Laughter Is the Best Medicine–Especially When You’re The Doctor

Posted on February 25, 2014 by Mellie Justad

  As I sit here popping horse-pill-sized antibiotics during my weeklong battle with “the crud” while playing nurse to both my hubby and sick dog it was no wonder that I almost swallowed the wrong pills. Crap. That was close. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody in this house had ingested doggie meds.

“Keflex? I’ve taken these before. Does this mean if I got sick, I could take these?” I asked the vet jokingly some years ago as I stared at Stella’s antibiotic.”

After a long pause the vet, clearly thinking I was bonkers, replied raising an eyebrow, “It won’t hurt you, but I don’t recommend it.”

 Hubby would later regret my having had that conversation.

  It was the height of cold and flu season and we were all sick and taking antibiotics, including Stella though unlike her we hadn’t sniffed something funky at the corner fire hydrant. After a week I improved and so did our son, Jack. Stella was switched from her human Keflex to a doggie antihistamine and finally rallied. But the slower recovering, ever-pitiful hubby was convinced that what he had was no ordinary flu, but a deadly case of Anthrax. Or as his mama, who was visiting referred to it, Amtraks. You know, as in the train. One of her many mispronunciation that I fondly refered to as Loretta-isms.

          “Are you sure you have Amtraks?”she asked, clearly concerned for dying son. “You don’t look very well,” she said to Todd as he slumped at her words.

“Loretta, it’s Anthrax, not Amtraks. Amtraks is the train not the virus. Besides, it’s only the flu you know. Todd, you’re fine.  Why don’t you just go back to the doctor if you’re so worried?” I asked.

   “Cause I don’t want to find out at age forty that I have Anthrax,” he could barely say the word.

     Oh, please.</i>

     “We still have some medicine in the house. I suggest you start taking them before it’s too late,” I laughed,purposely neglecting to mention that they were Stella’s pills.

     Forty–eight hours later and no improvement, Todd began to freak out, “I need Cipro, that’s the only thing that will save me!”

      Personally I thought he’d done better with a candy bar and a Thorazine drip,but once a man begins the process of dying, God forbid you try to stop him. It was true the Anthrax scare was all over the news with panicked people stockpiling the antibiotic Cipro to a point of mass hysteria.

     “Just because that guy at the National Enquirer down the street got Anthrax doesn’t mean you have it. Hell, you’ve been wearing those rubber gloves and surgical mask Mama sent for days. The only reason you didn’t get well was because Stella’s medicine wasn’t strong enough to combat whatever it is you’ve contracted,” I finally blurted, the “canine” cat out of the bag.

     The color drained from his face as if I’d been he’d been administering rat poison to him and for the lack of better words he became well, how should I put it–unglued.

“Dog medicine! You gave me dog medicine! How could you! How am I going to explain to emergency room that I’ve been trying to fight off Anthrax with dog medicine! What’s wrong with you! That will be beyond embarrassment!” he yelled. “What if you’ve given me some kind of weird dog disease from taking that stuff?”

    “Well, as long as you’re not craving dog biscuits and drinking from the toilet, what are you worried about?” I asked logically exhausted from his week long bout of hypochondria.

       I tossed him the pill bottle with Stella’s name and the animal hospital clearly printed on the label, “Why don’t you let the bottle do your talking for you?”

     Much too sick to go to work that morning, he somehow managed to drive himself to the emergency room while he was still vertical.

 Eight hours later, he arrived home with his Cipro in hand.

     “I don’t have Anthrax after all,” he announced, surprised. “It’s the flu.”

  “There’s a shocker,” I said sarcastically. “No distemper? Or kennel cough?”

     “I told the doctor what you did to me and he gave me a big lecture about sharing medicine with Stella. I’ve never been so embarrassed! I think he even wrote it down in my permanent file. Any way he gave me the Cipro like I wanted. Just to be sure.”

“I’m sure that’s all he wrote,” I giggled as I heard the train whistle in the distance.

