© 2011 Timmy Tamisiea. All rights reserved. Stone Tablets.  iPad.  Potato.  Potato.

50/365 – Ghost in the Machine / Gall and Oats (Part 1 of 4)

It’s probably no big surprise that I don’t write these posts the same day as the date.  I usually write them a 1-3 days after the day indicated.  I will write notes in a small pocket notebook indicating what i want to write about or things that happened during the day that I feel would make a good post.  Otherwise, I have little time to write the same day.  That would requite writing it at the end of the day and I’m just too damn tired.  This, post, however, is being written same day, suckas!  Yeah!

Why?

I was writing post 48/365 – Spel Chek when I got to the part about Apple OS Lion’s Auto Correct feature.  It’s a two edged sword.  While its nice to have as a feature that can help with spelling, most of the time it substitutes words that are in no way close to what I intended.  Since I never took a formal typing class, I stare at the keyboard when I type, not the screen.  So, if there isn’t a squiggly red line under the word, I skip right over it.

Well, the ghost of Steve Jobs must have been pissed.  As soon as I wrote that section I inserted a photograph of an iPhone text conversation between a mother and her son that was pretty funny and accurately portrayed the flaws of Auto Correct.  This one:

Yeah, right. Blame Auto Correct. Your mom’s just weird.

Well, as soon as I dropped the picture onto my desktop, something strange happened.  Something I have NEVER seen on a mac.  Something that has only occurred on a PC – I was hit with about 50 pop up web pages.  They were like a bad Jay Leno monologue – it felt like it wouldn’t stop.  If I clicked on a the dialogue box, it would pop up two more.  I had to force quit Safari and reopened it to find another OS Lion annoyance – when you re-open an application, it opened all the pages that were on your desktop when you closed it last.  So, I’m stuck with the 50 pop ups again. Damn-it.  Eventually, I had to clear my cashe, cookies and reset Safari.  It took me about 20 minutes because the pop-ups severely slowed the computer down.

 

So, to save face . . . oh, spirit of Steve Jobs.  I’m sorry you died before you could address the flaws inheireny in your new Mac OS.  Send your blessing down onto your tech crew in Cupertino and give them the power to keep your innovative yet practical spirit alive.

Stone Tablets. iPad. Potato. Potato.

Love, Timmy.

 

PS – Can I have a free desktop?

UPDATE:  This post was addition was written hours after this post appeared.

Does anyone recall how I’ve been complaining about the lack of quality time with my wife?  You know, her work schedule is during the day.  Mine is at night.  We meet in the middle somewhere between the drool on our pillows and the half-awake groans that pass for “I love you.”  If only there were a way we could spend some quality time together .  . . Calgon, take us away!

No, Calgon!  Don’t take that away!  I said take US away.  As in Megan and I.  Damn it.  What is being taken away?  Well, Calgon or nature or the devil or something/one has decided that the only way to bring us two kooky kids together is to give Megan some excruciating pain.  In her gall bladder.  Her what?  The gall bladder, silly.  The gall bladder; bringing busy couples together since the suffrage movement.  Let me tell you all the story of how a bunch of gall stones brought Megan Tamisiea and Timmy Tamisiea together.

Around 10:30pm this past Saturday, I came home from Second City to find Megan still awake.  See, that’s clue number one that something is horribly wrong.  Megan is like a 6 year old – she needs to go to bed early.  If not, she gets aww ti-ti and cwanky.  She told me she’d had back pain all night.  I tried the ol’ bear hug trick – where you lean back and shake the person till their back cracked\s.  It didn’t work.  And, in hind sight, it’s never worked for Megan.  Well, I was running on empty and was nodding off periodically as the poor girl writhed in pain.  She couldn’t sleep.

The next morning, Sunday, she had slept about an hour.  I went off into the jolly world of blog writing while she watched Hulu and desperately tried to shrug off the pain.  Pain that began to radiate to her abdomen.  We called the illustrious Dr. Tamisiea (also know as Dad) for some advice.  7-up and Milk of Magnesia.  Well, after copies amounts of M.o.M., Pepto Bismo, Advil and 7-up, Megan still could not shake the pain.  She’d hadn’t eaten anything since 6:30pm the day before and couldn’t stomach anything since.  About the time I was informing you loyal blog readers (all 4 of you) about Bill Gates wrath, I heard a horrible moaning from the other room.  This moaning had been going on all day at regular intervals, like a tornado siren on repeat.  However, this was more like a dying soul kind of sound.  It was 5:30pm and I had it.  I entered the TV room and said, “That’s it.  This is ridiculous.  We’re going to the hospital.”  Megan agreed.  Which was a sign that we really did need to go to the hospital.  Megan is scared of the idea of going to a hospital – that it means something is really wrong.  To say she was ready to go was the 3rd sign (2nd was the moaning) that this was serious.

