The last major medical thing I had done in the United States was have surgery on my sinuses. Sinuses are cavities in people’s heads. Mine get infected all of the time. These are their stories.

ALL THOSE YEARS OF BRAZILIAN JIU-JITSU

So without ever figuring out what was wrong with my chest, doctors decided that my sinuses were pretty messed up and that they should fix them instead. I had basically been sick continuously, starting with when I arrived in Korea back two years before, and not a single antibiotic ever seemed to make a difference. As a result, I went under the knife in March, in Portland. Sadly, I have actually had sinus surgery twice before, which means that by the third time around I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. On a nice misery-loves-company note though, at the about the same time I had surgery my friend Johnny had his deviated septum corrected. Once we hung out, post-surgery, while we were both on hydrocodone and in good states of pain. We tried to play some board games, but it did not really work. Johnny’s younger brother, who had not had surgery, killed us. It really was not a contest at all.

Anyway, what I actually had done was six of my sinus openings were enlarged, my turbinates were reduced, and like Johnny, my own deviated septum was straightened. As for the last part, the septum is a structure made of cartilage and bone that basically separates a person’s nostrils from one another. When it is crooked, or deviated, it can be corrected by removing the deformed tissue and bone. The procedure is actually called a “septoplasty,” which sounds odd since the word is similar to “rhinoplasty,” though it does not change the shape of the nose at all. This is a fact, in fact, that I can attest to because I have now had a septoplasty but my crooked nose is still crooked. Also, during a follow-up visit my surgeon warned me that though my septum was now straight, it was also quite weakened. He then recommend that I not take any punches or blows to the face. There goes my mixed martial arts career.

THOUGH WATCHING TOY STORY 3 WAS CLOSE

For the most part all that junk meant having a constant bloody nose for about two weeks and being in a lot of pain for a month. That is not too exciting, although what happened to me directly after surgery was. To backtrack a bit, my friend Annie once asked me when the last time I had cried was. Honestly, I could not think of a time at all. But then, ironically, the next week I got food poisoning so bad that after being on the toilet while at the same time throwing up into a bowl on my lap for hours on end, I broke down. Since then, I have kept track of how often I cry, which has been easy because that was the last time. Until, however, right after I came out of surgery with a bladder full of IV fluid and the total inability to deurinate. As it turns out, the condition is called “neurogenic bladder,” and it can occurs when anesthesia disrupts nerve signals between the bladder and brain. And wow it is horrible.

As I came to in the recovery room I realized I would soon burst. I got to a bathroom as quickly as possible, but I could not go, and I then totally broke down. I came out of the bathroom panicked, crying, and utterly miserable, and then I did something I never thought I would do; I begged for a catheter. Eventually I got one, which began sharply but ended with extreme relief. Then they would not let me leave the hospital until I was able to deurinate on my own, which I eventually did, although it was extremely difficult. Following my exit from the hospital my father and I went to a hotel where I spent the entire rest of the night changing my blood soaked nose dressings, drinking as much water as possible to try and flush the anesthesia out of my system, and spending twenty minutes a pop sitting on the toilet while concentrating as much as possible. It was pretty much as fun as that one food poisoning night.

THE DIFFERENCE A FEW EGGS MAKE

In the end I found that sticking my hand in a bucket of warm water helped a lot; I guess it is not an urban legend after all. The next morning my father and I got home, I settled into the recliner I would sleep in for the next two weeks, and my sister showed up to make fun of me. Example: at two different times she promised to make me a cake, but made me brownies instead. Frustrated, I yelled at her for being incompetent, then I went into the kitchen and made brownies myself. Though I had the excuse of being drugged up, I have no reason why she couldn’t read a box label. And other than that, I really cannot remember anything else from between when I had surgery and when my dose of hydrocodone decreased. I heard I sent out a number of emails, a fact that my outbox confirmed. Looking back through the messages, it seemed my writing consisted of equal parts complaint and gibberish. Thanks for putting up with me, everyone.

CONCLUSION

Interestingly, so far I have not gotten less sinus infections. I can, however, breathe great through both of my nostrils, which I have not been able to do for almost a decade, and, I now can say I have had a catheter. If either of those are anything to brag about, anyway.

PICTURE

Again I forgot to take pictures of the given subject matter, so here is another picture of me feeding our chickens another one of their favorite foods.

INTRODUCTION

When it comes to taking substitute teaching jobs, I am not picky. My mother has a list of schools she will not work in and teachers she will not work for, but I have yet to turn down an offer. The following are some of my more notable subbing experiences. Interestingly, my mother has had few experiences of comparable interest. Being an elitist may be stress free, but it is also boring.  The reason I never turn down jobs is not, however, because I want stories. It is because I like money.

WAY TOO EARLY FOR THAT, I WOULD HOPE

The scariest thing to happen to me while subbing happened in a third grade classroom. We were having free time, which is basically whatever I do whenever a teacher has been too lazy to write me good notes, when a girl and a boy ran up to my desk. They were frantic and they pointed to the portable coat racks in the back of the room, yelled the names of two other students, followed by: “they’re making babies, they’re making babies!” Now baby making is not allowed in Mr. Hunt’s classroom, so I began to walk back to where the students indicated. As I was on my way, a few more students ran up and repeated the “making babies” line. And they were even more frantic. And that is when my entire career of being around students of any age flashed in front of my eyes, a career ruined by extreme minors behaving extremely inappropriately while under my watch. So I took off running, and man, what I found in the back of the room.

Actually, what I found behind the coat racks were two girls who had folded up their coats, wrapped them up in blankets, and were rocking them back and forth. They called their coats “babies,” and apparently such behavior was banned in the classroom because playing with “babies” had been interfering with getting work done. Why they did not call their coats something like “dolls” instead of “babies” is beyond me, unless those third graders were purposefully trying to give substitutes heart attacks. With much relief I told the girls to put their “babies” away. Then I gathered the class together, and proclaimed “Mr. Hunt’s new rule: no more making babies when subs are in the classroom.” Though at the time that seemed like a pretty good proclamation, I imagine if someone outside of the classroom had heard it they would have had some questions. And that is the closest I have ever come to spanking students.

