All Choked Up

           I recently had the pleasure of visiting the Emergency Room.  Ah, yes, everyone’s favorite hangout. Only I was not there because of illness or accident. I was there because of klutzy pill-taking.

          Yes, I had to report the embarrassing truth, that I had INHALED a vitamin pill, instead of swallowing it. Mind you, this is not the sort of stuck pill that can be solved by swallowing a pinch of bread. It wasn’t stuck in my esophagus, but my trachea—the little airway tube that leads to your lungs.

          Well, of course it was late at night and no actual lung doctors were hanging out. They were probably all at home, watching E.R. on television.

          Nope, the only people there were other patients, all of whom were mighty concerned that I couldn’t stop coughing. A nurse finally told me to wear a mask, because other patients were worried.

          “Tell them I’m choking,” I explained. “I’m not contagious.”  But this did not ease their fears, so I had to wear a mask and make the situation even worse, because now I couldn’t inhale a breath strong enough to dislodge the pill.

          They suggested I be admitted to a room (probably to get me out of the E.R.), where I could cough all night until a lung specialist showed up the next morning to do surgery. They took x-rays to help this imaginary person, hours from seeing me.

          I decided I could go home and cough all night much more comfortably, and then—cue the heavenly choir—the pill finally dissolved and came out in tiny bits. The trachea is a lot dryer than the esophagus, so it took hours. But at last I was free. Sore sides, but hey, freedom.

          And now I am super careful swallowing pills. No more knocking them back in a bunch. Just one at a time, like handling tiny hand grenades.

My book, A Little Christmas Prayer, is the perfect Christmas gift. Sometimes it takes a child to raise a village, and this tale teaches anyone, of any faith, the magic of gratitude. All my books and Youtube Mom videos can be found at jonihilton.com.     

There’s Always Material

           Seriously, I do not want to die a dumb death. The other night I was in the Emergency Room, coughing for four hours because I swallowed a pill wrong.

          Yep, a vitamin tablet went down my windpipe and I couldn’t stop coughing. Such a stupid situation. I tried hurling myself over furniture to Heimlich it out, and Bob clapped me on the back, but nothing worked. So off we went to the hospital.

          The coughing was so violent that other patients were asking nurses to make me wear a mask. If only they knew that stupidity isn’t actually contagious.

          Speaking of other patients, the place was packed. Try never to have an emergency on a Friday night with a full moon. ER workers will tell you it’s the worst night for crowds.

          By now I was wondering if I would choke to death on a supplement, and what they would say in my obituary.  “Folks, you’re not going to believe this, but…”

          No lung specialist was there to help, so they took x-rays. They also wanted to admit me so that I could cough all night in a hospital room and see the doctor in the morning. Meanwhile, now they wanted to do a CT-scan to see exactly where the obstruction was.

          While waiting I continued to cough until FINALLY the thing dissolved and I could cough it up and then breathe again. Deep, glorious breaths. No need for the forceps I’d been reading about on Google. So St. Bob and I went home at about 2:30 in the morning.

          Looks like I’ve avoided headlining the Darwin List once again. So far.

But a very smart thing to do would be to check out the hundreds of life hack videosvideos on my Youtube Mom channel.

Identifi-fiction

          Have you ever had to get an ID sticker to wear when visiting someone at the hospital?  Our son, Richie, recently had heart surgery, and this is the sticker I was asked to wear:

          Let me ask you: Can you even tell it’s a photo of a person?  I imagine the purpose of these stickers is to prevent people from sneaking in and sleeping in empty rooms, but that’s just a guess.  Still, shouldn’t the photo at least resemble the actual person?  This shot doesn't even show a face:

             Schools and businesses also require these IDs. And, of course you capture images on security cameras. But I’ve seen pictures of furniture that look more human than some of these shots.

And can you even tell who this is? 

 Or this? I must know half a dozen people who look just like these images.

           Here’s my driver’s license photo, which was taken when I was bald from having chemo. Yes, I’m wearing a wig.

           But at least it looks humanoid. Who would have thought the DMV would be the best photographer in this ID business?

Hey, check out my Youtube Mom videos. You'll find all kinds of life hacks. No ID required. And I respond to every comment (well, not the trolls). 

My Gracie Allen Moment

           Does anyone remember The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show? It was before my time, but I’ve seen recorded episodes, which you can watch online for free.