I googled for the nearest Hospital to our house.  It was Weiss Memorial Hospital.  The first thing I see under it’s listing is a review in all caps, “WORST HOSPITAL IN THE WORLD.”  Need I read on?  Nope, not going there.  The next closest was Swedish Covenant Hospital – my cousin had her baby there and was really happy with the place, so its seemed like the right choice.

Now here’s the thing about Chicago.  Whenever you’re walking down the street, minding your own business, a God damn cab will inevitably honk at you.  Because every freaking pedestrian, in their mind, needs a ride somewhere.  No, butt head, my hand was no where near the space above my head.  In fact, I just devolved and I’m now a cro-magnon,.  So my hands are actually dragging behind, me.  IE – I’M NOT HAILING YOU.  The flip side.  Whenever you NEED a cab, they drive right by you.  It’s a fact of life in Chicago.  Even if their roof light is on, they just mosey on by.  And this happened, twice, to us.  I have a wife in pain, I’m practically fist pumping like a mad douchebag at the World Frat Beer Olympics, and these fucking cabs keep passing us by.  When we did get one, he was pretty fast.  Once I said “emergency room”, the cabby kicked it in high gear – and safely.  Not like most cabbies who drive like their escaping an alien invasion.   He drove fast but safe.  Word of advice if you ever visit Chicago, no matter where you are going, just add “Emergency Room” to the location name.  As in, “Hey, we need to go the Wrigley Field Emergency Room,” or, “Hey Man, can you take us to Rock ‘N Roll McDonalds’ Emergency Room.  Thanks,”

When we did get to the hospital, we were helped by the most amazing, friendly nurse.  I didn’t catch his name, but he was uber gay and uber friendly.   Now, because we have only been married for 7 weeks, Megan has had everything changed to Megan Tamisiea except her insurance card.  It still reads MEgan Green.  So, for insurance purposes, she needs to be admitted as Megan Green.  And because she is married to yours truly and that must be put down on the ol’ hospital info sheet, from this point on till Megan’s discharge, I am Timmy Green.  And now . . . we continue

Even more amazing than Gay Gary (that’s what I’m naming the attendant in the Emergency Room) is that we got into the emergency room triage right away.  I mean, there were a few crying babies waiting for the hand of God, but the only thing those brats have contributed to the world is shit and piss.  Megan’s a working adult with skills.  She needs to be taken care of.  She works for Groupon, God Damn-It!

The the itial nurse takes Megan’s vitals and draws blood.  Orcourse, he misses her vain by a mile.  Megan’s just staring at me with eye open like spout lights, asking me questions like “TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DAY.”  I’m an isiot, so I answer, “You know what I did today.”  Of course, she needs something to take her mind pf the fact that this nurse is MISSING her vein over and over.  The he sends her to the bathroom for a urine sample.  He turns to her and says, from back to front.  To which Megan is confused.  Like its some cryptic way to fill a pee jar.  (He was talking about wiping herself clean before urinating – if this make the blog I’ll be surprised.)

Our emergency room doctor’s name is Dr. Moroe.  As in “The ISland of Doctor Moroe.”  I’m pretty sure Megan’s going to be made into some twisted monkey-girl.  I’ve always wanted a helper monkey . . . nah, Swedish Conevnant my ass.  More like Swedish Coven.  You’re not putting some elephant DNA in my wife! . . .Nah, Dr. Moroe was a good guy,  He was not an overweight mad scientist in a moo-moo accompanied by a creepy primordial dwarf.  He was actually a really buff, handsome man who nailed the diagnosis on the head – gall stones.

