Fatigue has a way of playing tricks with your mind. What you experience may not be what it seems.

 

However, when the truth of the situation unfolds, what has occurred starts to make sense. But . . .

 

 

Would You Believe It Happened On New Year’s Eve?

 

     It was December 31 and I had to work. My day was long and boring. And it didn’t end until after 7:00 p.m. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I cleared my desk, grabbed my brief case, and dragged my fatigued body to my car. I slid into the driver’s seat and began the drive home.

     After a hellish twenty-six minutes, in which I had trouble keeping my eyes open, I pulled into the garage. Exiting the car, I headed through the covered walkway to the house.

     Entering through the front door, Bruno, our huge Saint Bernard, wearing a hat that read, “Happy New Year,” greeted me by jumping up and placing his paws on my shoulders. He then planted a slobbery kiss across my mouth and cheek. My balance compromised, I grabbed for the coat rack hanging on the wall in the hallway, while trying to push Bruno off me. I regained my composure, threw my coat over a hook on the rack, and called to my wife and kids, but got no response.

     I looked at the large mahogany grandfather clock sitting like a stately grandmaster against the wall across from the coat rack. It displayed the time, eight o’clock, and began to chime.

     I heard loud talking coming from the kitchen, so I dragged my tired body toward the commotion that must have prevented my family from hearing me call to them. Entering the room, I kissed my wife, Sheila, and hugged the kids, who had eaten a late dinner after spending the afternoon with her at the mall returning unwanted Christmas gifts. Then, without a word, I turned and left the room.

     I ambled down the hall to our bedroom and changed out of my suit and tie into my gray sweats, threw some water on my face, and returned to the kitchen. Grabbing a bowl of chicken noodle soup from the pot on the stove, I plodded toward the living room, placed the soup on a coaster on the coffee table, and collapsed onto our large, plush sectional couch.

     As I settled in, Sheila and the kids joined me to watch the end of our favorite reality show, Amazon Survivor.  After downing my dinner, I did my best to stay awake until the show ended. It concluded at 9:00 p.m. and Sheila hustled the kids off to bed.

     “Good night, Daddy,” Nicholas, my eight-year-old, sung out.

     Olivia, my subdued six-year-old, whispered, “Nighty night, Daddy.” 

     Before I could respond, they headed to their bedrooms. Sheila leaned over and kissed me gently on the cheek and whispered, “Try not to fall asleep on the couch, as you always do. Instead of staying up, why don’t you come to bed now? You look bushed.”

     With my eyes half closed, I muttered, “It’s too early. I need time to unwind. And it’s New Year’s Eve.”

     “You can unwind in bed, you know. And I don’t have the energy to stay up until midnight. The kids and I had a full day.” Not waiting for a response, she turned and left the room.

     Moving to the chaise lounge portion of the couch, a comfortable section built for two, I stretched out my bone-tired torso on its soft velvet pillows. I reached for the remote, fumbled with it to find the “Guide” button and flipped through the selections until I located the Sci Fi Channel. Pressing “Information,” I read aloud, “Lucas Kieron and Sonia Tyrone in Disaster in a Small Town.” I pressed “OK” and settled in.

     This “highbrow” movie made me wish I’d selected another channel. However, too tired to make the effort to find something else to watch, I stared at the screen and tried hard to stay focused on the story. However, just as I realized this wouldn’t occur, my cell phone rang. Jumping up off the chaise, I grabbed it from the end table, hit “ON,” and sputtered, “Hello.” 

     “Hi, Julian, this is Mason. I wanted to get back to you to discuss the tax question you asked me about yesterday. And by the way, Happy New Year.”

     “Happy New Year to you, too, Mason. Thank you for calling.”

     Mason is my accountant and though I know we began to talk, I can’t remember what was said or even if we completed our conversation. And I don’t recall hanging up the phone or how I got back on the chaise lounge. But I reclined there with my eyes drooping.

     I had difficulty concentrating on the TV and the gore and devastation of a town in the midst of a tremendous earthquake, with people struggling to extricate themselves from the rubble. With my legs resting on the bed of the chaise, I endeavored to pay attention to the program, but fought a losing battle. I drifted into a semi-conscious state, not quite asleep, but not awake. 