SERIOUSLY, THEY TRULY ARE THE WORST

Something that was not scary but more dangerous job-wise was when I was walking down the hall of a school and what I thought was a classroom grandfather stepped into my path. To be perfectly honest, I do not like classroom grandparents; they are almost never helpful, and more often than not they are inflexible when it comes to breaking classroom routine. Yes, for the most part I try to do exactly what the teacher usually does, but often this is not possible. No, I do not need cranky grandparents telling me that I am doing things wrong, without ever telling me what I should be doing instead. So with this prejudice in mind, I was walking down the hall and a grandfather got in my way, which made me mad. I walked up to him and stopped, after which he asked what I was doing in the school. Clearly he did not know I was a substitute, and although I could have just said I was one, I decided not to help him out. That was perhaps a bad decision.

Instead of talking to the grandfather, I first tried to walk around him. He sidestepped and got in my way again, and then asked what I was doing again. I replied that I was trying to get to a classroom, he asked which one, I told him, and then he asked why. I then said “none of your business” and tried to get around him again, after which he side stepped again. The old man puffed up and told me to leave, and that was the moment I was looking for; proudly, I exclaimed that I was a substitute, hoping to embarrass him for his attempt to boss me around. He then stated he was the principal, and that is when I realized he was the principal, and I had just messed up. Luckily, the man had an excellent sense of humor, and bust up laughing. He explained that he though I was some guy off the street, I explained that I thought he was some senile volunteer, and then he agreed, many older volunteers at schools do suck. After that we were great friends.

HOW ABOUT SOME COMMAS, IN THIS HEADLINE, TOO

Only two other really exciting things happened to me while subbing. The first was when a kindergartener locked himself in the bathroom on purpose, so he could continue throwing a tantrum without me interfering. That tantrum went on for a quite a while before we got the bathroom door open. The second was when a bell rang and I asked the students to sit down. A junior promptly screamed an impolite phrase at me, making for the quickest trip to the principal’s I have ever issued; he lasted for all of two seconds of class. Other than that, if I was in high schools I mostly spent the day reading, because most absent high school teachers just leave tests or worksheets for students. If I was in elementary schools I worked hard, though I felt like ninety-percent of my job was just babysitting; welcome, and don’t made a mess, spread paint, eat glue, or cut other people’s hair. And don’t make babies. Above all else, don’t make babies.

CONCLUSION

To write an actual conclusion for once, I have decided that I do not like working in elementary school classrooms, but that high school is where it is at. Not that I have ever turned down an elementary school job; I just groan when I get called and then say “yes.” Still, I guess high school students do not draw pictures for substitutes, or give them folded pieces of paper, or hand them fallen leaves, or present them with bark chips, or used tissues, or just sneeze on their shirt. Sometimes elementary students are very sweet.

Before leaving for Korea I forgot to take pictures of the various “gifts” students have given me, so instead here is a picture of me feeding our chickens one of their favorite foods.

This email just might mark the beginning of the end of my medical nonsense. That, or it marks the end of all the time I spent seeing doctors in California. Once I returned to Oregon, I had sinus surgery, which I will cover the next time I have enough time to write. Until then, the following is exciting, just not as exciting as me bleeding out of my nose for weeks and being out of it on painkillers. Or maybe it is as exciting, just not as gross.

GOOD THING HE IS NOT A PSYCHIATRIST

Towards the end of my stay in California I went to see my aunt and cousin’s asthma and allergy doctor. I had heard very good things about the man, as well as very eccentric things. My first visit was over four hours long, and interestingly, seeing a very thorough doctor is a bit depressing. Besides recognizing that I was having a good deal of chest pain, the doctor said I also had a deviated septum and too narrow of a nose, messed up sinuses, messed up ear drums, a misshapen uvula, a partial cleft palate, too small of a jaw, too close together of eyebrows, too short of thumbs, oddly spaced nipples, and a “funny” neck. He commanded I get surgery on my nose, check out specialists for all of the mouth problems, and have genetics testing done to identify a condition that would explain the other “birth defects.” So if you were not aware, I am an exceptionally deformed individual.

Fast forward a few months and what the doctor “found” was only about half crazy talk. As for the nose, uvula, jaw, eyebrows, thumbs, nipples, and neck, I fall within the normal realm of human variation, as for the roof of my mouth, my soft palate is abnormally large, but it is really no big deal, and as for the genetic testing, I am not a candidate. What did turn out to be true, however, was that my sinus and ear passages were pretty obstructed and that my septum was very un-straight. All of this led to the conclusion that I needed to see an ENT and have sinus surgery for a third time in my life. Apparently sinus surgery only does me about nine years worth of good, after which my sinus passages regrow the previously removed tissue, plugging themselves up. Though this is bad news for me, though I am sure ENT’s sipping expensive champagne on beaches in Hawaii are quite happy with my body’s stubborn habits.

I GUESS I GAVE MYSELF HEAT STROKE

After some investigation I came to the conclusion that having sinus surgery in Oregon would be less expensive than having sinus surgery in California, so I began to pack my bags. At that time I also managed to get another sinus infection, and with it came one of the worst fevers I have ever had. Interestingly, at first no one believed that I had a fever because the digital thermometer read 99.1 degrees. Pretty confident that the thermometer was wrong, I later took my temperature with it when I was healthy and it read 94.2 degrees. So I almost assuredly had a fever, especially since while sick I simply could not get warm. The first night I piled a bunch of blankets on top of my bed, as well as an unzipped sleeping bag. After twenty minutes under the stack, however, I was still shivering, so then I put on socks, pants, a couple of shirts and a sweatshirt, and a stocking hat. As it turns out, this was a bad idea. For the first few hours however, however, it felt great.