 It ran a year longer than I Love Lucy, and you have to admire this married couple’s comedic timing. We even have a book about them:

Gracie played the part of an innocent, ditzy wife, but I suspect she was much smarter than she was playing.

I did not suspect that I would be copying her illogical lines by accident last week.

          I’ll give you an example of a Gracie line. An interviewer asked her about her childhood. “Were you the oldest one in the family?”

"No, no," she replies. "My mother and father were much older."

So last week we were driving through a hospital complex and I saw the word “DELIVERIES” on a door near some trash cans and rubble.

“Oh, that can’t be for deliveries!” I said. “Who would want to have a baby here?”

Fortunately St. Bob was adept at playing George Burns and simply reminded me that this is where vendors delivered their packages.

Oh. Nevermind. (And now I feel like Rosanne Roseanna Danna.)

Take a look at the life hacks I share on my youtube channel. I promise it will be better than a drive through a hospital parking lot.

In the Waiting Room with St. Bob

            Literally anywhere can be entertaining if you have St. Bob with you. For example, one of our sons had a medical procedure last week, so Bob and I found a couple of chairs to sit in, while we waited.

          A TV was hanging on the wall before us, and Bob immediately pointed out the “NO FOOD OR DRINK” sign.  Then the soda machine just to the left.

         Next he popped into the restroom, where he snapped this photo:

          Looks normal, right? Environmental Services had posted it. Then St. Bob told me to zoom in.  He had scribbled in a couple of extra letters:

 

          Next he stepped casually up to the television and disobeyed the other "Please do not touch the television" sign.

          It’s not easy traveling about with a bored 6-year-old.

I recommend bringing along one of my books!

Having a Blast?

           Can I just stay out of the hospital for a few minutes, please? My last routine x-ray revealed two kidney stones loitering around the water fountain in one of my kidneys, and my doctor said she could blast them so they don’t become actually, raging kidney stones.

          Having had those twice, I agreed. Zap ‘em while they’re not looking. So, under I went, asleep for the simple procedure.  But then—what they don’t reveal in the trailer for this movie—is that you have to capture these bits of sand, now, with a strainer, and turn them in like the loitering criminals they are.

          Not only that, but you have to have someone (St. Bob) do percussion on your kidneys twice a day to loosen these particles. Because being naked again in front of a room full of strangers (a.k.a. nurses, etc.) wasn’t bad enough. I kid you not, here’s the position you have to take for this pounding: 

          Seriously? And you have to drink gobs of water beforehand—how do you keep it down while basically standing on your head?  And how do you and your husband not fall over laughing at these gymnastics?

          Not only that, but am I the only person who sees a bigger problem here? If these tiny bits don’t pass on their own, what’s the downside? I’ll tell you what it is. They can grow, right? And become a zillion REAL kidney stones! It’s just like Mickey Mouse’s broom in Fantasia's The Sorcerer’s Apprentice—each time he chopped it, brooms would grow from the splinters! 

          So what we’ve created here, it seems to me, are kidney stone seeds! This is not my idea of having a blast. I’ll let you know if I move into a wing of the local hospital. Meanwhile, if you have any secret stones yourself, you can order my books here and see if laughing jiggles them loose. 

Octoman?

          In the spirit of competition, our eldest son, Richie, recently went by ambulance to the hospital. (If you're a regular reader, you know that Bob and I have been trying to one-up each other with surgeries and doctor visits.) Five days later--and five thousand gray hairs on my part-- he was discharged and is back at work.

          At one point he needed at CT-Scan, so four nurses and orderlies decided to move him to a rolling gurney.

          First, of course, all his IV tubes had to be unplugged. 

          I commented that he looked like an octopus because he had so many tubes. And that was all it took.

          “I really have a quarrel with Merriam-Webster over this,” he said. (Who quarrels with Merriam-Webster?)

          Then, as the workers transferred him to the gurney, he launched into a detailed explanation of why the plural of octopus should be octopuses.  Apparently the Latin plural would be octopi, but that’s incorrect because it actually has a Greek root. This means it would be octopodes, but if you do that, then the singular should be octopod.

          Bob and I were trying not to lock glances. I was also trying not to acknowledge the “Are you kidding me” glances of the nurses and orderlies.