     Then strange things started happening. I attempted to roll to my left and then my right, but had trouble doing so. I tried to bend my legs in an effort to get up, but they seemed to be pinned to the chaise. Lying on my back, with my eyes almost closed, I scanned the room, but could see only faint shadows, as the only light in the room came from the darkened picture of earthquake debris on the TV screen. 

     I felt a stabbing pain in my left thigh. I reached down to rub it and touched strange objects all around me.  As I endeavored to maneuver my stricken body, I realized something large held my legs within its grasp. I began to wiggle to free them, but to no avail. The more I struggled, the more it seemed things tumbled down onto my defenseless frame. The pain from the weight on my legs became greater and I tried to shout out in anguish, “Oh Lord, what on earth is happening?” But nothing came out of my mouth, as I fought for a breath of air.

     I attempted to locate my cell phone, but couldn’t find it. I remembered I was talking on it with Mason. However, at some time during the conversation everything seemed to go dark and then I felt trapped. But I had no idea how all this occurred.

     Maybe the phone was still on, so I gasped, “Mason,” but got no response. I tried again to move the huge object draped across my legs, however, it wouldn’t budge.

     Thinking I heard noises coming from outside the window, I attempted to yell, “Help me, I’m trapped in here.” But only a whisper came out and nobody responded. I began to panic and stammered, “Please, p . . . lease help me, I can’t move.” Again, no response.

     Could my mind be playing tricks on me? Did I imagine the voices coming from outside my window? Is this all a dream?

     My thoughts returned to the thunderous crash and subsequent falling debris. Did we have an earthquake? I didn’t feel any shaking. There was no warning. Everything just collapsed. Maybe this didn’t happen here, but just in the movie.

     But then why can’t I move my legs? I tried once more. However, nothing happened. It felt as though a herd of elephants had taken refuge on top of them.

     Why had I been placed in this perilous situation? Would anybody come looking for me? Maybe Mason would? But if we got disconnected, why hadn’t he called me back? Was he all right?

     Alone, frightened, and powerless to save myself, I feared I’d lost the battle with this silent and unforgiving foe. But I couldn’t give up. And what about my wife and kids? Were they all right?

     I attempted to retain whatever sanity I had left. Something is watching me, I thought. Mysteriously my voice returned, and I screamed in defiance, “I know you’re out there.”     

     A shrill voice responded, “You bet I am, Julian. Shut off the damn TV. I told you I didn’t want to stay up until midnight. And that stupid sci-fi movie is going to wake the kids. Come to bed, now!” 

     Sheila’s high-pitched, piercing voice startled Bruno, who had fallen into a peaceful sleep, draped across my legs, now quite frozen stiff. He rose and shook himself so hard the whole room seemed to vibrate. With my legs now free, I removed the large plastic dog bone that jabbed into my left thigh and struggled to get up off the couch.

     Then the lights went on and I saw stuffed dog toys all around me. As I gazed across the room, the menacing stare of my enraged wife cut through me. She held a dog toy in her hand and was about to hurl it in my direction. Before she could release it, I looked into her eyes and whimpered, “I’m coming dear.”

     “I sure hope so,” she said, shaking her head. She dropped the toy, turned, and left the room. I slid off the couch and shut off the TV and overhead light. Then, being the obedient husband she wanted me to be, with my head bent to my chest, I followed her down the hallway to our bedroom. As I entered, I looked up and saw balloons with letters hanging from them. I guess it was going to be a “Happy New Year” after all. 

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Do doctors have the answers to keep us healthy and able to do what we want to do? Is their advice always sound?

 

Sometimes I’ve had to question what a physician told me. But then I met the doctor who provided me with . . .

 

The Best Medical Advice I Ever Received

 

It was a partly cloudy Tuesday in the Bay Area.

I sat in my doctor’s waiting room

And awaited my name to be called

To see him

For my annual physical.

 

I felt pretty good

For a thirty-eight year old man

And anticipated the doctor’s

Positive evaluation—

One that would leave me smiling.

 

He asked me to undress

And sit on the examination table.

He took my blood pressure,

Checked my pulse,

And then my heart.

 

“Everything looks good,” he said.

"Just one more test."

He took a rubber hammer

From his lab coat

And hit my left and then right knee.