I woke up halfway through the night weak, thirsty, utterly drenched with sweat, and hotter than I ever have been before. I managed to slide out of bed, crawl to the bathroom, and then stand up. I wanted to get a drink, but instead of getting a drink I passed out, smacking my face on the sink as I fell. When I came to my extremely concerned aunt was standing over me and I tasted blood. After checking for missing teeth and being delighted that my mouth was intact, I immediately started stripping off my wet clothes. Once down to my underwear I was coherent enough to convince my aunt that an ER visit was unnecessary. I then spent the rest of the night drinking about a gallon of water while lying on top of my damp covers, which conveniently were cool. For the next week my head ached, although sadly, my opponent was fine; a dented sink would have been a great testament to my toughness, but I guess granite is harder than face.

CONDI IS MALE, AND KIM IS NOT KOREAN

As things were wrapping up in California I visited a few friends I figured I would not see for a while. First I took my friend Condi to Koreatown, where we found a traditional Korean restaurant. Later took my friend Kim to the same restaurant, and when my friend Johnny was in town we also ate there as well; Kim and Johnny, to let the secret out of the bag I really cannot read Korean menus that well, I just remembered it from before. Condi and I also went to a Korean bathhouse, which was a lot of fun. Sadly, Johnny refused to go to the bathhouse when I offered, and with Kim I did not even mention it since that would have been a bit awkward. Unfortunately, despite the authenticity of the restaurant and bathhouse Condi and I went to, a good dog restaurant was not to be found. I guess Koreatown really is like Korea then, as it took me over six months to find dog for sale in Seoul. I guess you could call that food a rare breed.

CONCLUSION

Sometime before leaving California I also had a stomach emptying test, which involved me eating a radioactive egg white sandwich while I sat under a machine that traced the meal as it was digested. That was the last gastrointestinal test I took, after which I moved on to investigating my sinus infections and trying to find a link between them and my chest pain. As is fitting, gastrointestinal tests ended on a delicious note.

PICTURE

My extremely flattering ER discharge picture from 2009, where the effects of my deviated septum are pretty apparent.

Nothing too disgusting or personal here guys, just some nice clean stories about when my friend Johnny came down to visit me in California. And yes, if it sounds like I was in California for about four months, since I have so many stories about being in California, that is because I was in California for about four months. Anyway, Johnny works for the Forest Service, and gets laid off every winter, so I convinced him to join me for two weeks. The following covers some of the amazing things we did.

IT WAS WORTHWHILE, DESPITE NO CAR

The first thing Johnny and I tried to do was get on “The Price is Right.” After getting our first set of tickets I did a little research, where I learned to be in the audience Johnny and I needed to show up to the studio early. We needed to be early in order to get our second set of tickets, after which we needed to have bubbly personalities or great hooks in order to “come on down.” To get on a 4:00 pm showing of “The Price is Right,” however, you apparently have to show up at 6:00 am, because our arrival time of 12:00 pm was far too late. Johnny and I did meet some cool fellow rejects though, and we and pretty much everyone else who Drew Carey turned away went onto “The Craig Ferguson Show” later that day. Interestingly, Johnny now watches “The Craig Ferguson Show” religiously, and not long ago Craig Ferguson joked that his audience is all people who were “late” for “The Price is Right.” That seems pretty accurate to me.

AND EVERYONE KEPT ASKING US FOR SLUSHIES

Before going to California Johnny thought the state was full of crazy people. But, for the first week of Johnny’s visit we never saw anything too off the wall. That was, however, until we went to Venice Beach, an area which is like its own planet. Imagine four miles of oceanside sidewalk covered by one big cloud of smoke. Medical marijuana vendors are everywhere, and all of them are the extremely high-pressure-in-your-face type of people, like the Las Vegas free porn street vendors. Hippies that even Portland would reject have set out blankets on the sidewalk, selling junk like punctured basketballs, dirty cups, and microscope parts, there are out of shape body builders walking around in thongs, there are very bad street artists, artists that I could paint better than, and sprinkled at even intervals are odd stores, like ones that just sell fur hats, despite Venice Beach being a warm, sunny beach. Ultimately, I think Johnny’s opinions were reinforced.

JUST WANTED TO FERTILIZE THE BUSHES

On another day Johnny and I went to Six Flags. Johnny claims he had a blast there, but I am not sure if he is telling the truth because the roller coasters made him throw up twice. The first time this happened we had just got done with a ride and were still strapped into the seats. Johnny was next to me and he looked very pale. I asked him if he was ok, and he answered by putting a hand over his mouth. Knowing what was up, I tried as hard as I could to get away from him, but since the ride attendants would not come and un-strap us we were both trapped. Now, I bet Johnny thinks those few minutes of captivity were the longest minutes of his life, but I think it was worse for me. It is one thing to think you will throw up, but it is another thing to think you will be thrown up upon. To Johnny’s credit, however, he did make it, and the moment he had his freedom he ran to some greenery. I doubt he could not have waited a second longer.

SHE WAS ALSO TINY, SO I WASN’T WORRIED

At another point during Johnny’s stay we went to San Diego. To quickly talk about something different though, the previous time I had been south of Los Angeles I did not have a passenger to split gas with. So, I went out on an adventure and found a Craigslist rideshare. The girl I rode down with was named Charlene and she was a ball of fun; her favorite activities seemed to be drunk 4-wheeling, high 4-wheeling, getting into fights, and at a rest stop she showed me how to knife fighting. Also, she stopped a few times to buy and put more oil in her jeep. Charlene seemed to think that all vehicles burn oil, claiming every single one of her family’s cars needed oil added on an almost daily basis. I tried to convince her that no, most cars just require periodic oil changes and that is it, but she never believed me. Still, she was fun enough that I caught a ride back with her so I rode with her twice, and since she was not on drugs at any point it was all fine.

