Prep school

I’m not going to lie. I had a fun time coming up with different choices for the title of this post:

My Least Favorite Oscopy

Where The Sun Don’t Shine

Up The Down Staircase

The Long And Winding Road

Landing On Uranus

Aw Chute

Bottoms Up

I chose Prep school because it focuses on what, contrary to what you may think, is absolutely the worst part of the colonoscopy “journey.”

At the urging of my doctor, last week I treated myself to this diagnostic procedure. For you lucky bastards unfamiliar with it, a colonoscopy is a medical procedure where a doctor, usually a gastroenterologist (PRO TIP: never a guy in a van), inserts a long, flexible tube called a colonoscope into the rectum.

Which reminds me of a joke.

The elementary school teacher was taking roll call. “Johnny?” “Here.” “Steven?” “Here.” “Billy?” Nothing. “Billy?” Still nothing. The teacher says, “Does anyone know where Billy is?” Mikey raises his hand and says, “Billy had an accident. He was climbing one of those iron fences with the pointy tops, and he slipped. One of the pointy things went right up his asshole. The teacher said, “Michael, we don’t say asshole, we say rectum.” And Mikey says, “Rectum?! Damn near killed ‘em!”

Never gets old.

Where was I? Oh, right. So anyway, a tiny video camera at the tip of the colonoscope lets the doctor see the inside of the entire colon. And according to the twice-impeached, currently indicted, stable genius orange mango, when applied this way the camera light also cures covid.

So, win-win.

The reason the procedure is done is to check for things—none of which I had—like polyps, abnormal tissue, blockages and causes of rectal bleeding, chronic diarrhea and other intestinal problems.

In specialized GOP colonoscopies they also look for brains, hidden documents and Lindsey Graham.

Now for the prep part of our show. Two days before the procedure, I had to go on a soft diet. Then the day before, I was on a liquid diet. On Colonoscopy Eve, I celebrated in the traditional way by drinking eight ounces of a powerful laxative mixed with Gatorade every fifteen minutes until I'd had a total of forty-eight ounces.

Then, there was nothing to do but have a seat in the library and wait for the show to start.

The next morning the wife drove me to the surgical center to check in at 8:30 for a 9:15 reservation. I was done and on my way home by 10:45, still in my propofol haze and craving In-N-Out.

While it's not the most pleasant way to spend a morning, I file it under things could've been a lot worse. So now you know more about me than you probably wanted to, but at least you'll know what to expect should you ever have to roll on your left side and count backwards from a hundred. I mean for medical reasons.

That's it. And of course, there's only one way to wrap up this post.

The end.

Streaming service

Trust me, this isn’t one you’ll want to watch.

If you take a quick cruise through any tech store or online site, there are a plethora of consumer-ready technologies designed to make life more convenient and productive. And all of it is produced with the best intentions. But like me trying to do home repairs, some things are best left to the professionals.

Case in point is this little device that would never have been invented had there not been an anxious world and grateful nation clamoring for it. The U-Scan. It's a miniaturized health lab that attaches to your toilet bowl and collects urine for home urine screening.

So how do you know if urine need of it?

Well if you’d prefer to be spared the indignity of peeing in a cup at your doctor’s office—something I personally always enjoy for both target practice and hand-eye coordination—you’ll probably be one of the first in line for this smart device. Of course as I write this I have to ask myself how smart it can really be sitting in a toilet all day.

But then I freelanced at Jordan McGrath so who am I to judge.

The U-Scan can run a variety of different test results and analysis for things like specific gravity (as opposed to unspecified gravity), PH, vitamin C and keytone levels. It also provides ideal hydration levels and protein-vegetable balance.

Although I imagine if you’ve had asparagus lately the results are going to be wildly skewed.

The point is I like showing off things I can do remotely with my smartphone like turning on the lights, setting my alarm system, starting my car, switching on the DVR remotely. But do I really need it to show me how my pee is doing on any given day? No. No I do not.

Anyway if you have an inkling, or in this case a tinkling, that this is going to be something you just have to have, urine luck. The U-Scan will be on sale in the US soon pending FDA approval.

And don't worry if some people feel they have to judge and shame you for it.

You can always just tell them to piss off.

Hospital sushi

When my daughter was out here last month on her Christmas break from school in Iowa (don't get me started), she didn't do a lot of the usual things you'd expect students on break to do.

She didn't go to movies every night.

She didn't party with her friends at every chance.

She didn't go with her BFF's to Disneyland and stay until closing time, or until (SPOILER ALERT) Mickey and the other cast members take their heads off, hang up the costumes and head out to their second job. I'm sorry you had to hear it this way.

She didn't do any of that. Instead, she had her tonsils out.

Now, of course she could've had them taken out by someone in Iowa. But before you accuse me of being an overly protective, elitist west coast dad who thinks Iowa doctors—as educated, experienced, compassionate and stellar though they may be—just aren't good enough for his daughter, allow me to do it for you. You're absolutely right. (Full disclosure: it was an Iowa ENT who looked down her throat and said, "Oh yeah, it's your tonsils. They have to come out.")

So six days after she got home, her mom and I were in the Outpatient Surgery Center waiting room at Long Beach Memorial, biding our time until she came out of recovery. I'd like to mention her surgery was performed by our ENT, who also happens to have been Chairman of the Division of Head and Neck Surgery at Long Beach Memorial from 2008-2013, and is currently Chairman of the Department of Surgery at Long Beach Memorial and oversees all surgical divisions at the medical center.

I'm just sayin'.

Anyway, somewhere just shy of the halfway mark of the 8 hours we spent there, the wife and I were feeling a bit famished. But we weren't about to leave the premises in case the doctor wanted to talk to us, or they needed me to scrub in on an emergency surgery (I didn't go to medical school, but I did see 8 seasons of Grey's Anatomy).

So I made a run downstairs to the basement where the hospital cafeteria is, along with the morgue. Coincidence? I think not.

It was pretty much like every institutional cafeteria you've ever seen. But what caught my eye was the pre-packaged sushi. As you might know by now, sushi's one of my favorite credit card torching, bank account-draining meals. However the idea of hospital sushi was only slightly more appealing than gas station or car wash sushi. The good news was if it made me sick, I wouldn't have far to go for help.

I decided to go for it, but to also hedge my intestinal bet by buying a chicken salad sandwich along with it. As I think back on it now,I should have probably given more thought to the age of all that mayonnaise in the chicken salad.

When I got back to to the surgery center waiting room and started eating, I was spotted on a security camera, and the lunch police nurse was in front of me in a nanosecond letting me know there was no eating there as a courtesy to patients who weren't allowed to eat at least 12 hours before their surgeries. Like that was my fault.

But since my daughter was under the knife, er, laser, I didn't want to rock the boat. I decided to obey their rule. And by obey, I mean break it.

Since it was late in the day when I got back with the food, the only people in the waiting room were families of patients who'd already gone in. There was no one left for my eating to offend. I was still scared of Nurse Ratched, who was now sitting at her desk. So being the brave rule breaker I am, I put the sushi container in my wife's purse and snuck bites out of it when she wasn't looking.

Driving home after her surgery, my daughter wanted to stop at In-N-Out for a milkshake, one of the few things she was allowed to have for the next couple of weeks.

If I'd known we were going to do that, I definitely would've thrown the sushi back.

She screams for ice cream

Before I get to the post that answers the question, "Why is there a picture of vanilla ice cream on here?" I should probably address the other burning question you have: "It's been 4 months since his last post. What the hell happened?"

I'll tell you what happened - I didn't feel like doing it. There it is. I know, you're about to remind me of the many posts I put up about how I was going to be more consistent and productive in my postings. How I was going to match, if not beat, Roundseventeen.com post for post. Whatever. I get tired just thinking about it.

The truth of the matter is every time I'd sit down to write a post, all I wanted to talk about was that festering piece of shit in the White House. The unstable genius. The traitor-in-chief. But I figured there were so many smart, incisive, critical, analytical and factual articles and opinions being written about him - and not by the fake news - that I didn't really need to chime in.

So what's gotten me off my big fat bahookie and propelled me back to the keyboard and pictures of vanilla ice cream? My daughter is having her tonsils out tomorrow.

First off all, I think you all need to thank me for the fact you're looking at a picture of ice cream. At first I went to the Google and searched tonsilectomy - I don't recommend it.

My girl is home on Christmas break from college in Iowa (don't get me started). And we just thought what's more fun over Christmas break than having throat surgery, amirite?

Her tonsils have been inflamed for awhile and making her sick at school in Iowa, but her mother and I wanted her to have the procedure done by our ENT surgeon here. Someone we know. Someone we trust. Someone who doesn't use corn-based anesthesia.

So starting tomorrow afternoon, her diet for the next couple of weeks will consist primarily of ice cream, yogurt, chicken broth, ice cream, applesauce, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes and more ice cream.

The good news is I'm not working for the next couple weeks, so I'll be able to lavish attention on my girl, and nurse her back to health while she's recovering from the surgery.

The bad news is since I'll be home, it means less ice cream for her.

Going bananas

I broke a girl's heart today. Actually, more like shattered her world. I didn't take any pride in it. But it's not the first time it's happened and it probably won't be the last.

The why isn't the important part. It's the how. I told her how many calories are in a banana.

It's not something I planned, but somehow the truth always comes out. Especially when you're having casual office talk—as one does—about edible fruit that grows in bunches produced by several kinds of large herbaceous flowering plants in the genus Musa.

Did you know the banana is actually botanically a berry? You're welcome.

Anyway here's the thing: I've started logging all the food I shove into my piehole on an app called My Fitness Pal. The reasons are varied, everything from being tired of my doctors telling me to lose some weight (I get that a lot) to the three pairs of pants I can barely squeeze into looking at me, smiling, and saying, "Tight enough for you fat boy?"

