Living large in Fatopia.

Posts tagged ‘time’

Heart Fart

I am not looking forward to Thursday afternoon. Mr. Fatchick and I have to make a trip back to our regular doctor. I’ve been away from Fatopia because one of the seven stents that are keeping things open around his heart got blocked off and had to be replaced the other day. Again. He’d had another heart fart.

Heart Fart


It all started about three years ago. Mr. Fatchick didn’t feel well, so we took him to the doctor, and before all was said and done, he ended up having a heart attack, was hospitalized, and had a stent put in to open one of the arteries going to his heart so blood can get to it like it should. Scared me half to death to be honest, but I didn’t let on at the time. At least I don’t think I did. But I digress.

Over time, the blockages kept coming. Heart attacks and myocardial infarctions kept happening. More stints needed to be placed. At first it was like maybe twice a year. Now, Mr. Fatchick is lucky if he gets six weeks between hospital visits. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he was trying to collect those little stent cards like kids collect baseball cards. He’s getting a nice stack of them in his wallet.

The thing is, you are supposed to give it at least three months, or 90 days, between arteriagrams. That’s where they make an incision near your groin area to go up the main artery in your leg that leads up to your heart. If they must do the procedure closer than that, it gets even more dangerous than usual. Mr. Fatchick had just had another stent put in about six weeks before this heart fart, so he insisted they go up the other leg this time. Not a popular opinion, but since he was the patient, he had the power of veto on his side, so they did it his way.

So, why do I not look forward to that trip to the doctor for his follow-up appointment? Well, Dr. H, is a great doctor. I wouldn’t take anything in the world for him. But he is as slow as molasses running uphill in the dead of winter with snow on the ground. We are talking so slow that I usually end up sending Mr. Fatchick out to bring our supper back to the waiting room so we can eat it while we wait. Like we don’t leave the office until after 10 pm when we had a 2 o’clock appointment kind of late.

Doc doesn’t get in a hurry for anyone, which is really great if you’re in the room with him and you’re the patient. But if you’re outside in the waiting room, well, it sucks hairy monkey balls big time. Now don’t get me wrong, I understand that if I want him to take that kind of time with me and mine, I have to allow him to give that kind of time to everyone else, but you tell that to my butt when I’ve been sitting for four or six hours straight and it’s gone to sleep and is snoring loud enough for the whole waiting room to hear it.

So no, I’m not looking forward to visiting doc Thursday afternoon, but I’ll go. For Mr. Fatchick, I’ll go. To keep him on this side of a dirt nap, I’ll go. I won’t like it, but I’ll go. Bah!

Time, Time, Time

Crazy clock eye

Springing forward, falling back, changing the clocks, it blows my mind every single time. For a couple of weeks after time changes I’m no good to anyone for anything. I have narcolepsy, so my internal clock spins about like a compass left sitting on a magnet most of the time. I have no concept of time. I live by lists and the alarms on my phone and tablet. Yes, it takes two alarms to keep me straight. Don’t judge me.

A prime example of how things go for me — I have no idea where I was going with this post. I know it was going to start out being about the time on the clocks changing and then morph into something greater about life as a whole changing, but I’ve completely lost my train of thought. That train has left the station and dropped me off in The Land of Confusion once again.

Sorry, I’ll have to get back to you on this one. And now for my next trick, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.

gray rabbit1

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