          Really, Richie explained, in this case the simplest solution was also the best one. It should be octopuses. But, alas, people try to be pretentious and overdo various forms of words unnecessarily.

          Oh, good gravy. Which, by the way, is also unavailable in the hospital.

          Perfect for any hospital stay—check out my books (although you might want to avoid the humorous ones if you have stitches).

Ever Tried This Christmas Tradition?

          We all have holiday traditions, right? It seems mine is to have major medical procedures on them. My main cancer surgery was right before Thanksgiving last year, followed by another two surgeries right before Christmas. Then I started chemo on Valentine’s Day. I think radiation began on St. Bob’s birthday, and now I’m having reconstructive surgery right before Christmas again. I sure know how to get out of cooking a giant feast!

          However, as you read this I am now back from a lengthy hospital stay and am enjoying a whole new tradition: Christmas fireworks. At least that’s what I am anticipating as ALL of our wonderful grown children are with us (hasn’t happened in a long time!) and it’s up to them to cook. One is vegan, one is keto, one avoids glutin, one likes junk food and one hates to cook. Should be hilarious. (Plus varied political views which I have told them to keep to themselves but you know how that works.)

          I’m thinking I will pull up a nearby chair, sit there in my pain-med-induced stupor, and enjoy the entertainment.  

St. Bob has planned a wonderful day for them: Zip-lining, rock climbing, and a Via Ferrata rope challenge at the local Quarry Park Adventures. But I fully expect our plans to get rained out. Plus I looked at the website, saw the words “Free Fall,” and now I’m praying for snow. One Christmas hospital visit is enough, right?

Even though it’s Christmas Eve, you can order a sleigh-ful of my Christmas booklet, A Little Christmas Prayer. You can enjoy it throughout the season (hopefully without any injuries) and even stock up early, for next year.

Just Sign Here, Please

          In my last blog I told you I signed “Zorro” on all my hospital forms. This is absolutely true. My handwriting is so sloppy that it kind of looks like the way I sign Joni Hilton anyway. But St. Bob found out and was a bit concerned that I might get in trouble. 

          You mean worse trouble than having a mastectomy (twice, if you count the repair), then nose dermabrasion, then having lymph nodes removed? And I lost count of the biopsies in the clinical trial. I’d like to see what further “trouble” they can conjure up!

          Does he think this is going to go on my permanent record? I mean on Zorro's permanent record? 

          Or maybe he’s worried they’ll want to take everything back. Oh, be my guest!  Rewind that tape and return the breast and the lymph nodes? Sign me up. “Uh, here’s the tissue we removed, Ma’am.” And what can they possibly repossess-- stitches? I need those removed anyway.

          How about a lawsuit?  This I would welcome because I guarantee the judge will step down off the bench, come over to me and give me a high five. 

          Same thing happened when I was called to jury duty and then dismissed for being a comedy writer.

          Zorro it is.

Have you ever read a book by Zorro? Aha-- now you can. Well, sort of. Find all my books right here.

Alter Ego

Here’s how to look like a super spy. First, have a mastectomy that requires a drain. This handy tube will connect to a little bulb that looks like a hand grenade.  It will rest in a little pouch at your waist.

Now put on any top, shirt, or jacket. You will see a bulge that looks like you are totally packing heat, and lots of it. Folks will think you’re armed with a Glock and a silencer, maybe even a machine gun.

But wait, there’s more. Now have basal cell skin cancer on your nose, which will require a bandage (read: disguise). No one will ever be able to identify you in a lineup!

Last, be thinking of these daring superheroes when you’re in the hospital to have lymph nodes removed later. You’ll be filling out a zillion boring forms as if purchasing a condominium for crying out loud (well, that’s not all they’re for), and you’ll think, “Wait. I’m a caped crusader. I shouldn’t have to sit here and sign ‘Joni Hilton’ on everything.”

And you’ll realize your signature is always such a rushed mess that nobody can read it anyway, right?  And then you’ll do what I did on every one of those forms: You’ll sign them all Zorro.

And then you’ll order my books to read while recovering.

Are You Kidney-ing Me?

           Just before my surgery for breast cancer we learned that a dear friend back East is facing final stage kidney disease. This means he needs a new kidney, or he will have to do dialysis day and night, at home. I was teaching a writing class when I got the sudden impression that I should offer him my kidney.