One of the things this app does is break down the nutritional make up of the items on my daily menu. And because I happen to like a little Potassium In My Diet—capped because it was also the title of my first album—bananas are a morning staple.

When I entered it in the app, come to find out a medium sized banana is a 110 calories. I told this to my friend Nicole. Apparently, I've altered her world forever. And not in a good way.

Her thinking, and I have to say I agree, is that if there were any justice in the world bananas would only be around 60 or 70 calories. It's unimaginable they can cross over the century calorie mark. Yet the facts are what they are.

And if we start denying facts, it's a slippery slope (see what I did there?).

Anyway, on the bright side, there are many other ways to consume bananas that are a lot worse for you, calorically speaking. While you're looking at pictures of the high-calorie banana items below, I'll be in the kitchen drinking my eighth glass of water and choking down my third and last Ak Mak cracker for the day.

And swearing like a drunk longshoreman.

Something is afoot

If you know anything about me, you know when it comes to doctors I like to go to the top guy or gal. In fact I'm the person always being asked for recommendations by friends and family.

Note to self: write memo on finder's commission.

Anyway, I have a support system—I’d say life support system but that might give you the wrong idea—of medical professionals that are tops in their fields, and there when and if I need them.

One of them happens to be my podiatrist, Doug Richie. He's seen me through all my foot woes: plantar fasciitis, broken toes, stepping on glass, orthotics, sprained ankles, in-grown toenail, neuropathy. As far as I'm concerned, he's the top guy in podiatry.

And the fact he has a picture in his office with Jerry Seinfeld in no way influences that opinion. “What is it with the little toe? Exactly what is his job?”

Sadly for me and my tootsies, while on his website today I found out he’s retiring at the end of the year. After practicing 37 years (slacker), he’s handing (footing) the practice over to his two associates, who I’m sure are just fine or they wouldn’t be working with him.

But it won't be the same.

I have a relationship with Doug that’s developed over the years. I trust him completely. We have mutual friends, and we actually live in the same neighborhood. In fact occasionally I see him jogging down our street, and I always think the same thing: I hope he’s wearing the proper running shoes.

And speaking of running shoes, Doug holds patents—5 but who's counting—on footwear and ankle braces he's designed and invented. How many patents does your podiatrist have?

I thought so.

So Doug, thank you for everything. I always looked forward to seeing you, and I never minded footing the bill (I know, sorry). Regardless of the circumstances (although I'm not gonna lie: the cortisone shots for the plantar fasciitis weren't my favorite part), I always knew my feet were in good hands. I know you'll still be extremely active, and I wish you nothing but the best in your new season.

When you run past our house, be sure and wave.

Bedside manner. Again

So here's how my night went.

I drove from my place of employment in Huntington Beach up to downtown Los Angeles to meet my great friend Sandy, who I've known forever, at the Water Grill for yet another one of our fabulous dinners we have from time to time.

I had every intention of posting a new article tonight when I got home, but after the day and the drive, like last night, bed is calling. And it's not taking no for an answer.

So I went into the archives, and found this sweet piece I'd written exactly five years ago To. The. Day. I know, right?

Since I've been revisiting older posts this week, I might continue the trend for the rest of the week. We'll see how it goes. In the meantime, I've got my jammies on, flipped the pillow to the cold side, set the T.V. on the sleep timer (still one of the greatest inventions since carpeting and air conditioning) and I'm ready to hit the hay.

Have a swell rest of your night, and please to enjoy this post. Again.

.

Every once in a while - a great while - my faith in humanity is momentarily restored. This is one of those times.

A while ago I had seen this letter from an emergency room doctor to a man who's wife he'd treated. Sadly she later passed away, but she'd left such an impression that this doctor felt compelled to write his first letter ever to a family member. What strikes me is the time he took to write this letter, which is clearly carefully and deliberately worded, was probably longer than he gets to spend with most of his patients.

In an age of cost cutting, managed care, debates by monkeys in congress over healthcare and the traditional distance doctors keep from the personal lives of their patients, this letter is nothing short of remarkable.

I never want myself or any member of my family to have need of an ER doctor. But if it's unavoidable, I hope they get someone as compassionate as this.

Brace yourself

Way back in January, I was taking my son somewhere. I don't remember exactly where, but knowing him it was probably a movie, a panel discussion about a movie or to meet friends so they could go see a movie.

Anyway, I forgot something in the house, so I bounded up the four brick steps on our walkway, then caught my foot on the top step and went down faster than a My Big Fat Greek Wedding sequel.

I hurt my left wrist pretty bad and thought I'd broken it. So I went to our local urgent care and, after an X-ray and exam, learned it was just a severe sprain. They wrapped it up in a wrist brace, gave me some Advil and said to take it easy.

I didn't really think much more of that visit until I got the bill for it. The charge for the X-rays and exam were fine. It was the charge for the wrist brace that caught my eye: $307.55. Here's the funny part: this Urgent Care facility is next door - literally twenty feet - from a CVS drug store, which happens to carry the exact same wrist brace for $28.79.

This aggression will not stand man.

