Haiku Heights, Blood

(Based on a true story told on an episode of Dr. Phil.)

Crimson death, one shot

Current title card

Current title card (Photo credit: Wikipedia) soul cries out foul

parent’s nightmare, two friends lie

Deception is cruel.

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Steady stream, cries foul

Pooled in green pus,  infection

Rusty deep gray nail.

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Birth, death, wounded, hurt

blood surrounds Earth, in silk twine

commonality.

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Gash, stripped open, knife

English: This pic was taken during the making ...

English: This pic was taken during the making of “The Comfort of Hell” video. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wounds that penetrate, wide, hard

Question: cruelty.

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Eppiglottitis: Dear Innocent Souls, YES, You Can Get It Again. (I Should Know) 4/2013

English: Title: Torture Chamber of the Inquisi...

English: Title: Torture Chamber of the Inquisition. From ‘A Complete History of the Inquisition’, Westminster, London 1736 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The plight of those of us who have suffered from Eppiglottitis, an illnesses/virus/ torture/infection has gotten way with too much pain already and NOT just in the United States. People from many countries around the world share the pain. I know that for sure. There are searches for Epiglottitis on my blog, always. Today there was a search, from some poor, innocent soul who asked: “Eppiglottitis, is it possible to get it twice?” Oh, dear one, I just want to give you a great big hug and plant gentle kisses on the top of your sweet, innocent head.

Yes, you can get it again. In my blog I have written about the two times I had Eppiglottitis and how I wanted to beg, borrow or steal major pain killers from hospitals, doctors or become a gangster and hang out in the streets to score illegal drugs (okay not really ). People really do not understand the amount of pain that this  illness brings and frankly, unless your ENT (Ear, Nose and Throat, Doctor) has had it, they don’t know a thing about how painful it is either. Not for one second. The only people who know are the people who have had it or are going through it now. Do I smell the beginning of a support group?

What does it feel like? It’s like taking a scalding steak knife and searing your huge, ugly, raw open wound, repeatedly (obviously with no anaesthesia) over and over again. It is impossible to swallow because the pain is so excruciating but really what choice do we have? The last time I had it I was on a cocktail of medicines, steroids, a throat rinse, antibiotics and whatever else they threw at me but what I needed was a morphine drip and a sleeping medicine that lasted a solid week. I wish.

When I couldn’t stand the pain anymore I dragged my body to the medical group, to the ENT offices before they opened and BEGGED for someone to see me. I was in so much pain that I was crying and I looked like all hell, pale, distraught, helpless and hopeless. This is not something I would normally ever do. I was so grateful that they let me go sit in the office chair, who knows, maybe they were afraid of me. I WAS afraid of me. When the doctor came in, he scoped me, which requires putting a tiny tube through your nose to see beyond your throat. He literally gasped and said “How the hell did you get THAT?” I was not in the mood for rhetorical questions nor was I feeling combative. I just wanted him to tell me how on earth to get rid of this demon that had taken up residence in my body.

Apparently it’s not common to get and very difficult to get rid of, I live in fear of getting it again and I assure you, every Fall I think about it when the weather turns chilly although I am sure I could get it at anytime. Another doctor suggested that if I get it again to go see an Infectious Disease Doctor in addition to my ENT. Great, that’s what we need, to waste more time in doctor’s offices waiting to be treated. I’d rather check into Rehab so I could become a drug addict for pain relief until it healed.

I’m here for support, questions and comments. I am not a medical doctor, no, I’m better. I’m a patient who knows exactly what you are going through. Ask away or just complain, it’s not anything I haven’t complained about already.

Happy Birthday Daddy

Wiener Schnitzel

Image via Wikipedia

November 13th is my dad’s birthday, he would have been 88. He passed away almost 9 years ago but the pain on holidays, birthdays, Father’s Day, is the same raw pain as the day he died.  It’s a pain that is hard to describe for people who have never lost a parent. Believe me, I know.

Instead of wallowing in depression this year I am going to try to remember and honor the man I loved so dearly. His blue-gray eyes, child-like qualities, generosity, pep-talks and his warmth. I miss the soft yet sturdy hugs as if a limb of my own had been amputated. I miss the familiar smell of his after-shave cologne that he sprayed with enthusiasm. My dad and I were very similar; he and I had an amazing connection and a strong emotional bond. We thought alike and we completely understood each other. The day he died, my heart was gauged with intense pain, my heart missing an essential beat.

My dad and I had so much fun together when I was younger. We traveled to  Vienna, Austria, where my grandparents lived. We ate sugary-sweet meringues that were shaped like delicate white swans and sipped hot chocolate with “schlag”  (whipped cream). We ate exploding red-berry sweet and sour tarts in Viennese cafes. My grandmother would fry up her famous wiener schnitzel,  served with plump lemon wedges every single night.

I was in first grade when my mom couldn’t come to open school day but my dad came. I think he was the only father in the class and I was so proud, so happy that he was there. I remember sharing my milk and cookies with him and I felt so important. At a shared birthday party with a friend he surprised me by coming home from work early, sneaking into the party like a secret surprise. It was a joy so innocent and so intense that I remember the feeling to this day. I was shocked and delighted as I wrapped my arms around his tall legs like a clinging, furry animal. Back then dads’ weren’t as involved in their children’s’ lives as they are today but he always had time for me; his little one, his mouse, his baby.

We had adventures, the two of us. My mother worked a great deal, she traveled the world being a tour director and translator. One night my father and I went out to a Spanish restaurant and sipped sangria, with glistening, beaming chunks of bright oranges and green apples bobbing in the rich, red wine. We toasted people we knew with every sip we took. The more we sipped the stranger the toasts were. I remember we toasted a wall -paper hanger guy that never showed up to our house, people we barely knew and random people from the past.

We went to the bagel store together, early on a Sunday morning and the store was closed. However, the fresh, warm, doughy bagels had already been delivered to the store in huge paper sacks. My dad happily took some and we left, an experience a teenager doesn’t forget! We would go grocery shopping at a huge Pathmark store with my mom and he and I would find the biggest size jars of silly things: three-pound troughs of peanut butter and dill pickles, tubs of mandarin oranges and hide them in the cart as a joke. My mother would roll her eyes and shake her head, clearly not amused, but my dad and I would laugh hysterically. Often, there would be open boxes of cookies or candy and we would help ourselves to free samples. Back then, we weren’t worried about poison or germs or anthrax.

My father spent his entire life working for TWA,  getting free airline tickets for our family.  My father, mother, older sister and I flew to: France, Greece, Portugal, Israel, Switzerland and Germany. First class seats were a mere eight dollars extra but that was a lot of money years ago and a very special treat.

This Saturday on my dad’s birthday my husband and I are going to visit my mom and take her out for lunch, we don’t want her to be alone. I know that spending the day with my mom would make my dad very happy.  He loved my mom more than anyone else in the world. Later, that night, my kids and I will remember him with his own, signature and messy concoction, “Papa’s game”: a “mixture” containing  little bits of everything that is leftover on our plates and in our glasses, swirled together with a spoon and a smile. This year, I will toast to his memory.