Ah, yes there’s nothing like being “sure” when you’re the doctor.

Posted in MEDICAL, Mid life, PROCTOLOGIST, southern, SURGERY, women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

What Was I Thinking?

Posted on February 19, 2014 by Mellie Justad

                                          “What Was I thinking?

 

     Having just celebrated Valentine’s Day with my wonderful hubby of twenty years I can only think how lucky I am, but that’s not to say that I haven’t kissed more than a few frogs along the way. One amphibian in particular comes to mind. Delmer. Discount Delmer. I met him years ago in the free buffet line at happy hour in Savannah. I would soon discover Delmer had a black belt in buffet, something he pointed out repeatedly during the evening.

     “Love these tacos,” he announced. “Especially when they’re free,” he laughed, helping his plate with eight more.

     He was an accountant which is why he was fascinated with saving his money– all of his money. During our official “courtship phase” he romanced me every weekend with expensive champagne getaways which at the time didn’t involve a twist-off cap. He was a shrewd one keeping his cost-cutting in the closet. By the time I finally woke up and smelled the coffee I had traded in my fancy room service and four-star hotel for a picnic table and a smelly tent. As much as I tried to convert him to his original self, I concluded once a man like Delmer goes “$5.00 a night for a tent and electrical hook-up”—he’s never going back.

    We dined in the nicest “fast” food restaurants in town. And sometimes we ate out, as in out of his mama’s refrigerator.

     “What’s this?”  I asked, sniffing the unrecognizable contents.

    “If it’s not fuzzy put it on your plate,”  she’d laugh as I stood hoping my tetanus shot would protect me from ptomaines poisoning.

     “The more money we save, the more I’ll spend on you later,” he’d preach.

     I wasn’t so sure, but several weeks later that promise came to fruition—at least in Delmer’s mind. When he made his “big” announcement I was caught completely off guard—a romantic weekend that he assured didn’t require a sleeping bag or can opener. I was in shock naturally.

     That night we went to the lake for a sort of pre-celebratory cook-out.

     “These burgers will be so tasty,” he gushed as if he was cooking ground filet mignon. “Wasn’t it sweet of Mama to thaw this meat for us?”         

       Twenty frozen venison patties. From six years ago. Hmm. Evelyn’s garbage man was not only a big game hunter, but generous as well. Of course, regardless of the taste Delmer would have declared them “food critic fabulous” just because they were free.

      Proclaiming himself the great outdoorsman, he squirted the lighter fluid and lit the match, but when the flames shot up ten-feet taking his eyebrows off in the process I knew something was amiss. Good thing for him, he’d also managed to singe the hairs in his nose. Unlike me, he couldn’t smell the high-octane, infused burgers. Yes, he’d thought of everything, including the price of gasoline versus lighter fluid.

     “Aren’t they delicious?” he bragged helping himself to another one while I spat mine into the fire, gagging.

     What he was going to do with the remaining burgers was beyond me, but as I excitedly hopped into the car the next morning for our big weekend, he could hardly wait to show me the surprise that waited in the cooler. You guessed it. Seventeen hard “Bambi Burgers” that he served up iced cold for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I starved for the first two days, but finally gave in and ate one of those gourmet gasoline burgers. Consequently I spent the rest of the trip with my head in a bucket.

     Two weeks later Christmas rolled around and against my better judgment I took him home to meet the folks. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I was praying for a Christmas miracle. Or maybe it was because my sister was coming with her new boyfriend and I didn’t want to be without a date at Christmas. Either way it was a b-i-g mistake beginning with Mama’s gift from Delmer. What does one say exactly, after opening a box of sanitary napkins from a man you’ve just met? Mama who is never at a loss for words suddenly– was.

      “My Maw-Maw didn’t get to use these before she died. Incontinence you know. No use throwing them away. They’re good quality,” he purred as smooth as a used car salesman.”Besides, I’m sure sooner or later you’ll need them,” he said, as if he’d presented her with a box of imported chocolates.