 

His smile turned to a frown,

And he commented,

“I don’t like your reflexes.

You will need to see a specialist—

A neurosurgeon I will recommend.”

 

Before he could give me the referral,

I stated, “There is only one such doctor

I will agree to see.

His name is Dr. Carver,

A prominent neurosurgeon in Southern California.”

 

He gulped and blurted,

“He won’t see you!”

“Oh yes he will,”

I responded with confidence,

And asked for a written referral.

 

That afternoon,

I called my sister

And asked her to get me

An appointment

With Dr. Carver.

 

Fifteen minutes later,

My phone rang.

My sister said,

“Can you get a flight

To Los Angeles on Thursday?”

 

Thursday afternoon,

We entered the doctor’s office,

And checked in at the front desk.

Within seconds the doctor

Came into the waiting room.

 

With a glow surrounding him,

He approached my sister,

Put his arms around her,

Hugged and kissed her,

And led me to the examination room.

 

“You must be wondering

Why I did that,” he said.

“Most of my patients,

With a cerebral aneurysm that bursts

On the operating table, are paralyzed or die.”

 

Then he examined me,

Looked at my lumbar spine X-rays,

And gave me

The best medical advice

I ever received.

 

“Surgery is a last resort,”

He stated with conviction.

“When you can no longer reduce the pain

By cutting out the activities

That cause it,

 

“Or when you’ve eliminated

So much

That you have no quality of life,

Then come back

And see me.

 

“I’ll be sixty-seven in June,

And my back surgery

Will allow me

to continue

to ski.”

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

9-1-1 is an emergency telephone number in the United States and other countries. Like other emergency numbers around the world, this number is intended for use in emergency circumstances only.

 

But if you’re a senior citizen and your emergency is more an urgency than a crisis, you need to call . . .

 

 

9-1-2

 

“This is 9-1-2. What’s your urgency?”

“I’m eighty-one, my cat fell asleep in my lap, and I can’t get out of my chair.”

 

“Gently squeeze his back to awaken him.”

“But what if he gets angry?”

 

“Okay, ma’am, a truck is on its way.

Is your door open.”

 

“Didn’t you hear me?

I can’t get up with my fifty-pound cat in my lap.”

 

“Well, ma’am, if we can’t get in,

we can’t remove the cat?”

 

“You’re no help at all.

Goodbye!”

 

“Ma’am, don’t hang up.

What is your cat’s name?”

 

“Julius—Julius Caesar.

He’s a roamin’ cat.”

 

“All right, hold the phone to his ear.

Have you done it?”

 

“Huh. Yes!” she screeched.

“He’s gone—jumped off my lap. Thank you.”

 

“That’s what we’re here for.

Have a good day.”

 

“This is 9-1-2. What’s your urgency?”

“My husband fell asleep on the pot.”

 

“So, why do you need us?

Just open the door and tell him to get up.”

 

“But the door is locked.

He’s been in there for two hours and isn’t responding.”

 

“Do you have a good marriage?

Is he faithful?”

 

“Yes, I think so.

Why does that matter?”

 

“Sometimes calling out the girlfriend’s name will get his attention.

Try yelling, ‘Joanie is here and wants to see you.’”

 

She did as I asked.

And, to my amazement, I heard a loud scream.

 

“How the hell did you find out about Joanie?” he shouted.

“And why are you holding the door shut?”

 

“You’ll be getting the name of a marriage counselor in the mail.

Also, a good divorce lawyer. Goodbye, ma’am.”

 

“This is 9-1-2. What’s your urgency?”

“My mother forgot to give me my lunch money.”

 

“How old are you?

We are here to help senior citizens with their daily problems.”

 

“I’m fifty-five.

I need my lunch money, or I’ll starve to death.”

 

“I think you should talk to your mother. You do live with her, don’t you?”

No answer. “Please let me speak with her.”

 

“She can’t come to the phone.

She’s hanging on the clothes line in the backyard.”

 

“She’s hanging clothes on the clothes line in the yard.

Is that what you said?”

 

“No, she’s hanging on the clothes line.

I wouldn’t have done it if she’d given me the money.”

 

“Excuse me, sir, I have to put you on hold so I can make a call.”

“This is 9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.