Johnny and I’s drive to San Diego was not nearly as interesting. We had a fun time once we got there though, kicking off the trip by going to UCSD where we were test subjects. My friend Lindsay runs psychological tests at UCSD’s lab, and amazingly the tests pay so Johnny and I actually made some money off of the trip. Johnny’s test involved reading nonsensical sentences and then answering questions about them. My test involved being hooked up to a cap that read my brain waves while I made decisions. In the end I believe Johnny aced his test and my brain waves showed that I was the smartest test subject they had ever had. Finally certified as geniuses, we then went to the San Diego Zoo, hit up some restaurants, and then went back to Lindsay’s apartment and played with her pet birds. Except Lindsay’s birds are not friendly, so they really just bit us. I did not mind so much, but poor Johnny; my aunt and uncle’s dog bit him too.

CONCLUSION

The last thing I should mention is that while in California Johnny and I got lost quite a bit, much to his derision. What I do not think Johnny understood though, was that when driving around cities like Los Angeles or San Diego without something like a GPS, you are pretty much bound to get lost. It’s a fact of life and you just go with the flow and ask people for directions. Once it did almost come to blows though, when Johnny picked me up after I had an endoscopy and had been sedated. Though we were not at Venice Beach in that case, I blame the quarrel on the drugs.

PICTURE

Me proving to UCSD I am the next Albert Einstein.

INTRODUCTION

This email builds on the last one, where I described what a twenty-four hour pH study was like. Ultimately, the results of that test were inconclusive, so now everyone gets to learn what a ninety-six hour pH study is like. Also, I am going to talk about some doctors that got in a fight, and another doctor and the yeast infection he caused. Getting a yeast infection was probably the worst thing that happened to me while I was in California. I know right now you are asking yourself “yeast infection where?” Well my friends, read and find out.

OF COURSE I WOULD STERILIZED IT FIRST

My earlier pH study consisted of a tube that went up my nose, down my throat, and into my stomach. It was a pretty miserable situation and I doubt many people could stand it for more than a day. Thus, when doctors do ninety-six hour studies they actually forgo the tube and instead just pin the sensor straight in. Using suction, a doctor pulls out a little section of esophageal flesh, places the arms of the sensor on either side of that flesh, and then they ram metal through it. The sensor measures the pH in that section of the esophagus for about four days, although it takes another three days or so for the sensor to fall off. Since the pin does not come undone, I just assume the esophagus tears, something I did not like to think about while my acid was being measured. The data transmits wirelessly to a belt-worn computer, and the computer goes to the hospital for upload. And that is the whole process, easy, clean, and only slightly bloody.

Overall, I found the ninety-six hour pH study to be much more bearable than the twenty-four hour pH study. The biggest pro was that when I was not eating or swallowing, I could not tell anything was in my throat; I could walk or run or jump or breathe and not feel like I wanted to shoot myself. Also, no one could tell I was having a test done, so if I had gone to a film like I did before I would not have gotten strange looks. The biggest con, of course, was having a pin in my esophagus, which made swallowing extremely painful. It was a little worse than having the tube in, and noticeable enough that the first time I ate a meal after the sensor had fallen off I immediately knew that it was gone. I had the goal of recovering that little piece of machinery, as it is a rare souvenir indeed that has actually been inside the human body. Despite thorough searching at the proper times, however, it proved too elusive.

I BET IT STARTED OVER STOLEN LEGOS

Interestingly, I almost did not participate in the longer pH study, because when I showed up to the hospital to have the sensor attached the hospital did not have anything scheduled for me. This, of course, was a mistake, because everything had been scheduled for weeks and the hospital had called me multiple times the days before; to make sure I had a driver, to make sure I would not eat for twenty-four hours before coming in, and to make sure I would pay. As it turns out, the doctor I was going to got into a fight with another doctor and that second doctor canceled all of my doctor’s appointments, out of revenge. Or at least that is what my doctor told me, while the second doctor said that my doctor was lying and then gave an even better explanation. I talked to the head of surgery, but could get to the bottom of anything. As it turns out, some professionals, despite degrees, are as mature as the smallest of kids I run into while subbing.

ACTUALLY, I COMPLETELY UNDERSTAND

The doctor fight was a sign of things to come, as that hospital in California ended up causing me many more problems down the road. To save those problems for a later time, however, the verdict of the ninety-six hour pH study was that I had eosinophilic esophagitis. Without going into much detail on that either, I was prescribed medicine which almost immediately caused me to get a yeast infection. Now to come down to it, where was that yeast infection? Well, my throat hurt and my tongue hurt and the back of my mouth turned very white; so yes, I got a yeast infection in my “oral tract.” An endoscopy confirmed the diagnosis and I was put on yeast infection medicine, as well as taken off the medicine that had caused it. Interesting, at that time the doctor who said I had eosinophilic esophagitis decided I did not have it after all. So I grew cottage cheese all up and down my throat for absolutely no reason, hooray.

Looking back on it, however, there is a silver lining to the whole yeast infection thing; now I am in the club. As most guys know, women talk about menstruation, infection, pregnancy, menopause, and related subjects on a pretty regular basis, and by “talk about” I mean “talk about how painful those things are, and how men cannot possibly ever understand that pain.” And I agree, because I will never have a baby or experience most of those other things. So, when those topics come up, I wisely choose not to say anything. Except now I can actually throw in my two cents in certain instances, and in fact, I reckon having a yeast infection in the throat is actually worse than having a yeast infection in any other part of the body, and I am extremely prepared to argue about it. Such a chance has not occurred yet, but I know it will in the future. Someone talk about yeast infections around me, please. Again, I am incredibly ready.

CONCLUSION

It has been over six months since I had a yeast infection and, sadly, my dream has not come true. This leads me to conclude that talking about yeast infections is not as common as I previous thought, or, women have stopped getting them. Probably the latter? Anyway, what great first-date material, because there could hardly be a better way to demonstrate to a woman that I have just met that we have something in common. And what if she has had pH studies or endoscopies conducted, or been told she had eosinophilic esophagitis? Sounds like a keeper to me.