      Mama was only in her forties at the time and was fit to be tied at such an insinuation. But when it came time to open my gift I didn’t do much better. Not at all.

     Delmer had outdone himself at the flea market when my presents caught his eye—beginning with the ten-foot stocking that he painstakingly filled with things from the “double discount” table. Because of his great finds, he was able to justify buying twice as much stuff. I looked over at my sister who looked a bit jealous, but that would soon pass.  

     A Christmas cornucopia of crap overflowing from the top, it rivaled the Grinch’s sled and was filled with such goodies that nearly thirty years later I can still remember them in their entirety– a previously opened bottle of suntan oil, several sample bottles of deodorant, three packs of mismatched tube socks with irregulars stamped across them, a dented can of beef stew, various mini bottles of mouthwash, a carton of opened panty shields, and a flimsy pair of red sleazy pajamas. As each surprise was revealed, I became more disgusted. The final straw was Delmer’s most prized purchase–the mint-green, hand-crocheted poodle toilet paper cover with squiggly eyes. It was the only thing I didn’t throw away immediately, placing it on my head during the photo shoot–must have been the shock.

        After the holiday excitement or should I say let-down of gift opening, we sat down for  our traditional, formal Christmas brunch. What a fiasco that was! We came to Mama’s elegant table wearing our fancy Christmas duds, all except Delmer. He arrived in an old pair of plaid Bermuda shorts—hand-me-downs from his eighty year old granddaddy and a pair of equally scruffy bedroom slippers. He completely dispensed with the notion of wearing a shirt claiming that he wanted to be “comfortable.”

     “I have to wear a shirt and tie to work all the time and today I’m officially on vacation,” he proclaimed.

     I dared not look at Daddy whose gaze was burning a hole through me. Afterwards everybody helped clear the table while Delmer made his way to the sofa, pouring through the newspaper for the After Christmas Super Sales. My last glimpse of him was of his snoozing, stretched-out body buried underneath a mountain of mutilated papers, coupon clippers at his side. As for Daddy, he made damn sure I’d not forget him anytime soon as he zoomed in with his camera for Delmer’s final close-up.

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Death of a Wet Suit

Posted on August 24, 2011 by Mellie Justad

        The past couple of years I had inexplicably put on a few pounds refusing to be caught dead in a swim suit. Menopausal Symptom # 13–weight gain. So when my husband suggested that we have his buddy, Steve over with his new girlfriend, Naomi I was grateful it was too cold to have a pool party. Too bad my guests had other ideas. I’m not sure who was more distracted that night, my hubby or Steve when teeny bopper Naomi ripped off her too-tight dress revealing a perfect size zero body, and a set of store-bought silicone boobs carefully stuffed into a skimpy thong bikini. Great.
She proceeded to swim laps across the pool paying no mind to the fact that the water was well below fifty degrees. Steve didn’t seem to notice either and cannon-balled in with the exuberance of a horny teenager before cornering her in the deep end and making out with her like an ad from Hedonism.
My hubby was having his own problems at the grill as he hadn’t seen a body like that in our pool in his entire life—or since–and all but burned up our burgers. I stood appalled at the entire situation in my matronly muu-muu and plotting Hubby’s early demise. The barometer on my internal menopausal meter registered “heat stroke.” In stark contrast to water nymph Naomi, I was a vision to behold fanning myself, my sweaty skin glistening in the moonlight– a sure indication the underwire in my bra was already rusting up. Unable to stand it any longer I plopped to the steps and dangled my feet in the frigid water.  

      “Isn’t the water great?” Naomi bubbled, as she swam up to me, steam coming off my body in the chilly air enveloping us in a thick fog bank. “Wow! How’d you do that? Steve, look at that! It’s like being in a sauna,” she laughed, as if I’d discovered penicillin as she shook her platinum blond head back like a shampoo model.