I called the billing department and talked to Eric. He was very understanding, and saw right away the charge for the brace was excessive. He was going to have a supervisor review it, and meanwhile he was putting my bill on hold. God love you Eric, you made this so easy.

What I found out was apparently Eric was a little lax on follow through.

Weeks later, I received another bill with the exact same charge. So I called again and spoke to Carlos this time. Clearly Carlos was a man of action. Unfortunately, it was the exact same action as Eric, which was no action at all.

Long story short, I spoke with Carlos a second time when I received yet another bill, and Aida when I received a collection letter. All of them told me, repeatedly, my bill would be on hold while the amount was being disputed.

I called one more time, and got my old pal Eric again. Eric and I go way back. He was shocked, shocked I tell you, to learn this matter hadn't been resolved. So he put me on hold, then put me on with his supervisor, Bob.

It was evident to me Bob the supervisor was suffering from a medical condition called full of shit.

The symptoms are fairly easy to diagnose, even for a layman.

Blatant lies like "that's what we pay for the wrist brace" and "we've already put it in the system, we can't reverse it" that are easy to shoot down. Unwilling to confront and accept facts, like when I told Bob he actually could reverse it and there was no way it cost that much. He then apparently had a psychotic break, telling me urgent care doctors never refer patients to CVS to get medical equipment, despite the fact I informed him I'd been directed there many times to pick up a bandage, gauze or some kind of ointment (never a fan of that word).

At the end of the conversation, Bob's condition must've flared up. He said he couldn't do anything, and I told him no, he was choosing not to do anything (my therapy dollars at work). Without any investigation of his own, he replied that yes, he wasn't going to do anything.

Clearly, Bob wasn't familiar with Jeff letters.

Moments after hanging up with Bob, I sat down and wrote the CEO of the hospital system that runs the urgent care. I explained the situation, why it was unacceptable, attached pictures of the proximity of the CVS to the urgent care center as well as copies of the numerous bills and the collection letter.

Bob didn't know it, but he'd messed with the wrong cowboy.

Within 24 hours, I received a call from the VP Director of Patient Billing. She was apologizing up and down the place for my experience with her department. Of course the charge was excessive, and she was removing it from the bill leaving a balance of zero. Then, icing on the cake, she informed me she'd already spoken with Bob, Eric, Carlos and Aida about how they could've better handled my situation.

I imagine Bob's medical condition resolved itself right through his pants when he heard she was calling.

She also asked if I'd be willing to come in and talk to her department - including the people I'd spoken to - and give a talk about the experience from a patient point of view, and make suggestions how it could be improved.

God knows, I love playing a big room, so I told her I'd be happy to.

The moral of my story is next time you get an outrageous bill, medical or otherwise, don't just whip out the check book and gripe about it. Write a letter - to the person at the top - and ask them to do something about it. You have nothing to lose. More often than not, in my experience, they'll take some sort of action to resolve the issue.

And if you wind up talking to Bob, say hi for me.

My left foot

If you saw the title of this post and were hoping for a nice, insightful piece about the Daniel Day Lewis movie of the same name, I'm sorry to disappoint you. But if you've been following this blog for any amount of time, you already know that disappointment rides shotgun.

Yesterday I posted about my eyes, today it's about my foot. Who knows what body part it'll be tomorrow, although this is a family blog so don't get your hopes up.

For the last few days I've had a stabbing pain in the bottom of my left heel. Last night it was unbearable, and I couldn't even make the short walk from the bedroom to the refrigerator, a well-worn path I usually traverse several times a night (WIFE: "Where'd all the leftover ham, caramel swirl ice cream and chocolate Easter eggs go?" ME: "Don't look at me, I was asleep.")

I made a call and managed to get into see my podiatrist this morning. After he took a look at the x-ray you see here, he said two things. First, if you look just below my heel, there's a small shadowy area where the beginning of a bone spur is forming. I asked if I could put that on my resume, but he didn't think it was funny either. The other thing he said was I had Plantar Fasciitis, a tightening of the thin ligament connecting the heel to the toes and forming the arch of my foot.

I figured. I'd had it once before years ago in my right foot. That time, he prescribed stretching, a little physical therapy and some more stretching. After a couple weeks when none of that worked, he gave me a shot of cortisone in the foot and poof! - it was all better the next day.

Cortisone is a synthetic version of a powerful steroid the body produces naturally. But the catch is you can only have two or three shots a year, otherwise it's no bueno and can actually do damage.

Anyway, today, he paused thoughtfully for a second and said, "You know, we went through all that stuff last time. Let's just go straight to a shot of cortisone and knock this out." Exactly what I was hoping he'd say.

First a shot of novocaine, then the cortisone. That was this morning. Tonight, my heel is virtually pain-free, the Riverdance audition is back on and the refrigerator is waiting.

When it comes to complaining, I don't do a lot of it. No one wants to hear it, and it doesn't make the problem any better. But here's the thing: having the double whammy of being Jewish and an only child, I've honed my skills for complaining about my aches and pains better than most.

