center, but I had actually entered the clinic. I didn’t care. I went up to the receptionist and said, “I think I’m dying.” She looked me over and decided I was serious and called for help. Within minutes I had a Doctor in front of me and we went over the standard questions. I only remember hearing one thing from that whole conversation, "...we will need to take a sample of your blood.” Fuck.

Salmonellosis 1

According to the C.D.C. Salmonella causes one million foodborne illnesses in the United States, with 19,000 hospitalizations and 380 deaths every year. I was part of the one million, but I thought for sure I was a 380. In fact, I did go to the hospital after an eight-day battle with an unknown sickness, but by the time the Doctor called me with a diagnosis a week later, it had run its course.

I had plans to help Sara load hay bales onto a trailer for her horses to eat. I was not allowed to eat the hay, but I did and it didn’t taste very good. That’s not how I contracted the disease. It was far more sinister.

So there was a shit-covered goat, or maybe a lamb, in a pasture. I mean this thing looked like it was dying because it probably was. I thought it looked cute so I decided I should pet it. I like animals, even ones that are covered in feces and some sort of slime. Needless to say, I went about the task without washing my hands, and at some point something entered my mouth, and inevitably my insides. I had no clue what I was in for.

The following morning, I woke up at Sara’s house and I had to run to the toilet. Diarrhea exploded from my backside, and vomit from my front. Either my butt or my mouth was in a trash can or a toilet, I cannot be certain in which order. I would long for the days of diarrhea after that, as I was not able to produce a B.M. for the following ten days.

I was driven home where I had one more day off of work, and I thought I would recover from yet another bout of alcohol poisoning. What I found strange was a pain in my guts that seemed to come and go in waves. Roughly every ten minutes a wave would crash down and I would roll around on the floor in agony. I would then crawl to the bathroom where I would sit on the toilet and produce a teaspoon of transparent gelatinous feces. It didn’t matter how hard I tried, or how long I waited, nothing more would come out. I decided to go on the standard flu diet of ramen and Gatorade. What I didn’t know until recently is that you should try to maintain a normal diet if you have Salmonella because it helps push it through your system. What I was doing was very dangerous, and in the end I lost a lot of weight and became slightly delusional from severe dehydration. This is exactly how people die.

For the first time in my working career, I called into work with the very real excuse of being sick. Day after day I called and gave the same story-- couldn’t walk, I couldn’t poop, and I wanted to die.

There’s another problem I’ve mentioned several hundred times in the course of my writing, I was having some troubles not drinking alcohol. At this stage in my life I relied heavily on beer to get me through my day to day life. My body or maybe my brain noticed the difference immediately and told me I needed to drink soon or I would continue shaking and sweating, I was torn by my need to survive, and my need to sustain. I drank a beer, and it was enough to stop the tremors. 

Somewhere around day three, I informed my friends of my condition and they came over in shifts to help me live. For the most part that just meant sitting and talking to me. Smoking weed helped my appetite but I was still afraid to eat because I was under the impression that I wouldn’t be able to process things and I would have tremendous difficulty passing them. But I still wasn’t willing to go to a Doctor.

This was an important time of year for the friends group of friends. This was hunting season and Thanksgiving, both of which I was sick through. I made an attempt at hunting one morning. The plan was to go to Sara’s family hunting shack to sleep, and get up early to hunt. There was one problem I discovered upon entering that would make things a little difficult for me, there was no toilet…

To be continued.

A.C., Pizza, Murder, and The President

For a little under a week I had a great life. That has all changed as a significant event occurred causing irrevocable damage to my existential being. Things will never be the same unless I make a drastic change, or maybe just a phone call.

Never in my lifetime have I owned a car that had had air conditioning or power windows. Two weeks ago I bought one of those A.C. refill kits, and it actually worked! With the touch of a button I could make my car cold inside. Sadly, after six days, the refrigerant leaked out through a crack in a coolant line somewhere and when I try to refill it again it just hisses out. I even tried some fancy stop-leak stuff, and it failed. I had it all, and it slipped away.