In fact, all the nurses and Doctors in the Emergency room were really good people.   You might be thinking, “Timmy, most Doctors are that way.”  Nope.  Let me explain myself.  I come from a family of doctors.  My dad is a retired radiologist.  My uncle is a retired cardiologist.  My other uncle, a dentist.  My grandfather was a family practitioner who used to take chickens for payment when a family couldn’t pay him.  His father was a doctor with the first x-ray machine in the midwest.  His father was a doctor too.  Growing up around doctors had given me keen insight to what good bedside manner is.  Let me tell you, Doctors today – they just don’t cut it.  Rude.  Impatient.  It seems that my Dad’s generation was in medical school to help people while my generation only sees a paycheck and privilege.  So while Megan is frightened to death of the surgery and procedures of a hospital, I only fear the potential ass-holes that occupy it’s halls.

Well, we found a good place to skip that jazz.  Another Emergency Room nurse came in named Eric.  He was super informative and very attentive.  He explained EVERYTHING – even going as far as to say the phrase, “Unofficially” a lot.  Megan called him Nurse Happy McSmiles-A-Lot.  I called him Logan Hall Light – cause he looked like our friend Logan Hall.  He sent Megan upstairs to get an ultrasound so to confirm the gall stones.  That was cool.  It was like we were taking a lok at our babies . . . if our baby were crystalized fatty deposits in the gall bladder.  Hey!  They’re our kids and we love them.

The real different bewteen looking at a fetus on ultrasound and looking at gal stones as that usually the husband isn’t crinkling his face as he sees his wires insides.  I kept making fees at the screen because it was so cool seeing my wife’s insides.  Fellas, a word of advice, try to remain neutral or smily faced when you’re in this position because Megan kept thinking I was seeing cancer.  Nah, it was more like I was looking at squiggly lines and makin my own interpretations.  Except when the nurse wrote next to a screen capture, “Gall Bladder, Neck????”  Wait, what were those question marks for?  Too late, she’s on to the pancreas.  Again, in hind sight, there was one image that made me crinkle my face the most . . . and, intuitively, it was the one image that should have done that.  I say an empty circle on the screen.  Ehen the nurse pushed the scanner over,it suddenly filled with a bunch of little circles.  I was informed later, those were the gall stones.  I just thought to looked cool.  Who would have know that I was seeing the single cause of Megan’s discomfort.

Before MEgan had went to Ultrasound, she has been given some opiates for the pain.  By the time we goth back to the triage, they wore off and her pain was noe double what it had ever been.  It was hard to see her like that.  In the end, Megan had a typical case of gall stones and was remanded to stay overnight.  Boooooo.  BUT, they said she would get the surgery in the morning and be out by that afternoon.  Okay.  Great.  So, I go outside to call anyone with a car so I can get here some clothes and I run into the “wall-o-Sunday.”  This is the phenomenon that on a Sunady night, aournd 10pm, anyone who has a real job will not answer your phone.  I must have called 10 people 20 times.  And I had to do it all outside because the reception in the emergency room was NILL!  Fortunately, John Durbin, MEgan’s comedy partner, was able to get me to the apartment.

This was the first time I had ever had to pack for my wife.  And let me tell you, she has a lot of underwear and even though I am her husband, there was something creepy about going through it and packing it into my messenger bag.  Unfortunately, that weird feeling caused me to bring not a bra and a couple pairs of underwear but three bras.  Idiot.

When I got back to the Hospital, Megan was in her own room.  A nurse was taking more vitals and getting a general health history from her.  Swedish Covenent is really like a miniature Epcot Center – almost everyone who works there is from another country.  It was a melting pot oif accents.  This nuts was Korean and the way she asked Megan questions brought on some uncertainty.  the best question was, “You smoked?”  Now, I understood that she was akin if Megan is a smoker.  Megan thought she was asking if she had ever smoked.  So, she answer, “Well, back in maybe 2000 I had a few cigarettes when I drank.”  As Megan goes through her minute smoking history, I just say “Megan, you’re not a smoker.  She’s not a smoker.”

The nurse thanks me, Mr. Green, and asks me, Mr. Green, to sign a consent form.  This is the beginning of my status as Mr. Green.  We shave been told by Dr. Moroe and the Korean Nurse that Megan will probably have her gall bladder removed tomorrow morning and be out by the afternoon.  AGAIN, in hindsight, never trust what anyone at a hospital says about schedule.  We did and our frustrations would eventually grow because of it.  Megan is also told she can not eat till hours after the surgery – meaning, if the surgery is done by noon, she will not have had any food for 40+ hours.

And so, I go home and have a restless sleep, hoping she’s okay herself in the sterile but foreign language filled halls of Swedish Covenant.

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