Truth is, I can go toe to toe with the best of them.

The eyes have it

I've posted before here about my annual eye exam to make sure my retina isn't detaching. Which I'm happy to report it isn't. My eye doctor is the guy, the premiere retina and vitreous tissue specialist in the country. And I love seeing him (no pun intended) every year. He's incredibly reassuring, and just generally awesome.

In between my annual retina check ups, I visit my also stellar optometrist at least once or twice a year, because my vision changes so quickly. In fact it's gotten worse since you started reading this post.

The bad news is my eyes are unusually sensitive, not to mention piercing: like looking into a deep, brown, knowing ocean and seeing answers to questions you've always been too fearful to ask, yet knowing the essence of your soul has been seen and reflected back at you.

Where was I? Oh yeah. What I'm saying is even a one degree change in my prescription, and it's new glasses all around.

My favorite part of the exam is the phoropter. It's the refraction measuring machine in the picture up on top that, when placed in front of your eyes, makes you look like you're going to a masquerade party. Or you're a borg.

While you have it on, the doctor keeps changing out lenses and asking "which is better, one or two?" Changes them again. "Better yet?" And again. "How about now?"

I think it'd be great if there were also a phoropter for other life decisions. Spouses, homes, cars, kids, dogs. Something that would give you a picture of what you're getting, and the chance to make it even better.

Of course, not everyone answers the "which is better?" question the right way. Sometimes it's hard to see the difference no matter how long you stare at it. But by then it's too late, your choice has been made.

Which is also the exact moment you realize hindsight is 20/20.

I'm screwed

I have a fairly sizable scar on my right forearm. When people see it, they always ask what happened. And every time, depending on the mood I'm in, they get a different story.

Sometimes it's the one where I was scuba diving off Catalina and a baby shark bit my arm. Other times, it's the guy who pulled a knife on me so I shot him. Rarely is it what really happened: a bad auto accident.

Decades ago, a guy in a Monte Carlo decided to run a red light just as I was going through the intersection at Crescent Heights and San Vicente (for you Angelenos). I was driving an orange '71 Super Beetle. He t-boned me, and because I wasn't wearing a seat belt (which the police said probably saved my life) I flew out of the car, wound up sanding the asphalt with my face and breaking my right radius in three places.

I know, stay out of those places.

And unlike the kind I'm used to making from jobs and relationships, it wasn't a clean break. So in order to set it properly, they had to put in the steel plate you see here.

Now when I think of medical equipment, I think of hi-tech, thin, durable composite whammy-jammy that can stay in my body unnoticed for eternity. What I don't think of is a door hinge with five screws in it.

There were some interesting things about it. When I ran my thumb over the scar, I could feel the five screw heads. I used to always set off the metal detectors at the airport. And when the weather would turn damp or cold, my arm would ache like a sonofabitch.

Eventually the arm healed. But then, in a moment of over-confidence and feeling thin, I had to go play volleyball one day with my then girlfriend, now wife, and repeatedly smack my arm until it swelled up three times its size.

That was the minute I decided I was going to have the plate taken out. I wasn't looking for a second surgery, but the arm muscles (yes, I have them) rubbing over the plate and screws all the time was just too irritating.

After the plate was removed, it took about seven months for the five holes from the screws to completely heal.

So it's all good. I have a nice souvenir and a good story. Plus now I can walk down alleys at midnight with my sleeves rolled up and no one bothers me.

It's because of the scar, you know, the one I got when I was sky-diving and my arm caught the door just as I jumped.

The always waiting room

Since my four-month gig working on a Japanese car brand (starts with an M, ends with an A) ended last Friday, I decided to take this short week off and catch up on some things that needed doing.

One of those was running my beautiful daughter to a couple doctor appointments. I always jump at the chance to do it, because my girl is pretty smart and extremely funny, and there are few things I enjoy as much as getting the chance to spend quality time with her whenever I can.

I just didn't know we were going to have that much time together.

Yesterday I took her to the eye doctor. Now, me being me, I don't go to just any doctor. I always look for The Guy. Our eye doctor is one of the top guys in the country, so just getting in is an accomplishment.

Her appointment was for 10:30 a.m. And since I'd rather be an hour early than a minute late, we were there around 10:20. We waited patiently in the waiting area as other people got called in. About 11:00 a.m. they came out and then made the psyche move you've seen so many times in doctors' offices. They called her in, and we thought the appointment was going to happen. But they brought her into a room, where an intern or nurse or assistant or someone gave her a quick vision test, then directed us to wait in another badly decorated waiting room.

At 11:30 I went to the front desk and in my nicest, most charming, impatient voice said we'd been there an hour and did they have an ETA on her seeing the doctor.

She was next in line, and about ten minutes later she finally got in to see The Guy.

Today, she had an appointment at 3 p.m. for a problem she's been having with her wrist. She played volleyball for a few years, and has had a some injuries to her hands and wrist. Her current pain is a souvenir from those days.

Her hand and wrist doctor also happens to be The Guy in his field. Directions they provide include how to get there from LAX, where people from all over the world fly in to see him.

