Tag Archives: survival

Canned oxygen for sissies

Hi readers.

I finally just said, “To hell with it.”  Ordered something called Oxygen Boost in a can.  60 deep breaths per can.  Even though it doesn’t make a lot of sense, the oxygen-concentrating machine I used when I stayed at Eddie Brewer’s place last year seemed to help a lot.  Several times when I was in the midst of seemingly major events it brought them to an immediate halt.

The past few days around here, maybe because of the Orange Ozone Alert, have me thinking it’s time to give O2 another try, despite the fact the various sawbones haven’t seen fit to prescribe it.  I haven’t been able to exercise for several days, which they did prescribe.

Anyway, if these 60 breath cans of 02 get the job done I’ll be back banging on the door of the VA over in KC Missouri threatening to scream and hold my breath if they can’t bring themselves to prescribe something to fill in during those moments when Mother Earth just isn’t enough.

After all, is it not written, “You veterans are responsible for keeping us free!  You brave guys deserve the absolute best for killing all those brown people who wanted to take away our freedoms!  And while a lot of people can breathe easier because of all the freedoms you protected, if you breathe hard we can afford a bit of oxygen to help you along?”  Ahem.   You believe the bullshit comes out of the mouths of patriots?

Well, I’m truly moved, though I din’t kill any brown people who were trying to take away our freedom.  Got into a few fights with some in bars but nobody got hurt  too badly.  Bastards trying to steal our freedoms.

And I’d breathe more easily if someone over at the VA fixed me up with the freedom to breath when the going gets tough.

Is it not written, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going?”

I ain’t going anywhere without being able to, including all the usual mobility abilities.

Meanwhile there’s canned air at a price that’s probably a bargain considering I don’t drink bottled water.

Besides, the something for nothing  I’m going after is AIR!  What the hell can air cost when you buy it in volume?    Economy of scale.  That sort of thing.

Old Jules

 

Hell, no wonder I can’t freaking breath! Damned hole in the ozone layer plugged up my nostrils.

This is actually good news. I thought something was going wrong with my health.

Old Jules

Funniest video I’ve seen in a while

Hotshot survival prepper shoots his thumb off and calls it a misfire.

That pistol functioned precisely the way pistols are designed to function:  squeeze the trigger and they fire.  With or without your thumb in front of the muzzle.

Thanks http://beasurvivor.blogspot.com/ for a lively laugh.

Old Jules

Strangers in Good Company – Octagenarian chick flick

http://youtu.be/hxrDtnB4VnU

Hi readers.  One hell of a fine movie streaming on Netflix.

Strangers in Good Company 1990PG 100 minutes, Eight elderly women are left stranded in the wilderness with only their wits, their memories and eventually some roasted frogs’ legs to sustain them. More Info, Starring: Alice Diabo, Constance Garneau, Director: Cynthia Scott
 
A nun, a lesbian, a grandmother or three, artist, birdwatcher, farm girl.  They talk about life, death, love, fear, war and death again as they struggle to catch fish, frogs, find sustenance in the wilderness long enough to survive.
 
*****, Five Stars is how I rate this movie, how tickled I am to have overcome my male prejudices against chick flicks and watched it.
 
Jack

The white man’s burden: My lucky goozle

The arrow indicates the crowd pleaser point of interest.  "I can't believe it ain't cancer!' Chorus of GI specialists declares.  "Go back in and biopsy that SOB again!"

The arrow indicates the crowd pleaser point of interest. “I can’t believe it ain’t cancer!’ Chorus of GI specialists declares. “Go back in and biopsy that SOB again!”. It ain’t all because I’m a white guy. White guys, it turns out, are one hell of a lot more prone to cancer of the goozle than non-white guys. And nobody likes to see anyone win in lotteries of this nature. It makes everyone look bad.

Hi readers.  Thanks for coming by for a read.

I just this morning had my third endoscopy in two months.  Not to mention various CAT Scans, etc, and one of those big things involving a donut and a magnet on a rolling human-scale tray.  Jeanne tells me it’s the MRI, which I can’t have anymore because of my electric cow-prod defibrillator.

This week I had a manometry, gastric emptying tests, and fights with the VA hospital concerning whether I ought to be letting them do nothing instead of going to the private physicians and them doing stuff.

In fact I’m bankrupting Medicare with my heartfelt cardiac flaws and my Disneyland esophagus darling of gastroenterologists and Asian male physicians.  They do the snake swallowing a camera routine, take pics and biopsy it.  Look at the pics and say, “Ohshitohdear!”

“It MIGHTN’T be malignant,” they cautiously confide.  “We won’t know for certain until the biopsy results come back.”

Well, the nice Asian GI specialist today came after I regained my cogitude to give me a puzzled frown and tell me it ain’t cancer again this time.  But it’s inflamed as hell, got a grotesque growth about it, and has every right to rear up on its hind legs and be what it damned well wants to be.  Thinks they’d better have another look at it as soon as they can forget it ain’t.

What I haven’t confided to them is the part about Caisse’s herbal tea.  Black burdock, turkey rhubarb, sheep sorrel and slippery elm all boiled together half an hour in stainless steel, left 12 hours, boiled again, strained, and taken in increments of an ounce morning, another nights.