PICTURE

A printer, in honor of my friend Soren.

INTRODUCTION

As last summer ended I moved back in with my aunt and uncle. Again I went to some medical specialists concerning my chest, and as you can tell by me traveling to California for a second time, at that point in my life I was not yet sick of living out of a suitcase. Additionally, as you will soon be able to tell, at that point in my life I was also not yet sick of bad and disgusting things happening to me. The last email I sent out was about throwing up. As a warning, I think I should say this email is a bit worse. At least no one can accuse me of holding back though, right? 

AN EXCEPTIONALLY USEFUL PARTY TRICK

My second trip to California came about after a doctor actually contacted me through my aunt. He convinced me that flying down from Oregon was worthwhile, believing my chest pain to be a result of swallowing difficulties. Once back to sunshine, palm trees, and smog, I underwent a barium swallow, which is a medical test that involves barium. And swallowing it. Medical barium is a thick, whitish liquid that tastes a bit chalky and happens to show up on x-rays. From images taken while a person is swallowing barium doctors can see how the esophagus is shaped and how well it performs peristalsis. On the upside, a barium swallow is utterly pain free and the whole procedure only takes a couple of minutes. On the downside, a barium swallow involves about a liter of barium, and though it is non-toxic, it is also indigestible. For barium to escape a body it first must traverse the entire digestive tract. And again, it is indigestible.

Following my barium swallow I drank as much waster and ate as much fiber as possible. Then, over the next two days, I eyed the toilet with constant vigilance and eventually my vigilance paid off. About thirty-six hours after being in the hospital my barium made an appearance, solid and completely toilet-bowl white; tired and getting ready for bed, I almost missed it. Once done being amazed that it had not changed color at all, I flushed the barium down, which promptly led to a plugged toilet. Not being a stranger to plugs, I went in search of a plunger, but I could not find one. Unwilling to wake up my aunt and uncle up, and unwilling to go out and buy a plunger, because that would have cost money, I had found myself in a conundrum. After thinking about washing-and-returning schemes for a bit, or simply leaving the toilet as it was, I ultimately settled on a more moral course of action. The action I took, however, was a bit gross.

Once my friend Tyler told me he had a party at his house and during the party someone plugged the toilet. For some reason Tyler did not own a plunger, but luckily, a plumber was at the party. Happy to help, the plumber immediately tackled the toilet with his bare hands, apparently explaining that it was something he did “pretty much everyday.” To end the story, the problem got fixed, though I am going to guess that night the plumber failed to get any numbers. He did, however, succeed in making a roundabout impression on me, because I ended up using his technique. And, honestly, I did not think it was too bad, especially since what I was digging out with my hands was white throughout; I doubt I was touching much more than barium. Afterward I washed thoroughly, my problem was solved, and I did not tell anyone the next day what had happened. My thanks to you, party plumber I have never met.

AND ANOTHER BAD THEATER EXPERIENCE

The last time I saw a “Harry Potter” film I had an allergic reaction to peanuts. This led to me throwing up in the theater, which was unfun. Carrying on the tradition of witchcraft, wizardry, and unpleasantness, right before I went to the midnight premier of the most recent Harry Potter I had a tube shoved up my nose and down into my stomach and left there for twenty-four hours. The tube’s purpose was to measure the pH of my esophagus. Since my barium swallow proved normal, doctors thought perhaps I had acid reflux that had gotten worse since I was in Korea, where the exact same twenty-four hour pH test had been performed a year before. And because I had the test done before, I knew exactly how painful it would be and that I would not be sleeping at a while it was in progress. Thus, I decided I might as well stay up late and watch a film. Not that I remember the film very well.

I remember the most recent “Harry Potter” being pretty boring. Beyond that, however, all of my memories are of pain, because the tube killed my sinuses, made my throat exceptionally dry, and if I moved at all it stabbed the bottom of my stomach. And yes, I know none of that sounds exceptionally bad, but before judging first I would advise you to get a straw, shove it up through your nose until the end of it peeks out the back of your throat, and then leave it in there for just five minutes; I bet you cannot do it. Although that is not to say I do not hope someone tries, because an attempt would make me laugh pretty hard. Also, on the topic of laughing, I think many people at the midnight premier thought I was supposed to be cyborg, especially since the tube coming out of my head was connected to a small, wearable computer. Unlike the witches and wizards around me, I guess I got the genres of fantasy and science fiction mixed up.

CONCLUSION

I had wanted to end this email with a statement along the lines of “for the record, I do not habitually stick my hands inside of toilets.” In coming clean, however, I guess I should also state that once at a party I found myself in a situation similar to the one mentioned earlier, with at least thirty people in the house and nary a plunger to be found. Of course, I washed thoroughly once done, and, of course, I told no one what had happened. Really, my friend’s plumber story taught me more than just a trick about toilets. It also taught me that at parties one ought to not act like a plumber, least everyone will remember you for doing so.

PICTURE

A crevasse, by my aunt and uncle’s house.

INTRODUCTION

I plan on attending graduate school in the next two years. As a result, I recently took the GREs, specifically the regular GRE and the English Literature GRE. In many ways the regular GRE was just like the SAT I took in high school, with the exception that it was on a computer. The English Literature GRE was a paper and pencil test though, so it was pretty much identical to the SAT II’s, which I also took many years ago. Which leads me to say, if you are a senior preparing for college and are cocky enough to think now is the last time you will ever take a long, broad, and perhaps boring standardized test, there is a good chance you are wrong.