Virtually the exact same thing happened - into another room, an assistant asking some questions, and then made to wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, an hour and ten minutes after the appointed time, he breezed in, said sorry about the wait, and proceeded with his brief exam.

I understand the top people are in demand, and a little waiting is to be expected. But how many bad schedulers can there be in the same city? Color me old fashioned, but isn't the idea of an appointment to get there at a time convenient to you? And doesn't waiting over an hour after that time defeat the purpose of making an appointment in the first place?

Naive I know.

All this waiting does at least give me a chance to use a line I like to use when I ask how long it'll be. I go up to the desk and ask, then I say "I had black hair when we came in here." If you knew me, you'd know how funny that is (hashtag Silver Fox).

Anyway, doctor visits are done for a while now, and what with school and her social life I probably won't get to spend as much quality time with my girl as I'd like. But at least I know she'll still make time to talk with me every day.

"Dad, can I borrow your car?" and "Do you have a twenty?" counts as talking, right?

Remains of the day

Shrink wrapped, pine box, paw print in clay and a Forget Me Not card on top, Max came home today. It's safe to say just not in the way we'd all hoped.

When I went to our vet to pick up Max's remains, there was a lobby full of anxious pet owners waiting to see the doctors. I can only imagine me walking out with a pine box filled with the ashes of a 90 lb. German Shepherd was not a confidence builder.

We're all moving forward, but slowly. His empty crate with the thick mattress pad still sits in the corner of our living room. While it would take about one minute to collapse it and put it away, no one seems quite ready to do it yet. We're still grieving the loss, and I imagine the same will be true with his remains.

We have this nice notion of spreading his ashes around the yard where he loved to play and hang out, saying a few words, shedding a few tears and then moving on. But the truth is not a day goes by where the conversation doesn't turn to Max, and we get a little weepy.

So like disassembling his crate, it's going to take a while for us to work up to the finality of spreading his ashes and saying goodbye for the last time.

Strange as it sounds, it is nice to have him home. And I think Max, being the fun-loving playful guy he always was, would appreciate what I've said to his remains several times since they've been here.

"Max, stay."

Doc me

In case you couldn’t tell from the Christmas decorations that went up at Labor Day, we’re coming into the final stretch of 2015.

Which in my case only means one thing: doctor appointments.

Like a lot of people, my family and I will be making our year end, deductible and co-payment free visits to the doctor. There’s nothing wrong with us—in fact we’re all pretty much the picture of health. But starting midnight on January 1st, our deductible kicks in again, and we’ll be paying our own way until we meet it for the year. And because we’re such perfect physical specimens, that doesn’t happen until we’re at least past the halfway point.

So for the next eight days, it’s off to the podiatrist. The acupuncturist. The pharmacy. The chiropractor. The dentist. The ophthalmologist. The pediatrician. The lab. The specialist.

The holiday season is crazy enough without running around to these appointments. This year I’m asking Santa for morning appointments before 10 a.m.

Anyway, there’s still shopping to do, so I’m going to call it a post.

Maybe I can pick up a new paper exam gown for the wife, and some tongue depressors for the kids.

Stuck with acupuncture

I know people who always turn to alternative medicine as a first resort. They have all sorts of theories why western medicine is out to kill us with all the toxic, synthetic chemicals that go into them. I keep reminding them penicillin is a natural drug made from bread mold, but for some reason they don't appreciate hearing it.

Barring the terminally broken healthcare system - which is another post entirely - I've always been fairly satisfied with my doctors and western medicine.

For example, I'm a big fan of antibiotics. Sign me up. As I've said here before, if I have a sinus infection, the last thing I'm doing is running to Whole Foods' vitamin section to speak with their granola-eating, patchouli-wreaking, vegan-vitamin-nutritarian to see what combination of herbs and homeopathic whammy-jammy I should take. No thanks.

Instead, I'll have my doctor phone in a Z-Pak to CVS, take the first dose when I go to bed and wake up feeling a hundred per cent better.

Drug resistant strains? Over prescribing? Patients abusing them? What. Ever.

I'm not one to wallow in, court or prolong my misery. If there's a pill, ointment, syrup or vaccine that makes it better, I'm in. Having said that, sometimes there just isn't.

I have a little neuropathy in my feet, so occasionally they feel numb and cold. Something to do with the nerves not communicating with the brain. By the way, if you ask people I work with they'll tell you I haven't had any communication with my brain in years.

Anyway, it's usually caused by diabetes, which I don't have. Sometimes it's just another item on the list of fun things to look forward to as we get older. It's not hurting anything, and is really more of an annoyance than anything else. There's nothing to be done about it.

Or is there?

In researching options for those times it does bother me, I came across study after study that said acupuncture is an effective way to greatly reduce or cure neuropathy. So I'm giving it a try. It's done at a wellness practice near where I live. The doctor takes a health history, asks what the problem is and then starts sticking me with needles in my hands and toes.

