The Need to Tinker
There are few, if any, cars on the road that were manufactured in the year I was born. I'll bet that you can say the same. The cars that were built in that year that are being driven need constant tinkering to keep them running. Bob is convinced that like an older automobile that his body needs periodic tinkering to keep it "on the road".
Take for example the recent run-in with skin cancer which resulted in a face peel which at this very moment sees Bob with a forehead and a nose beet red, crusty and bleeding in spots. Now that's what I call tinkering at it's finest. It's going to be a good thing or so I'm told - - - worth the hassle. I'll be glad to be able to be seen in public again. Looks like that's going to happen in January.
Then Friday Bob has symptoms of a stroke. That's right. The left side of Bob's face tingled off and on. That's a sign of a major stroke. I think, "Shit, more tinkering".
A trip to the E.R. at the local hospital. Have you sat in an E.R. waiting room lately? It's terrible. Mostly plum packed full of losers that made loser choices that earned them a trip to the E.R. One guy had his hand wrapped in a towel having just stuck it in the radiator fan blades of car. A woman with a barf bag moaning loudly. There were a few others who sat quietly and thought about the what came next in tinkering to keep them up and running.
There were tests. There was an M.R.I. There were talks between three physicians as to how to best tinker with Bob. There were talks of keeping Bob for a few days. One physician asked Bob, "Do you like hospital food?" Now that's a tinkering question if I ever heard one. Hospital food is not conducive to tinkering. This I know.
At the end of four hours in the E.R. there were no answers but only questions. The MRI didn't reflect any bleeding in and around the brain. Blood tests were good. So in the spirit of tinkering and practing the art of practicing medicine there will be more tests this week. Ultra sound on the arteries in the neck. Contrast oriented MRI. Investigate the possibility of Bell's Palsy. Tinker. Tinker and more tinker.
Over the past few days Wifey is nearly beyond herself thinking that Bob will drop dead at any moment. I tell her that Bob is not going to go that easily . . . that it's going to have to take a lot more than this to put me down. Wifey halfway believes me and frankly I halfway believe me, too. I'd feel a lot better if there were more cars on the road that were made in the year I was born.
This will be a week for tinkering. Keep Bob on the road. And keep Bob on the water sailing. Tinker. Tinker. Tinker.
As George Burns once said, "If I knew that I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself."