Part, the Second

So. There I am, in the back of The Big White Taxi, my blood pressure is 116/68, pulse is 72, mood is grouchy.

The paramedic, bless his heart, has agreed with me that I am not -- as a matter-of-fact -- having a heart attack. He has run another 12-lead using his EKG and has shown me a strip which shows mild ST elevation on just about every lead, and is busily trying to find a vein.

As he is rooting around, he asks, "Don't like hospitals?"

"I had this exact same pain last year. I thought I was having a heart attack, so I had my lady drive me to the ER -- did you know that the ER doctor association at Big City Hospital doesn't accept County insurance? -- spent four hours in the ER, to find out that it was pleurisy, given steroids, anti-biotic, Aleve and a bill that I finally got paid off this past month."

"Ah," he grunts.

"I've got a really good vein in the back of my right hand. Everyone hits it. Pop that cast right off, and you'll be able to see it from orbit."

He gives me Ye Olde Hairy Eyeball and keeps checking my left arm.

"Since then I've had about six or seven flare-ups. Same type of pain, same location, just not nearly as bad. The first time I hied meself over to Big City Urgent Care, waited for four hours and was told I was having esophaegeal spasms, told to take Aleve, and if I had further episodes, that I might need anti-anxiety meds."

I wave my cast at the paramedic, who still seems to have not found a vein to his liking. He starts eyeing it speculatively.

"The second time, I went back to Urgent, got the same answer. And did you know that the labs that Urgent uses don't take County insurance? Yeah, me neither. I also got the distinct impression that even though I don't like pain meds and frequently refuse to take prescribed pain meds, that the folks at Urgent were suspecting me for fishing for an opiate scrip."

My bad luck, the paramedic hits the vein above the cast first try.

"So the next two times, I went over to Bugscuffle Clinic and Tyre. The doc over there diagnosed it -- both times -- as 'chest wall spasms', suggested Ativan the first time, and Xanax the second, along with a gentle noodge to make an appointment to see the travelling psych doc. So. I double-dose on OTC Aleve for three to five days, it gets better, no muss, no fuss."

And we pull up to Big City ER, the first person I see is the charge nurse.

"'Dog," sayeth that worthy, "What the hell?"

"Not a heart attack," I snip, for the umpteenth time, as the paramedic says, "Called to Bugscuffle Clinic and Tyre for AMI." We go through the Standard Report, and next thing I know I'm in an ER cubicle with Charge Nurse and a padawan. Introductions are made, and then Charge Nurse says, "Remember what I said about 'Special Needs' patients?"

Padawan nods her head enthusiastically, "They're iron-assed, bull-headed, and mule-stubborn; too [deleted]ing ornery for their own good, and too [deleted]ing stupid to go to a hospital instead of dying."

"Yes. And this is their king."

"Hey!"

"Given the history, and the presentation, what do you think we have here?"

Padawan frowns at me, "Umm ... pericarditis?"

"Very good. Here's the ECG strip, see the ST ..." The two of them wander off, leaving me to my ownsome until Chris shows up, followed shortly by my lieutenant, AEPilotJim and my lady love.

Long story short, some time later a doctor wanders in, announces that there have "Been changes" to my EKG since the Great Pleurisy Incident of 2011; that a heart attack "Cannot be ruled out" and I'm chucked into a bed in the brand-new Cardiac Care Unit.

Several hours later everyone has gone home, I'm working my way up to "Irritated" from "Peevish" and I open my eyes to find a stranger sitting beside my bed. At midnight. In a hospital. Figuring someone had wandered into the wrong room, I cock an eyebrow at him.

"Oh. Hello," sez he, "I'm your cardiologist."

"I don't have a cardiologist." I reply, somewhat snippily, I admit.

He grins, "You do now."

We size each other up for a moment, and I announce, "I am not having a heart attack."

"Nope," he replies, with a great deal of relish, and more than a touch of confidence, "You are not."

"Great! So I can go home?"

"Charge Nurse called me. We had a long talk, and I'll make a deal with you: You let me do one quick check to verify the pericarditis, and if you feel up to it when I'm done, you can walk out of here with my blessing. Deal?"