There are three good things about the needles: they're sterile, one-use only. They're less than the thickness of one hair. And they don't hurt going in or out. In fact during my session, the doctor asks if I can feel the needles, and the answer is always no.

Of course, my feet are numb so I wouldn't feel them anyway, but still, you know what I mean.

My first rodeo with non-traditional medicine was when I started having arthritis in my wrist that was moving up my arm years ago. I went to a rheumatologist, who prescribed this horse pill called Daypro for the pain. I asked how long I'd have to be on it, and he said the rest of my life. No bueno.

Then my trainer at Gold's Gym - I know what you're thinking, "Jeff, you're such a perfect physical specimen why do you need to go to a gym?" - introduced me to Francois, a practitioner of a healing form of shiatsu. Not the massage kind, the kind where he presses his fingers knuckle-deep into pressure points on my back and neck and I scream bloody murder.

Here's the thing: after five sessions, the arthritis was gone and has never come back. Since then, I've reconsidered my position on alternative medicine.

The acupuncturist said she's had great success with neuropathy like mine. I'll report back in a few weeks and let you know.

I know some of you reading this will dismiss acupuncture outright. Others might even make jokes about it. That's fine, doesn't bother me at all.

If I've learned anything from these treatments, it's that I can take a little needling.

The take rate

Stunning picture of the earthrise as seen from the surface of the moon. I thought I'd go with this picture because when I googled the subject I'm actually going to write about, the pictures were, shall we say, less than savory.

So just gaze at the picture and enjoy while I talk about my perforated septum. As I've mentioned before here, I basically have a hole in my nose between airways that needs to get repaired.

When dealing with medical issues of any kind, especially those involving a potential surgery - major or minor - I always make it a point to find "the guy." In this case, "the guy" is the Chief of Surgery at the world-renown, major metropolitan hospital where I live. He's responsible for all the surgeries in all the specialties. And, come to find out, his specialty is Ear Nose and Throat. He was also Chief of Surgery for that particular department for six years.

Let's say confidence is high he can get the job done,

I met with him last Friday, and we discussed how he might go about performing the surgery. One way, and the way I prefer by far, is closed surgery where he just works through the nasal passages with really small instruments and precision to repair the perforation. The other far less preferable way is open surgery, where he makes a small incision in the center of my nose, then pulls it back revealing the septum more fully. It gives him a better view, and more room to move. And it only leaves a small incision when he's done that eventually heals to be unnoticeable.

See why I went with the picture of the earthrise?

Basically he has to graft a material over the hole in my septum. As we spoke about it, he told me he was going to talk to reps about which materials had the best take rate, that is the percentage of times the material is successfully grafted and holds. There's always the chance it won't take, which would just put me back where I started.

Afterwards, I started thinking about different take rates in advertising. Like the take rate of creative directors who don't want to get their fingerprints all over every idea presented to them (low). The take rate of clients buying the work unchanged (low). The take rate of planners not giving some asinine insight they think is brilliant, like "the consumer wants a better experience to engage with and advocate for."

Yeah. That's just what they want (lower than low).

I was also thinking about the take rate for people remembering this post after they read it. My take was I probably shouldn't think about that.

Welcome to the jungle

It's been getting a little steamy in the bedroom lately. And by steamy, I mean moist. And by moist, I mean damp.

Let me explain.

As you'll recall, I've posted lately about my nasal woes and my trips to my ear/nose/throat doctor to remedy them.

One of the directions I was given after he cauterized my nose - besides stop whining - was to keep it moist with saline sprays and antibacterial gels so it would heal properly. He also wanted me to use the device you see here while I'm sleeping.

It's the Family Care Humidifier. It's job is to turn the bedroom into a rain forest.

Simply fill up the tank, flip the switch and in no time a fine mist of warm steam is rising up to the ceiling, eventually making the room twenty degrees warmer than the rest of the house.

Sure, it's good for my nose, but bad for the t-shirts I sleep in (Yes Rich Siegel, they're black). I wake up drenched in sweat, as if I'd been doing an extreme workout. Now that I think about it, for me sweating is an extreme workout.

Anyway, the wife doesn't care much for the tropical climate of the bedroom these days, so she's camping out someplace cooler until my schnozola heals. It's either the living room or an oceanfront suite at Shutters. I'm sound asleep, so I really won't know which until I get the VISA bill.

I think at this point I've said all I want to say about my nose. And I'm certain I've said all you want to hear.

Thanks for putting up with me while I've been venting about all this. I'll make sure my next post doesn't have anything to do with my nose. In other words, it shouldn't be mist.

A little bug

My first question is why does a post-it note need a push pin? These are the things you ponder when you're sick and have too much time to think.

Being sick sucks. I started feeling bad Sunday, with the symptoms getting gradually worse. Runny nose, clammy, aching. Classic signs of a cold/flu-y kind of thing coming on.

I thought the timing was interesting, because I was sick for about a week before my last gig started. And I'm starting a new gig next week. History repeating itself.