       I smiled, but the word “bitch” was planted firmly across my silent lips as I prayed she’d get attacked by a shark and they’d both die of Silicon Poisoning. There is a reason hormonal women my age don’t have girl friends that are twenty-ish and thin. Homicide. It always gets in the way.
Naomi turned and giggled her way across the pool turning somersaults along the way to a cheering crowd of two. I’ll get you my pretty and your little thong too. I might not be able to control my internal heater, but I was hell bound and determined to knock off a few pounds.

          “Can’t we heat the pool? It’s the only way I can lose some of this weight,” I complained. “The doctor says swimming would be great for me.”

     “I suppose he’s going to pay for the heater then? Sorry honey, maybe next year.”

     Yeah, sorry. He’d be sorry and on a milk carton by morning if I had my way.    

    “Well, what about Naomi?” he smiled, “She didn’t seem to mind the water.”    

     “I can’t swim in a pool that cold, nobody can!” I shouted.

     “But what about your whole menopause thing? I would think you’d like being in the cold water.”

     “You just don’t get it!” I shouted as I contemplated what his headstone would read.

     Dismissing him I turned to my own devices and took to swimming laps daily in the only other place I had— my four person hot tub. It was a short-lived venture as many problems arose the very first day as I emerged black and blue from bumping up against the sides of the oversized kiddie pool. And there was the entire temperature thing. They don’t call it a hot tub for nothing. Nothing like breaking a sweat in the water. Ick. The real workout came from the constant refilling of my pseudo lap pool. Repeatedly climbing in and out and running back and forth to kitchen with my two gallon tea pitcher I could barely keep up. Once in I displaced more water than Shamu. The water sloshed over the sides causing a tidal wave on the pool deck. That’s when I decided on the wet suit.
I arrived at Sports Authority where it was slim pickins’ to say the least. I naively hoped for something stylish, but was disappointed to find there were no women’s wet suits to be had. There were, however a large assortment men’s ugly, black, inner tube-like wet suits. No fashion statement there. In fact the only choices I was given were Extra Small. Small. And El Grande. It was like being in “Nightmare on Goldilocks Street.” I chose the El Grande, not bothering to try it on and embarrassingly told the sales girl it was for my Viking-–sized husband as she looked at me with the gigantic wet suit slung over my shoulder like a dead seal. This had better do the trick I thought as she rung it up…a whopping $280.00 for a whole lot of hideous.
“Here goes nothing,” I said back home as I eagerly stepped into the humongous rubber suit. 
Wrestling it over my ankles proved an arduous task and suddenly El Grande didn’t seem so Grande after all. Determined to get into it one way or another I yanked it up over my thighs grunting like I was giving birth. It squeaked as it moved along my body. Hunched over, tugging the shoulders over my back I reached down to pull the zipper upwards. I could scarcely breathe sucking in my gut while guiding the zipper over my stomach. Ting. A newly applied red fingernail buckled under the strain and popped off to the floor. I glanced into the mirror. Whoever said black was slimming had never seen anything like this! I continued upwards and that’s when it happened. The crippled zipper came to an abrupt halt stopping just short of my neck, catching on my t-shirt underneath. Crap. I located my only pair of scissors and struggled in vain before they broke in half–no match for the rubber armor that encased me like a Polish sausage. I could see the news caption now…“Boca housewife found dead in her home—stragled by her wet suit. More news at eleven.”
  Realizing I needed help I called my friend Lisa.

     “Well, what’s up,” she asked.

     “Just come over!” I yelled, panicked. “I’m, stuck in my damn wet suit. I already broke my pinking picking shears. Nothing will get through this thing. I’m burning up in here. I can’t breathe and I have to pee!” I ranted to the laughing gal on the other end.

   When she arrived a few minutes later with not only a pair of scissors, but a camera. Laughing hysterically, I had no choice but to say “cheese” as she freed me with what we’d jokingly refer to as the “Jaws of Life—a small pair of hedge clippers.

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