In the grand scheme of things it's not really a big deal. First world problems are a real bummer sometimes, I would know. I hate heat, and I hate sweating, that's why I bought a gym membership- I wanted to run in A.C. But it would have been even better to finish a run and be able to drive home in a cold car. Oh well. There are more important things I could write about.


For instance, I'm sitting at a desk at work right now eating an entire Davanni's pizza. The boss ordered lunch for everybody today, and I chose a medium veggie lovers. Now, I'm also a bacon lover, so I added that. And that brings me to the Orlando incident. I'm not calling it a massacre because too many things come to mind when I think of that word. I'm not playing it down, it was a tragedy. It's pathetic to think how many actions could have been taken by our government or even the perpetrator's wife, to prevent this. It's not the first nor the last mass shooting in this country, and in many countries these things happen daily, we just don't see it on the news because let's face it, Prince, The Kardashians, and I'm sure a shiny new tooth in a rapper's mouth are more entertaining.

I could go on and on but I don't have all of the facts. I'm not entirely sure anybody does, but it seems these days things are reported before any real evidence is gathered. Every news station wants to be the first to report people getting killed, and what terrible thing our Presidential candidates have done or said. I can't stand it.

I haven't read more than a couple headlines or watched a single news-related show in years. I may not be up to date on politics, but I'm a pretty anger-free guy.

Right years ago, through some miracle, my rights had been restored and I was legally able to vote for the first time in my life. I was excited because a certain candidate really caught my attention. He focused on himself and what he could do for our country, and not what the opponent did wrong. Today, I no longer have the right to vote and I couldn't be happier.

So there are a few topics to consider. I sort of jumped all over. I'm at work and I think this is where I am least creative. I'll write something with more substance (abuse) tomorrow.

Saints

These pictures are all out of order. I really need to get a camera. I took these with my phone and I can only upload them from my phone to the blog site, and then I type the post from my computer. I'm not quite up to the level of professional writer yet.

My friend Mason and I decided to go to this game between the Saints and the Sioux City Explorers about a week ago. I had never been to their new stadium and I was looking for a baseball experience with a little more excitement than I had seen in the two previous attempts by the floundering millionaires.

I had seen the lights from the highway several times so I knew where it was. We parked (for $5!) and made the quick walk to the C.H.S. Field. I was astonished at how many people were out and about on such an overcast evening. Energy filled the air, and I could hear the crowd in waves of chattering as we approached our destination. It felt like baseball.

We had our tickets scanned off of Mason's phone and we walked in to find our seats. The view from this picture above is what you can get for under $20, better than a fair price for being so close.

The standard nauseating smells of fried foods and stale beer filled my nostrils, I loved it. We sat down and enjoyed a moment of silence for the Orlando massacre followed by a great performance of our National Anthem. The game got under way and before the first inning was over, I saw our team score more runs than I had seen plated in the two Twins games I had been to, combined. It was quite thrilling.

We decided to walk around after the second inning to see what the place had to offer. The Saints had mounted a 5-0 lead so we didn't pay too much attention to the field. We came upon the olde-style carnival speed-pitch game at which several youths were throwing in the high 50's and low 60's. Surely we were older, stronger, and wiser than them so we paid up two dollars each and I took my place to throw.

I wound up and gave it my all. "33!" Said the man with no friends and a studio apartment in a bad part of town. "...fuck you say!?" Said the young man with a great arm and charming demeanor. Surely he was reading the information incorrectly. I wound up again and let it go and the liar said, "41." And again, "49." Mason did a little better, but we both agreed that we were better than the man suggested. Now confident in our true abilities as Major League pitchers, we moved on.

A view from center field.

I took a picture of her but wasn't bold enough to stop and inquire of her role in the grand scheme of things.

Here's the actual band they had playing instead of the traditional organist. They had a special guest which was pretty cool. I had heard Har Mar Superstar on The Current a few times, and although he was hard to hear, he really had a good voice. He wasn't the only celebrity in attendance, Andrew Zimmern was also in the crowd but I didn't get to see him.

The lights came on, the opposing team had tied it up 5-5, and we were in the ninth inning. It was just before ten when I said we should probably get going to get home by our curfew. We stopped by the exit to see if anything important would happen. We got to see the manager get ejected for reasons unknown, then turned and walked away.

We made it about 50 feet away from the stadium when we heard the crowd erupt in cheers. The very next batter hit a walk-off home run, and we missed it by about two minutes. We made it home by 10:20 which means we could have stayed a little longer. But it's better to be safe than sorry when it comes to the possibility of going back to prison.

Honorable mention: This is Sister Rosalind. She's been giving free hugs and backrubs for  I think, over 20 years at every home game. I asked if she could take a picture with me and she agreed.

It was a fun night. There were a few moments where I wished I was just a normal fella and could have some local beer, but those moments passed. It'll be really nice to be off ISR so I can enjoy a little more time out and about, enjoying what the city has to offer.

Unmanageable

During more than one phase of my life I was utterly unable to take care of myself in the most basic of fashions. I’ve written about to them to some extent, but one phase in particular keeps coming back to me so I thought I’d try to write it out.

There is a great deal of desperation involved in trying to maintain some form of dignity when you’re essentially homeless. In this case I wasn’t living on the streets, but with friends in a small trailer home in Lanesboro. I had lost my job as lead cook at the Pedal Pusher Café for stealing and I was not capable of getting out of the town to get another job, so I stayed put.

My two friends, I’ll call them Dan and Luisa, had recently moved in together and would eventually be married and start a family of their own. Living with them was my only and last resort.

I had very little to move because everything I owned was either torn to shreds or didn’t exist. I was able to fit all of my belongings as a 30+ year old man into an eight by eight room with plenty to spare. I had a television, a bed, a bag of dog food for Willie, and some rags that would serve as clothing.

For years I had spent every dime I had on cigarettes, pull tabs, alcohol, and weed. I shit you not, that was it. So my assortment of clothing was minimalist at best. The clothes I wore when I moved in would serve as my outfit for months. It consisted of a pair of black chef pants that had the front crotch ripped out as a result of a super-glue prank. A pair of boxers that had the ass end chewed out by my dog. I wore the boxers backwards so there was some coverage over all of my parts. The shirt I don’t recall, but if I had to guess I’d say it wasn’t brand new. And the socks-- I think the best way to describe the socks is to bring to attention those gloves Michael Jackson wore. My toes would stick out as well as my heels. Luckily, I had stolen a set of coveralls from the boss at the job I was fired from, so I was able to cover it all up when I went out. For months I wore this uniform and it never saw the inside of a washing machine. It was pathetic.

I did go out nearly every day. Not to look for work, but to the public house. I found out that people in the bar early mornings are generally lonely, and would offer to buy me a few drinks. Most days I would leave as soon as I heard the roommate get up for work, and make the miserable journey past my old job to the Pub just down the street. I would sit down at the rail and ask the bartender/owner for water, and I would wait. It must have looked pathetic. I never had a dime when I went in but nearly every time I was able to leave with some level of buzz. All of my habits were supported through this informal version of begging.

Looking back, I know there was little I could have done about getting a job in that town during that phase of my alcoholism. But I found a way to do less than little.  I had really dug a deep hole stealing from a reputable business in a small town-- word got out quick. I dug myself even deeper by not owning up to what I had done, and making no effort whatever in searching for any available work. And I took advantage of friends who were hardworking, and for some reason still willing to put up with me living with them even through all of this. I am grateful for them always.

Clearly, that man has long since changed. I’ve been through some pretty rough patches even after those cold few winter months’ years ago in Lanesboro, but nothing ever quite like it.