          So, after class, I left a voice message for his wife, then drove home and told Bob.  “I figure if I’m already under anesthetic, then it’s one hospital stay and one recovery.”

Bob just stared at me.  “They can’t do that—they can’t do a mastectomy and a kidney operation at the same time!”

“Oh, please,” I said. “People  come in all the time after a traffic  accident and they need five things done at once.  What are they going to say—‘We’ll fix your punctured lung, but those broken legs are going to have to wait’?  Of course they can do it.”

He asked if I had considered the risks and that maybe this should be a couples decision, not one I make by myself in an impulsive moment.  Ah. Okay, I forgot about that part.

          “What are they going to do,” Bob went on, “tape it up in a Styrofoam cooler and then if it doesn’t make it, come back for the other one?”

          I’m pretty good at smirking. “I’m sure they can deliver it.”

          “We don’t even know if you’re a match,” he said. “And you’ve had kidney stones twice!”

          True, this might become a deep discount kidney sale, given that my kidneys like to churn out stones.

          “And you’re a cancer patient!”  he continued.

          Okay, maybe I am not the optimal donor. But my “as is” kidney is still on the clearance rack if he wants it. 

          The next morning we had another biopsy, and the women who mails off the tissue samples met us with a rolling refrigerated case.  I nudged Bob. “I’ll bet a kidney would fit in there,” I said.  He explained my “hare-brained idea” to her and she laughed until she cried.

          And that’s when I know my work here is done.

Aren’t you curious about the kinds of books I write? Most are humor but some are straight-up whatever.  Check ‘em out here.

A Stickler for Details

          Quick quiz: When was Joni most likely to get caught breaking a law? Answer: When she took a Sharpie pen over to the local high school at night, and corrected the punctuation on a sign that said, SLOW STUDENTS AHEAD.

          So how can I possibly stay in a hospital bed beneath this sign?

          Why the arm is also a topography map escapes me.  But the more glaring problem is that the warning not to give injections or take blood pressure on the left arm has a misplaced apostrophe.  Sticks is plural. It is not a contraction and it is not possessive. Yet you see this all the time.  Slack’s on sale. Return shopping cart’s here.  Lower price’s. Free ticket’s.  It’s enough to put one in a straitjacke’t.

          Luckily our daughter, Nicole, was there. I asked her to find some white adhesive tape and cover the apostrophe.

          Finally the repair was made.  And then St. Bob found me a room with a view of Sutter’s Fort. Now that does have an apostrophe.

          Have you read Sisters in the Mix yet?  The main character has my same penchant for fixing signs. But she also has OCD, whereas I only have CPD (Correct Punctuation Desire).

Coming To

          You know I recently had a mastectomy. You know I find comedy in almost everything. And you know major surgery is usually done with anesthetic.  This, my friends, is the recipe for a very embarrassing cocktail.

          When I had my wisdom teeth removed at 19, I had a follow-up visit where all the nurses clustered around to tell me how hilarious I was under anesthetic.  This is never good news. 

          This time I recall just bits and pieces, so I can only imagine the parts I’ve forgotten.  Note to self: Never have surgery at that hospital ever again, lest you run into the same surgical team.

          Just gaining consciousness after the procedure this time, I noticed a young male nurse fidgeting with the wires and tubes attached to my chest.  “Don’t cut the green wire,” I said, “or we’ll all blow up.”

          I yammered on and on (this much I remember) and finally, a little worried, said to one nurse, “Am I the most talkative patient you’ve had?”

          She just looked at me, then said, “So far.”  What—in her entire career? Marvelous.

          Soon St. Bob and Nicole were ushered in.  The surgery had taken almost five hours, so they had gone to the hospital cafeteria for lunch. I asked them how it was and Nicole said it wasn’t great.  “Shocking,” I said. “You do know they have three Michelin stars here.” Well, seriously, this is a hospital-- what did you expect?

          In my room I dictated some notes on my phone to ask my surgeon when she came in.  But you know how auto-correct is.  So when I finally saw her, I scanned my list and saw, “Did you save Nepal?”  And, apparently she is a superhero in her spare time, because she definitely saved Nepal.

Whether you’re laid up in bed or running around, check out my books (and they make awesome Christmas gifts, too!)