I figure, what the heck, nod in assent and my new cardiologist puts the flat of his hand against the left side of my sternum and pushes towards my right shoulder-blade.

The world goes grey, shot through with red flashes. I really, really want to scream, but it hurts too bad to breathe. It feels for all the world that I've just been kicked in the chest by a bus, and the damned thing has parked a tyre on my shoulder blade and is spinning out.

When everything comes back into focus the doc says, "I don't think you've ever had pleurisy. I think you've been fighting pericarditis for the last year. I don't like hospitals either, but you're 45, diabetic, and your heart is pissed-off at you. Spend a night or two here, we'll get you started on colchicine, echo your ticker to see if there's any damage, and send you home. Deal?"

You know, I really couldn't argue with that.

LawDog

Pericarditis, and you

The pericardium is a double-walled sack around your heart. It is slicker than greased weasel snot, and is usually lubricated with a small amount of pericardial fluid. During the normal course of your day, the two membranes and the cardiac muscle slip past each other with nary a care in the world.

Other times ...

Several nights ago -- just before the "Hey, I just broke my hand on a critter" day, matter-of-fact -- I was yanked out of a sound night's sleep by the somewhat unique sensation of getting hammered through my chest to just under my left shoulder blade by what can be best described as an ice-cream head-ache with troll genetics, a lead slapper, and a grudge.

I staggered out of bed, into the bathroom and assessed the situation: There was chest pain, but it didn't have a "heavy" sensation; it got worse if I bent forward, laid on my back, or took a deep breath; I was sweating, but not clammy; and there was a feeling of general pissed-off, rather than fatalism or anything else.

Ergo, I thought to my self, pleurisy. Again.

So, I downed two naproxen sodium and held my breath in the recliner until the pain subsided enough that I could doze back off.

Last April, AEPilotJim was visiting, and we were enjoying something dead and not very burned at a local eatery when this exact same thing happened. At that time, Herself and AEPilotJim rushed me to the ER where it was determined (after one metric butt-ton of very expensive tests) that the sensation I was not enjoying was not a heart-attack, but "probably" pleurisy.

I was given a prescription for steroid horse-pills, non-OTC naproxen sodium, and a anti-biotic; and advised to take a couple of days off.

While the pain did go away, every once in a while since then I've been getting a somewhat-less-agonizing repeat -- each of which has been diagnosed as "chest-wall spasms" or "esophaegeal spasms" or other ailments which seem to be primarily treated by a regular dose of anti-anxiety meds.

Well, bugger that for a lark. I figured the pleurisy had left a weak spot over a lung, and each time I'd take naproxen for a week, it'd get better, and voila!

Fast forward to now. AEPilotJim had arrived in town for a visit a couple of days ago. As is tradition, we went to the same eatery, and the next day at the office I was assigned to work a rather warm control room. About 90 minutes into my shift the nagging pain of my pleurisy episode had increased, but the alarming thing was the fact that it was slowly getting harder to breathe.

I gave myself the rest of the day off, and -- since my lady tends to fret about my health -- I decided I would go by Bugscuffle Clinic & Bait and have them take a picture of my lungs so I could reassure her that I wasn't having pneumonia. Again.

"Hello!" chirped the alarmingly cheerful receptionist. I marshaled my thoughts -- there were so many ways that what I was about to say could go very bad, medically-speaking -- then said, very gently and with all of the confidence I could muster: "Yes. I've a touch of pleurisy. I've had it before. I just need a chest x-ray to make sure nothing dramatic is going on."

Low key, right?

So, I'm led back to a cubicle where a Nurse Practioner is already waiting, and the first question out of his mouth isn't so bad: "Soooo ... pleurisy?"

"Yep," sayeth I, "I've had it --" The next question cuts me off mid-speech, and I know I should have gone on home. "Sooo ... your chest is hurting?"

I look at the eager young eyes, and something in the back of my mind sighs, pulls a Migraine Salute and whispers, "Don't bother. The path from here is preordained", but I try anyway.

"Yes, I have chest pain, but it is positional. It is worse when I lie down or bend over. It gets worse when I breathe in, but exertion does not make it worse. I've had this exact same pain, in the exact same place, before and it was pleurisy," I look at another nurse who is busy pumping on my arm, "Look, my blood pressure is 120/76. I'm willing to bet large amounts of money that my pulse is strong and steady at between 60 to 80. I am NOT having a heart attack."

"You are over forty, past history of diabetes, hypertension and hyperlipidaemia?"

"Yes, but X plus Y plus Z doesn't necessarily equal 'Acute Myocardial Infarc', either. I just need a chest x-ray to make sure I've not got pneumonia and that my lungs are still where they should be, give me some NSAIDs and send me home."

He adopts the soothing tone instilled in nursing school and I know I'm screwed, "I checked your file, and you don't have a baseline EKG in there. That's something we like to maintain, so why don't we go ahead and knock that out while you're here. Okay?"

I figure, what the hell, get the EKG out of the way, only a little bit of extra time, then home, right?

When the tech ran out of the EKG room so fast that her crocs were smoking, EKG strip clenched in one paw, I started to get peevish.

Of course, this was followed by the NP bounding into the room, EKG clenched in one paw like the Six Lost Commandments, and announcing, "You! Are having a heart attack!"

I heroically resisted saying the first thing that came to mind, instead stating -- rather firmly, I admit -- "No. I'm not."

"You are! Right now! Here, swallow this aspirin! Good, slip this under your tongue! Now, see this EKG? This part! You don't understand it, but trust me! This is your heart dying! Denial does not change fact!"

I glare at him, grab me cell-phone and call Chris, "Chris, Bugscuffle Clinic & Bait is saying I'm having a heart attack ..." and then that little voice in the back of my head says, "Oy. Sub-lingual? That's nitro. But my blood pressure was 120/ ... Weasels! Popcorn! Bretty putterflippthbb, ppthhbb, ppthbb*"

I wake up several minutes later, in screaming agony because I'm flat on my back, and the first thing I see are the softball-sized eyes of a good friend in his Bugscuffle PD uniform. Then I notice that the entire room is full of Bugscuffle Volunteer Firemen. And that Nurse Practioner is rubbing two cardioverter paddles together with the sort of beatific look on his face that tells me that I have just made all that schooling, testing, time and money worthwhile.

I roll to one side, then push myself to a sitting position BECAUSE THE PAIN FROM THE PLEURISY IS BLOODY WELL KILLING ME, and snarl, "I am not having a sodding heart attack, so don't even think of coming near me with that ... oh, bugger. You called the ambulance, didn't you?"

Sure enough, wading through the horde of First Responders with a reassuring air of humour and cynicism is a set of paramedics from Big City. One of them kneels next to me, "Hey, sport. How are you doing?"

I look at him, "How do you feel about listening to your patients?"

"Makes my job easier."

"Condescension?"

"Pisses me right off."

"We're going to get along just fine. I have chest pain. It is positional, and gets worse when I take a deep breath, or lay flat on my back. I've had this exact pain, in this exact location before, and it was pleurisy. I am not in denial, and I am NOT having a heart attack."

"Nope. You're not. But your EKG isn't right, either. Let's go ahead and take you into Big City Memorial, let someone with a lot of letters after their name make sure this isn't going to go south on you."

I take a breath and he leans forward, and says, sotto voce, "I broke my Edison cherry a long time ago, and I'm not jonesing for a chance to kink your curlies. Be safer in the Big White Taxi."

"Load me up."

Part 2 to follow.

LawDog

Well bugger.

It seems that I have broken my right hand.

More specifically, it seems that I have broken the fifth metacarpal in my right hand, a/k/a the bone connected to my little finger.

It says something about me that the next question is answered by: "Rabbit punches."

Why, yes, I am a dirty fighter.

Over the years my fighting style has (semi)unconsciously moved from a really vicious and dirty straight-out-of-the-gutter striking discipline to a judo/sambo-based grappling style. While the transition is mostly due to my being inside the jail where knuckle-dragging back-up is always within eye-sight, the officers are the only ones with boots, and everything is under the unblinking eye of cameras (To a camera, a dropping hip-throw looks ever so much kinder than a shovel hook to the liver. The recipient may beg to differ -- landing on a concrete floor with 170-pounds of me using his rib-cage as a cushion seems to engender a sudden belief in the mercy and benevolence of Insert Major Organised Religious Figure Here -- but the recipient's opinion on the matter doesn't count)

[note from Phlegmmy- he's been typing this with his brace off. I told him if he was meant to remove the brace for typing, the folks at the hospital would have told him, "Keep this brace on except when you want to type something." What do YOU think? *exasperation* I say if half the planet can type one-handed, then he can muster, too. I'm told it's quite common on the Intarw3bs.]

I would be remiss, however, if I didn't admit that getting older has no small influence on the shift. Punching and kicking, and the slipping of same, is really a young man's game. A two-hour work-out on the focus-mitts, the heavy bag, and sparring leaves me downing Tylenol like candy and requiring assistance to get out of bed the next morning.

Two hours of judo practice, on the other paw, leaves me with the slight "good" ache that usually goes away before supper.

Unfortunately, in cases of sudden, unplanned dynamic social interaction I tend to default to the gutter and the Glasgow kisses, ear slaps, fish-hooks, gouges, rabbit-punches, knee shots to the groin, elbows into the eye-brow, kidney shots, liver shots, floating rib shots and all the other goodness that is the result of a childhood in the overseas oilfield staffed by multi-national veterans of wars ranging from World in scope down to the nasty little bush wars of the 60's and 70's.

*sigh*

Ah, well. I see the orthopaedist tomorrow. In the mean-time, it's a deuced inconvenience.

LawDog

Beltane

In the Wheel of the Year, May 1 is fairly important.

To some, it is Beltane, when the bonfires should be lit on hilltops to drive away the remnants of Winter, to welcome Summer and to recharge the hearth-fires.

To others, it is Walpurgis Night, a time to have one rollicking party around a bonfire -- dancing, drinking, laughing, doing the other inevitable stuff what happens when you combine drink, dancing, mixed company and a bloody huge fire.

In Finnland and Sweden, they do the same -- only more partying -- and they call their fire-festivals Vappu and Valborg.

May 1 is also a fertility festival, involving picnics, (ahem) Maypoles and the dancing around same (winkwinknudge), general dancing, placing of roses by maidens, choosing and crowning a May Queen, Morris dancing, and for the Catholics out there, the acknowledgement of Mary as the Queen of Heaven and the Mother of God -- usually involving adorning an image of Mary with flowers.

Since most of the homelands of our ancestors celebrate May 1 with fire, flowers, fire, dancing, fire, drinking, fire, badly-camouflaged fertility rites -- and fire -- of course the stodgy, Puritan United States has ...

... Loyalty Day.

*sigh*

Public Law 85-529, found in Title 36, Chapter 1, paragraph 115, penned by the Congress of the United States on July 18, 1958; and signed into law by President Eisenhower who then issued the first proclamation designating May 1, 1959 as the first Loyalty Day*.

Every sitting President since that day -- following the mandate of Public law 85-529 -- has, on each year, proclaimed May 1 to be Loyalty Day.

Personally, I think Loyalty Day should follow in the footsteps of our ancestors and involve fire. A Big Fire. A Big Fire in front of various State and Federal Capitals, and involving the ceremonial burning of effigies. Dancing and flowers mandatory; drinking and partying encouraged; and fertility rites optional.

To my mind I'm thinking that watching papier maiche versions of themselves burned at the stake every year would go a nice way towards reminding various political critters of where their loyalties better damn-well stay.

But that's just me.

LawDog

*We read history books, Gentle Readers, we do not eat them.

Musing

Why is it that Bill Clinton having illicit sex is "Something between consenting adults and no one else's business", but Secret Service agents having legal extra-marital -- last I checked prostitution is quasi-legal in Columbia -- sex is a scandal and everyone's business?

Maybe if the Secret Service agents had lied about it to a Grand Jury, would it have been okay then?

Just asking.

And apparently some military members may have been involved. In parties. Where sex is going on. As a former military member me-own-self this is my shocked face ... let me show you it.

Seriously?! The first three-day pass I received when I signed out at the CQ desk there was a box of preventatives beside the sign-out sheet and I was not allowed to leave the desk until I had put some in my pocket. Is the United States Navy no longer famous -- or infamous, if you prefer -- for shenanigans at various foreign ports?