Monday was the big surprise morning though. I let loose with a vicious sneeze, so hard in fact that I blew a blood vessel and had a nosebleed that looked like the scene of the crime. Or a Dexter audition.

So that was fun.

In the past, I've had to have my nose cauterized for a vessel that wouldn't stop, so I thought maybe that was happening again. But I got to my Ear/Nose/Throat doctor, and he said it didn't have to be done this time.

I haven't had another one - sneeze or nosebleed - since Monday.

So for the last couple days, and for the next couple, it's me, the humidifier and catching up with whatever's on the DVR. And making a brief, exhausting appearance or two at the kids final concerts before they graduate - one to college, one to next year in high school.

I know you've become accustomed to me wrapping up these posts with a snappy little line. And while I hate to disappoint my five readers, I just don't have it in me today. Sure, I know there's a joke somewhere about "nothing to sneeze at..." but I just don't feel up to looking for it right now.

Back to bed.

I'd like to make a withdrawal

For the past several weeks, I've had a head-dizzying, rib-aching, throat-inflaming, dry hacking cough. I couldn't get two words out without going into a full on coughing attack. In fact I wrote about it here when it first started.

Early on, I was holding onto hope it was strep throat, or some other bacterial infection I could knock out with antibiotics.

I'm a big believer in antibiotics.

I don't pay no never mind to news reports that talk about drug-resistant strains, doctors over prescribing them or patients abusing them. Antibiotics are like buses - if one doesn't work on what I have, there'll be another FDA approved one coming along any minute.

Better living through chemistry. I'm all for it.

Anyway, three doctors, two physician's assistants and one holistic healer later, I had to face the fact that it wasn't bacterial. Instead, they all agreed it was a virus.

Unfortunately they also agreed the only choice I had was to ride it out. They said they were seeing a lot of this, and it usually ran its course in three weeks. All well and good, except in an extremely rare example of overachieving, mine went on for eight weeks.

Beyond the obvious, one of the drawbacks was I went weeks without sleeping. I couldn't get through the night without waking up on the hour coughing up a lung. I finally resigned myself to the fact I was going to be walking through the world in a fugue state, even more than usual, until I got past this thing.

However after several holistic cough medicines, tons of Hall's Cough Drops (if you own stock in them you're welcome) and daily doses of Robitussin DM, one of my doctors finally prescribed this.

Something something Codeine.

Codeine has always been my friend. Besides gradually, gently carrying me off to dreamland, it found the off switch for the cough. It was a blessing to finally get a few hours sleep straight through.

Here's the funny part. I got really, really, really used to it.

So as the cough started to subside, which it thankfully has, I decided a few nights ago to stop taking the codeine cough syrup.

My body no likey.

Since I quit, I sleep about two or three hours, then bolt straight up - wide awake - for the same amount of time before I go back to sleep for a couple hours again.

And since (Breaking Bad) I watch (Breaking Bad) a lot of television (Breaking Bad) about drug dealers and addicts (Breaking Bad), I self-diagnosed what's been happening as codeine withdrawal.

Sure it's in its mildest form. And you'd think that since I grew up on the mean streets of west L.A. - north of Wilshire - I'd have more experience with this. I haven't, and I have to admit it's kind of interesting and scary at the same time.

I don't expect it'll last much longer. I've polished off the bottle, and soon I'll be back to my usual sleep patterns. But it does go to show how something so seemingly harmless can be quite addictive without you even knowing it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go to Starbucks and get my double shot grande espresso, with an extra shot, and get going.

The other hack

I’m not a good patient. Never have been. And the fact that right now I’m on my sixth day of being down with some virus obviously hatched in a deep, dark part of the Brazilian rain forest, Amazon adjacent, isn’t doing anything to make me a better one.

I’m not sure exactly what it is, but this unpleasant little bug has been making me cough my lungs up the entire time. A dry, hacking, rib-breaking cough which can be described, without getting too clinical, as “non-productive.”

This unrelenting cough of course means I’ve had absolutely no sleep to speak of for the last six nights. I have however caught up on some fine 3 a.m. cable offerings, like the original American Werewolf In London, Marathon Man and Godfather 3 (well, two out of three ain’t bad).

This all started with a sore throat last Thursday, went to chills, then to feeling a little warm – it all felt a bit flu-ey. But the main symptom is this incessant coughing that just won’t stop.

This morning I finally went to my doctor, who said they’ve been seeing a lot of this. It’s just a virus going around, and I have no real choice but to ride it out. Here’s the punchline: when I asked how long, he said it’s been running about three weeks.

Now Monday I start a new gig. And as I wrote about here, sick days aren’t one of the benefits a freelancer gets, at least not without watching the bank balance remain in an upright and locked position.

So I’ll just keep resting, drinking fluids and hope that the Vicodin cough syrup that was prescribed knocks me out enough to finally get some sleep tonight.

I’ve had this for six days, and I have six more to get over it before I start work. Not to sound completely mercenary, but all I’m thinking is what any freelancer in my position would be thinking.

With any luck, I’ll get past the cough in time for them to cough up the cash.