MY CURSIVE IS ACTUALLY QUITE GOOD

I first took the regular GRE at Central Washington University, which is located in Ellensburg. For anyone not familiar with Central Washington University, it has a pretty nice campus. For anyone not familiar with Ellensburg, there really is not much there besides Central Washington University. And for anyone not familiar with GRE protocol, it began with me locking all of my belongings in a locker, then having my picture taken, and then spending about half an hour trying to remember how to write in cursive as I copied down an anti-cheating anti-test-question-spreading statement that for some reason could not be printed. The actual GRE was administered in a room full of computers, and with the computers came scratch paper, pencils, and headphones. When I took the test there were four other people who typed away at computers with me, all who I remember struggling with the cursive that morning as well.

Skipping over what I promised not to talk about in the most elegant and flowing connected letters anyone has ever seen, I finished the test in about four hours and after which I hit the road. Truthfully though, there is nothing exciting to say about the test, besides the fact that the end is bit maddening. The GRE computer gives you two options right before you finish; finalize your answers and receive your score immediately, or throw out all your work and have no score recorded. The idea is if you think you did poorly you can save your self at the last minute, although I really think the makers of the GRE just wanted to throw some gambling into their test for added excitement. At any rate, I paid good for the test so I finalized my score and did about as I expected; a very good score in English and an almost perfectly average score in math. Obviously I do not take after my father, the math teacher.

BUT THE WATER WAS NOT HOT ENOUGH

Following the test I drove up to Seattle, where I visiting my friend Annie. We did a number of fun things over the course of a couple days, like go kayaking, hike up Mt. Si, see if eggs can cook in a hot tub, see some market, and move boxes around a new apartment. Actually, those last two things might have been what I did a month before when I visited other friends in Seattle, I am not sure; all of my Seattle memories kind of run together since everyone in Seattle is so alike. What I do, however, remember specifically doing with Annie is going to a bar one night, meeting up with some more college friends, and then going back to Annie’s for food. So far this story is boring, except for that after I got to Annie’s the food I ended up eating was an entire jar of pickled artichoke hearts. Which later I threw up. Until this instance I do not think anyone has heard this story, or at least not Annie; I sure did not tell her anyway.

The mention of a bar and throwing up is sure to make some people draw conclusions. To clarify, however, alcohol was not the culprit, but rather my personality. The first time I ever ate smoked muscles I threw up. The first time I ever ate fried okra I threw up. And, the first time I ever ate pickled artichoke hearts I threw up. The fact is when it comes to new foods I have very little self-control, and when we got back to Annie’s that night she mentioned there was a 40 oz. jar of pickled artichoke hearts in the fridge. Never having had them before, I became excited and ate one, then two, then Annie left the room soon no more artichoke hearts were left. Annie then came back, rolled her eyes, and went to bed. After I apologized I crawled into my sleeping bag, waited a bit, then crawled out of my sleeping bag, ran to the kitchen sink, and threw up everything. I also threw up quietly, and cleaned the sink thoroughly. I do not think I was caught.

MATH AND CHEAPNESS GOT TO ME

A month after being a bad guest I went to the University of Oregon in Eugene to take the English Literature GRE. At the same time I also had the idea that I should retake the regular GRE, in hopes of improving my math score, which in retrospect was a dumb idea. The English Literature test was on a Friday. Over the weekend, I managed to catch strep. Come Monday, I retook the regular GRE, and while my math score went up four percentile points my English score nose-dived. This led me to understand an important truth, which is when applying to English graduate programs do not fret math scores. Also, I probably learned something about not taking tests when feeling horrible with strep. All I remember from that Monday, besides my feverish body shaking the computer screen and not being able to swallow, was thinking about how the test was non-refundable and how no matter what I was going to get my money’s worth.

CONCLUSION

In case anyone is concerned, overall my second regular GRE scores were not horrible, so my future should be fine. And as for graduate school, I say I should be there in two years because it is looking like I will do another tour in Korea. I do not know why people always assume I was in Korea before because I was either in the army or on a mission, but no one ever seems to expect I lived in Korea for a year simply to teach English. Instead of correcting people, I am now trying to beat them to the punch by just lying. So come this summer I am back to Korea. If you need to contact me, write to my home church. Or base.

PICTURE

Climbing Mt. Si, apparently by myself.

INTRODUCTION

I did not spend my entire summer in California just seeing doctors. Occasionally I did some other things, like catch up with friends from college and experience the great outdoors. I also visited with my relatives and read a lot of novels, although neither of those things are too exciting to read about. So, I will stick to what I did with friends and what I did outside.

BUT NO FREE BEATS OR PRUNE JUICE

During the middle of my trip I went to San Diego, where my friend Lindsay lives. Lindsay runs psychological tests on senior citizens and occasionally the senior citizens give her things. So while I was visiting, Lindsay offered me some free bran flakes and discount lunch coupons. I passed on those, but when tickets to the USS Midway came, up things were a different story. Once, when I was much younger, I was in Alaska for the summer and an aircraft carrier came to town. My parents and aunts and uncles did a fantastic job of getting me and my cousins excited to tour it, they loaded us up in cars, drove us to the water, marched us down the dock, marched us up a plank, and then the sailors marched me and only me back down the plank because I was too little to go on the ship. It was after that incident that I swore I would spend the next twenty-two years of my life growing to be as tall as possible. And thus I am tall today.

The USS Midway sailed from 1945 to 1992, after which it was decommissioned and moved to downtown San Diego. Tourists can now explore it for a small fee, or if you have elderly connections, for free. Overall my experience on the ship was fantastic, although the low ceilings and doorways did get annoying; perhaps I was a little overzealous in my growth. Interestingly, a retired navy cook told us that all of the other ships in the USS Midway’s class have much higher decks. Right before the ship was complete the engineers got nervous; they had never made such a tall ship before and they worried that it would tip easily. As a result, they sunk every level of the USS Midway down by about a head’s length. Later, they realized that tall ships do not readily topple, built every other aircraft carrier to normal size, and if there is a hint as to why the ship was retired early I think that is it; it is a ship for the vertically challenged.