*sigh*

Granted, stiffing* short-changing** refusing to pay the full negotiated and contracted fee for services rendered is monumentally tacky -- not to mention frankly embarrassing -- on the part of the Secret Service, but I'm not sure that it merits the thundering denunciations by various poli-critters and expostulations of moral outrage by various media figureheads -- at least, not until said poli-critters and media-critters check their own closets for hookers.

I do find it interesting that the solution to this little dust-up -- according to popular and conventional wisdom -- is to hire more female Secret Service agents.

While I applaud the hiring of more female agents (in my opinion, women make better law enforcement officers, you perverts), anyone who thinks that the distaff side of the species isn't capable of just as much debauchery as the male half probably hasn't been anywhere near a Motley Crue tour-bus circa 1987; a college spring-break party; a Girls Gone Wild video, or anywhere else that you can find adrenaline, tequila, and power in more or less equal quantities.

Ah, well.

LawDog

*Oh, I'm going to hell for that one.
**Somebody stop me!

Egad

During dinner at Carmine's in St Louis this weekend, I overheard Squeaky asking someone else at the table about "pink gorillas".

*blink, blink*

It turns out that the lass has never read the Pink Gorilla story.  Well, we must rectify that.

The previous evening, Don admitted to me that he has never read the Ratel Saga.

Ye gods and little fishies.

Sigh.

Ratel 1; Ratel 2; Ratel 3; Ratel 4; Ratel 5; and Ratel 6.

Honestly. Kids these days.

LawDog

All was not roses and kittens

Lest anyone think that the NRA Convention was all roses and kittens, there were a couple of flies in the ointment.

On Saturday, Thirdpower from Days of Our Trailers casually made mention of a planned protest. "Hullo," sez I, "Protest?" Turns out that some anti-gun types had purchased a Permit to Protest for 1300 hours. I trundled out just prior to the designated time: Nada. Nuffin'.

Bloody hippies. No discipline.

On more serious matters I had run into OldNFO in the press room where he was monumentally cheesed off at El Paso Saddlery for fielding a couple of reps whose Give-A-Damn engine was apparently stuck in neutral.

I have an El Paso Saddlery "Street Combat" holster which I am fond of, so as soon as I could I popped over to El Paso Saddlery's booth ...

... where I am sorry to report that OldNFO was correct. I'm going to guess that the NRA Convention was an onerous burden to those folks -- but that's just a guess, since I couldn't get anyone to talk to me.

*sigh*

Oh, well. If El Paso Saddlery doesn't want anyone's business, I'm sure that Mike or Dennis will be happy to pick up the slack.

I had remarked to Herself that the H-S Precision booth was satisfyingly lonely at several times during our perambulations, and after Stingray over at Atomic Nerds sent a request, I scooted over to the H-S Precision territory under full sail with a snark broadside prepped.

To my shock, I found that the booth was full. Overflowing, even. Gobsmacked, I looked around ... and discovered that the FN guys were having a demonstration, and the mass of spectators had overtaken and seized the H-S booth for use by friendly forces.

After catching a look at the faces of the H-S folks, I didn't have the heart to kick them when they were down.

Plus, I couldn't get through the crowd.

Heh.

LawDog

Huh

One of the things that I kept noticing, and that everyone commented upon, was how polite everyone was at the NRA Convention.

As crowded as the convention floor was, it was inevitable that folks were bumping into each other, stepping on toes and spoiling camera shots.

Each interaction of this sort that I witnessed was marked by courtesy on the part of both parties. I was quite refreshing to hear all of the "Yes, sir", "No, Ma'am", "Please", "Thank You" and "You're welcomes" that drifted around the convention Center.

Just out of curiosity, and because the lads and lasses in the service industry have all the good dirt and juicy gossip, I asked some of the behind-the-scenes folks how this convention stacked up compared to others they'd worked.

A janitor, who had worked, "a lot of these things" thought about my question for a moment, then replied, "You know what? Ain't nobody puked in a corner, [deleted] in a bottle and left it in a corner, or done anything else nasty in a corner for me to find. In my book, that's a good one."

Mental note: In future, non-NRA conventions, stay away from the corners.

The America's Centre was crawling in security, both security officers and St. Louis PD. While I couldn't get a SLPD officer to say anything other than a courteous "No comment", I did get one security officer to talk to me -- off the record.