I call it making my own luck.  I’m not evangelical about it, but if anyone ever tells you you’ve got terminal cancer and you might as well go home and tell the heirs who’s getting what, consider remembering it.  Black burdock, turkey rhubarb, sheep sorrel and slippery elm.

My lungs and goozle think it’s death to oncologists.

Old Jules

 

Typical Kansans outside the KC metro area

Hi readers.  A lot of you have been asking me to describe my impression of Kansans from a newcomer, outsider-looking-in perspective.

My general impression is that outside the KC metro area they’re not much different from typical, or average Texans.  Stereotype from the movie Trains, Planes and Automobiles seems to cover it as accurately as you’re likely to find anywhere.

Old Jules

Strategic Air Command HQ, Omaha, Nebraska of insignificance

KC VA Med Ctr

VA Medical Center, Kansas City, MO, 100 acres ofparking lot, 20 acres handicapped parking, 100 active hospital rooms serving a shrinking population of US Military Vets who didn’t make a career of being lifers. Draft-era vets are dying like flies, robbing the macho of facilities such as this one.

VA med ctr elevators

The ‘Valor’ elevators. Yeah, but if you think that’s a bit overkill in the nomenclature department the hallway getting there is ‘Hero Hall’. Goes to prove there’s no limit to the lengths the US Government will go to in order to keep all us gullible burned out has-beens who use the place thinking Vietnam, Korea and other Presidential Wars were places where heroism could manifest itself.

Hi readers.  Thanks for coming by for a read.

I said in my last entry I might post anew if anything different happened and by gollywolly it did.  Different as hell, in fact.  The Strategic Air Command HQ, Omaha, Nebraska of different.

You might recall my state of mind as being a bit tentative during the period just prior to my taking a break.  I had what medico-oriented people might consider sufficient reason to be concerned about ‘suspicious’ whatchallits on my goozle and lungs, considerable intermittent pain, and a ticker that clearly was behaving outside the range of idealistic tickerism.  The Strategic Air Command HQ, Omaha, Nebraska, of lousy ticker behavior this side of croaking.

In short, Texas wasn’t working out as the best place to pursue my options in the less-than-optimum mobility direction following anything coming down the pike involving hospitals.  Two cats were depending on me being around and able to do everything necessary to provide them with sustenance.

Jeanne stepped in and save my life at precisely the right moment in human history to allow that option.  Suggested at a moment when I was able to consider it, me trucking up to Olathe, KS, and checking into the horsepital here through the Emergency Room.  Her taking care of the cats while I was inside.

And agreeing to keep them afterward if I croaked during the process.   An offer I dasn’t refuse.

So I loaded up Hydrox and Tabby, groaned into the RV the day before the worst storm to hit Texas in a number of years, I’m told.  The Strategic Air Command HQ, Omaha, Nebraska, of winter storms.

Drove most of the night and reached the end of my tether in Gainsville, Texas, north of Dallas.  Checked into a motel room to croak.

Jeanne sent her two sons down to interfere with the Grim Reaper by driving me on up to Olathe, KS.  Shortly after arriving I parachuted into the ER of the Olathe Medical Center for a week or so vacation.

Turned out after they’d done a lot of poking and prodding I’d killed off allbut about 15-20% of my heart back when all this whining and complaining I’d been doing started in November.  And my goozle was a thing to behold over in the gastroenterology end of things.  That poor old tube had more ugly mess going on inside it than I’d have dared hope.  But [after swilling a tea of Burdock, Turkey Rhubarb, Sheep Sorrel and Slippery Elm for a month before the Cat-Scan] not malignant.  Nor was the suspicious lung stuff.

Quicker than you could tell it they stuck a magic electric cow-prod under the skin of my chest/shoulder and ran wires from it down into my heart.  It’s there to remind my mildly functioning heart muscle that it needs to keep trucking without any drama if it doesn’t want to get struck by lightning, kicked by a mule, as many times as it takes until it decides to behave itself.

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been sleeping in Jeanne’s recliner, wearing a restraining thing so’s I can’t raise my arm above my head, thus protecting the wire running down into my heart from getting yanked out by the roots.   Another couple of weeks and that shouldn’t be necessary.

The RV’s in Jeanne’s driveway, Tabby’s finding a new home for herself with Jeanne’s daughter, Julia, and her sons, Michael and Andrew, and Hydrox is here with me trying to become a Kansas cat.

I’m figuring I’ll be here a couple more months, at least.  I’m forming a new relationship with the Missouri Veteran Medical Center mainly because I was so impressed with what all they did in Texas to prevent me having to go to a private hospital in Kansas to find out what the hell was going on inside my body.

But hells bells, I’m grateful for all of it.  Been finding a lot of reasons why my life’s going to be a better place as a consequence of not having cancer of the goozle, lung cancer, and having a cow prod in my chest in their stead.

I’m thinking, for one thing, I’ve arrived at a place in life where Hydrox can no longer depend on my services.  When I leave here most likely he’ll be staying behind with Jeanne.

All in allI’m the Strategic Air Command Headquarters, Omaha, Nebraska, of grateful to be alive and feeling as well as I do.  Luckiest man on the planet, any way you cut it.  Don’t try this at home, though.

Old Jules