HE SHOULD ALSO ADD A ZIP-LINE

While in San Diego I also visited my friend Dave. Dave is a very interesting and very fun guy who happens to live in a warehouse. When I showed up he asked me if I wanted to watch a movie and I said that a movie sounded fine. So, he handed me a paint brush and we painted a large white rectangle on one of the warehouse’s inside walls. Once done Dave he setup a projector and I have to admit, living in a warehouse has its advantages. In addition to the “screen,” the more unusual features of Dave’s home include his bedroom, which is a loft, his bathroom, which is only accessible by a sweet, rounded door, and his living room, which is also where he parks his motorcycles. Next to the living area Dave setup a surfboard shop, and when I was visiting plans were in the works for cutting a hole in the ceiling, for easier roof access. I suggested he add a fireman’s pole to. Yes, my friend Dave pretty much lives in a fort.

LOOK FOR THE ALLITERATION AND PUN

One of the other fun things I did in California was go hiking with my friend Condi, trips which were new in some ways and typical in others. On the new side, I saw my second ever rattlesnake in the wild, despite, I know, having grown up in a rural area. I was walking in front of Condi down a path and what I thought was a stick turned out not to be a stick. I jumped and screamed and I think scared my hiking companion quiet badly, though I am sure he would agree that being scared is better than being bitten by something venomous. Oddly, the rattlesnake never rattled, and in the end we had to hit it with branches to get it out of our way. As the snake silently and sedately slithered off I was tempted to grab it; a snake docile enough to practice the grab-behind-the-neck-maneuver on is a rare find indeed. Not wanting to freak Condi out, however, I resisted and kept my hands to myself. I regret that decision now.

On the typical side, Condi and I ended another day spent in the wilderness by thumbing a ride, because just about every time we ever go regular hiking we end up getting lost. On the same trail that ran us into the rattlesnake we took a wrong turn. Rather than backtrack after we figured out what had happened, we cut a route off-trail which eventually put us onto a road right when a car drove by. The car turned out to be full of hippies that we had ran into earlier that day, when we summited the mountain we were on and were welcomed by the stench of burning marijuana, body odor, and potpourri. The hippies were pretty high, in two different ways, when we first met them. By the time they drove up to us later, however, in that day they seemed ok. Desperate, we pilled in back with all of their dogs and they took us where we needed to go. Which goes to show, that say what you want against hippies, but they are always super friendly.

CONCLUSION

And that is the abbreviated summary of things I did in California while not visiting doctors.

PICTURE

My feet after one of my hiking trips with Condi.

INTRODUCTION

My first medical visit to California was interesting; it ended with me reacting poorly to medication and it began with me being accused of doing hard drugs. Overall not a lot of medical progress was made, although I did have a fun time staying with my aunt and uncle and visiting college friends. Not that social interaction makes up for thousands of dollars of money wasted and time spent, but I guess funny stories are priceless, right?

A SENTENCE MIGHT BE MIXED UP THERE

Only hours after getting into Thousand Oaks, where my aunt and uncle live, I was in my first doctor’s office hooked up to an EKG machine. Apparently at that office performing an EKG is just part of the normal check-in procedure, along with taking a patient’s blood pressure, temperature, and whatever else. Or, performing an EKG could be a tool for scaring people badly. Later, I was told that the leads on my chest were probably hooked up wrong. At the time, however, the EKG read like I was having serious heart trauma. In complete honesty, I was not concerned; I felt ok and never had any doubts that I would be fine. This was despite me not having consumed any energy drinks recently, or done any coke, which are what I was told were the only other explanations for my readings. I know I am not a doctor, and I have not experienced a heart attack before, but hey. And for my level head my pocket book thanks me.

For the record, I do not do energy drinks and I have a hard time remembering the last time I drank cocaine. I was, however, asked about both repeatedly, and in tricky ways meant to trick me up. The words “seriously this time” kept being said too, like if I actually did do cocaine I would admit to it after being implored to “be serious” for a fourth of fifth time. None of the questioning really bothered me though, as after all the grilling I got about visiting prostitutes following my vacation in Malaysia I have found doctor tribunals to be a piece of cake. And because that last sentence was a little weird, for the record, no prostitutes. So sticking to my substance free guns, I was eventually transferred to a cardiologist and later that day I was hooked up to an EKG halter. A halter is basically a portable EKG machine that monitors the heart for several days. So continuing on tradition, only about two months past by before my chest was trimmed again.

When the coke-fixated doctor first told me I was having problems it was suggested I take an ambulance to the nearest ER. Although I am sure an ambulance ride would have been fun, I opted to drive myself and was able to talk the destination down to the cardiologist’s office. I think the cardiologist expected me to come stumbling in. After I entered the lobby fine, however, it did not take long to figure out I was not dying. So after a few tests to they put the halter on me, and over the next few weeks I also did another treadmill stress test and a blood-bubble study. All of the studies came back fine, a reconfirmation of what every other place had told me before. So heart-wise there was nothing to be scared of, although following all the visits I received an erroneous insurance statement which caused me a great amount of duress. Data from a halter worn while I sorted out things with my insurance company would be very interesting.

LUPUS MAKE ANYONE ELSE THINK OF OTTO?

Eventually I was sent to a rheumatologist at USC. The rheumatologist screened me for many different things, but specifically looked for signs of autoimmune diseases, like lupus and Lyme, as well joint problems. The whole process basically involved a lot of blood tests, as well as a nuclear bone scan. All of these tests also came back negative, leading to what so far has been the best diagnosis of whatever is wrong with my chest, though one I still have problems buying. The rheumatologist decided that while abroad a virus probably attacked the cartilage in my ribs, causing pain and inflammation. He said it occurs from time to time and unfortunately it is a hard condition to recover from, since the chest is always moving. You know, because of breathing and everything. So basically when such a situation occurs people just have to wait it out for a number or years, or I guess stop breathing. Being a big fan of breathing, I went with option one.