According to this security officer, it's not unusual for tempers to flare at conventions. The officer explained that too many people in a small area, long delays and lines for scheduled events, and just plain "People being people away from home" results in the occasional screaming fit, or drama, and that minor vandalism, intoxication issues and "strangers getting a hook-up in the bathrooms" and building maintenance areas were a constant at conventions.

He then went on to state that -- as of Saturday afternoon -- the NRA Convention had been a "nice, quiet, boring" job. And he seemed fairly happy about it.

The last person I talked to was one of the people who stocked the snacks and drinks in the Media Room. When asked, this person smiled gently and remarked that everyone he had met so far had been, "Happy and laid-back." I remarked that surely there had been a complaint or two, and the response was: "Nah. Too busy talking and laughing."

I would say that I'm surprised, but I'm not.

LawDog

Wow

Robert Heinlein is often quoted as saying, "An armed society is a polite society."

In my experience nowhere has this been as apparent as this convention. Everyone, from the NRA Media staff to 99% of the vendors to the people wandering the aisles, has been as courteous and accomodating as they can be.

Well, for the most part. Several bloggers -- friends both old and new -- have taken over a table in the corner of the Media Room as base camp for our perambulations throughout the convention, and as I sit here, I can look over to the long table occupied by traditional media ... and the disdain of not only the traditional media, but the traditonal gun media, for us lowly, plebian bloggers is palpable.

I'm not sure why. Not sure I care why, to tell the truth.

However, this disdain does not extend to the vendors. There is no readily-accessible second-level OP that would allow me to take a panoramic picture of the convention floor, so I looked around and the Lone Wolf display had a second story that the Lone Wolf folks were using as an office.

So, I wandered up and asked if I could climb up to the top and use it to take a picture. They gave my Media pass a bit of the old hairy eye-ball, until I mentioned that I was "just" a blogger. Next thing I know, I'm given a friendly and cheerful escort to the roof and encouraged to take what pictures I wanted.

To my surprise, this wasn't unusual. I wanted to talk to FN about both their new FN-FNS pistol and the 303P Less-Lethal pistol. When they saw the Media pass, they asked which outlet I was with as they steered me towards their Media/PR expert. When I told them I was a blogger, we stopped, they asked if I was "Going to blog this?" and when I answered yes, I got to talk to the engineers, the manager and the training gentleman.

Wow.

LawDog

Dispatch from St Louis

You know, now that I've been to one, I tend to have to wonder why I haven't been to an NRA convention before.

Of course, there are more guns than I can shake a (brand-new) stick at, but the real draw to this thing is the people-watching.

Are there a bunch of Caucasian people here? Oh, hell yes. There are also a heck of a lot of people who aren't melanin-deficient wandering around.

Men, women, children, walking around, gaping, laughing, chattering, gossiping, having a really good time.

Quote of the moment:

Phlegmmy: I just saw a t-shirt that says, "Don't bring skittles to a gun-fight."

Stunned silence and disbelief around the table, finally broken by AD snarking, "No matter what velocity the unicorn is pooping them at."

*Sigh*

And I've been promised hippies.

Back in a bit.

LawDog

NRA Annual Meeting, here we come!

I can't believe that I'm actually going to willingly stuff myself into a enclosed space with a thousand or so strangers.

I must be losing my mind.

On the other paw -- guns. I'm willing to bet that the exhibited gun collections are going to be awe-inspiring.

And I'll have a press pass. I have no idea what to do with a press pass, or even what it entails, but I imagine that my lady will help me suss it out.

Deep breath.

Good friends will be there, and Phlegmmy assures me that we'll probably make even more friends before the weekend is over.

That will be odd.

Deep breath.

LawDog

postscript: Does anyone else find it a bit incongruous that there's a note at the bottom of the NRA Annual Meeting page that states:

"The city of St Louis prohibits the carrying of firearms at the America's Center Convention Complex".

Not "prohibits the carrying of concealed firearms" or "prohibits the unlawful carrying of firearms". Just: "Carrying Firearms Verboten".

At a meeting of the National Rifle Association. At a convention center named "America's Center Convention Complex".

*sigh*

So far yet to go.

LawDog