In light of no tests ever coming back positive for anything, including psychological tests, such a diagnosis makes some sense. So with another doctor backing the virus theory up, I was put on a long term anti-inflammatory, as well as a special type of nerve medication, and then I returned home. After being on both medicines for about a month, however, I started getting very strange nerve sensations, like electricity running through my arms and legs, as well as twitches. Having had enough of that business when the x-rays gave me hyperthyroidism, I went off of everything and since the drugs I was on were not supposed to cure me, but rather make life with chest pain easier, going off them was not a big deal. I was, however, pretty angry I had paid for so many worthless pills. Too bad pharmacy buy-back programs do not exist. Or, too bad anti-inflammatories cannot be traded on the street for cocaine. Or at least energy drinks.

CONCLUSION

I know that sounds like everything got wrapped up, but that is not quite the case. After being in California for a month, I returned home for two months, and then was back in California again. And as I write this, I am in California now. So, long story short; if my aunt and uncle were not sick of me in the summer, they sure are now. And, I hear, so is the food budget.

PICTURE

Halter or halter top joke here.

INTRODUCTION

After returning from the Mayo Clinic I took off to California for even more medical fun. Before doing that, however, I caught up with my friend Paul and his family, who were branding cows on their ranch. Paul’s family is the same family that has everyone over during Christmas to butcher cows, and in general, if I am ever doing “country stuff” around Eastern Oregon it is probably with them. But to return to branding, I have decided I am not a fan. As the following will explain, it has little to do with the act of branding itself.

LIKE A REVERSE ASSEMBLY LINE

When a group of calves is a few months old they are rounded up and put into a special type of pen. One by one the calves are then let out of the pen through narrow passages called squeeze chutes that, via lever or motor, constrict whatever is inside them. Once the calves are immobilized they are branded, and in this particular instance along with having their hair burnt off and their flesh scarred the calves also got their ears pierced and tagged, their hides punctured and shot full of vaccine, and the males were made into steers. Sure, during the whole process the calves screamed and thrashed due to the pain and frothy spittle flew from their mouths, and the metal squeeze chutes were unpleasantly hot to the touch from the sun, and, incidentally, the pens were infested with wasps that flew about and stung everything, but once the operation was over the calves just walked away from the ordeal completely fine. Baby cows are amazingly tough.

AND THAT IS MY OFFICIAL TITLE

I am not sure why the first time I helped with branding I was put on castration duty, but apparently me doing the job the first time was so funny that now every time I show up to help I am always made the castrator. Now, I am good at the job, but really it is not that fun. The person with the branding iron gets to make fun shapes, like an artist. The person doing ear tags gets to pretend they work in a piercing salon. The person doing the vaccines gets to pretend they are a doctor. But what about the person doing the castrating? Well, there is not a lot you can pretend you are doing when you are messing around underneath a cow. Not that castrating bothers me a ton, although that is not to say I love it either. In general, my feelings towards castrating cows are probably average in comparison to the feelings of other ranchers on the subject. This seems like some hole I could dig myself into, so I will stop talking about it now.

THANK YOU CRYPTORCHIDISM

But to continue talking about it, since I know that everyone is curious, for the most part what Paul’s family does is not too gross and I am not even sure if the term “castration” is accurate. Since calves are pretty little, and thus their body parts are too, Paul’s family can get away with using very large rubber bands and no cutting or slicing of anything is necessary. The person doing the castrating, me, just gets under the a calf’s legs, grabs both testicles, and inserts them through a device called a spreader that looks like a pair of pliers attached to an octopus. When the handles of the pliers are compressed the arms of the octopus expand, spreading apart the thick rubber band that has been wrapped around them. The testicles are then dropped through the opening, the arms of the octopus converge, the spreader is removed, and blood flow to the testicles is cut off. With time the testicles fall off and what was previously a baby bull is no more.

The other bad thing about being on castration duty, besides all of the teasing and jokes made at the castrator’s expense, is the time the procedure requires. Branding, tagging, and immunizing are a synch, but making sure a male calf is made one-hundred percent sterile, and not just brought to half efficiency, can actually be quite hard. A good amount of males calves have one testicle in some state of un-completed descent, which means the person doing the castrating, me, often has to do a fair amount of physical manipulation to get a complete pair. So if there is any hold-up in the operation, it is probably the “fault” of the person with two arms underneath a calf, me, which of course leads to more teasing and jokes. It is a thankless job, but someone has to do it. So, think of me the next time you drive by a cattle ranch or go to get your dog neutered. Or are pulling stuff deep out of the garbage disposal, because that is probably the most fitting analogy.

THE FACT AT THE END IS NOT MADE UP

Other than occasional breaks to hunt down missing reproductive organs, last summer’s cow branding went smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that towards the end of it a few people with cush jobs got bored and decided to stop using the squeeze chutes, wanting to do everything “the old fashioned way” instead. This led to people roping and tackling calves and them holding them against the ground while other people burned, pierced, shot, and rubber-banded them, which was, well, easy for everyone except for the person, me, who had to find both of a struggling calf’s testicles and shove them through a little opening. Still, I cannot imagine what it was like to do the same act to animals being held by people but without the rubber band system. And not every non-rubber band castration is done by knife, either. Traditional sheep herders to this day still use their teeth. Supposedly it is more hygienic, although I cannot imagine why.

CONCLUSIONS

Castration is supposed to make animals more docile; it is not a procedure we perform on domesticated mammals simply for population control. The flip side of the coin is that participating in the act of castration turns people like me into big complainers. For the record, however, branding is a lot of fun and after all of this griping I will still probably do it again. And when I do go branding next, I will bring along a friend who has never participated before and that person will get the fun job of operating the spreader. Given the position that castrators have to take, the term “low man on the totem pole” will be extra fitting.

PICTURE

The old fashioned way in progress.