Category Archives: Health

Tom 365 – September 19, 2014


The worst part about being sick on a Friday when you are grown up, is that you are actually sick on a Friday.

This was my view for most of today.

Tom 365 – May 13, 2014


Hiding the suppositories behind the butter.

I have officially become my mother.

Tom 365 – April 18, 2014

The 10:00 coffee break from Hell.


If you don’t see the problem, here is a closer look.


And here.


This will not suffice!

The Deed is Done

I would like to thank all the great nurses at the hospital today.  They did an amazing job, and made a very long, and somewhat painful experience almost tolerable.  Thank you for your patience, and no offence, but I hope I wont be seeing you any time soon.

Keep up the great work.

atfter the surgery

And as for that evil window well, I heard you laughing as I got home today.  You may have won the battle, but this is now war.

Or maybe i need to cut back on those drugs.

Pain, Pain, Go Away

There is a nasty rumor going around about how I hurt my shoulder.  It is one those stories that grows with each telling, and when last I checked, it had developed into a wild tale of my lovely wife getting into a tussle with a bouncer at one of our local taverns, and me trying to pull her off the guy as the police were arriving.

Although somewhat believable, the story is a lie.  I hurt myself ignoring my wife, not because of my wife.

To be truly fair, the injury itself is probably very old.  The doctor explained that I was probably walking around with a torn rotator cuff for many years.  I do remember a time way back around 2006, when I was about 40 pounds lighter, and I thought I would start lifting to tone up my newly smaller frame.  But the weight program was short-lived as I soon discovered that a simple bench press, even with a minor amount of weight, created quite a pain in my left shoulder.  So I abandoned the idea of becoming a bulked up stud, and returned to my cardio based workouts.

My point being that based on this history, the injury was bound to happen eventually.  It is a very thin excuse, but unfortunately it is really the only defense I have.

You see, on the fateful night, I was warned.  A voice from above, my wife, standing above me, asked if I should be doing what I was about to do.  I believe my answer was, “I’ll be fine.”

Famous last words.

It all started with the turn of a key.  Literally.  As we were exiting our house, I turned the key to lock the front door, and suddenly I was standing there with a small stub of a key in my hand, and the rest of the key still embedded deep inside the lock.  I may have said a bad word at this point.

We were in a hurry as we had to be somewhere quite a distance away, so without much of a choice, we left this problem, choosing to deal with it when we returned home.  And when we got home, the broken key was still stuck in the lock.

There were several failed attempts by both myself and Maureen to remove the broken piece of key, but when it started to snow we realized our efforts were futile.  Maureen called a neighbor and got the number for Larry the Locksmith, but I decided to give it one more try to get into the house without forking over $100 to Larry.  As a teenager, I had a secret way to get into and my parents house if ever I was locked out and no one was home.  I would leave one of the basement windows open just a smidgen, just enough so that I could slide a fingertip into the opening, and then drop down into the basement of the house via the window well.  So now the adult me, thinking maybe my own teenaged children had also set up an emergency way back into the house, was preparing to drop down into that window well to check it out.  That was when the warning was sounded.

“Have you thought about how you are going to get back out if the window is locked?”

“I’ll be fine”

Turns out my children do not have a secret way into the house, and it also turns out that my window wells are quite a bit deeper than the ones in the house I grew up in.  Chest deep in the window well, I placed my hands firmly on the outside ground and pressed my body up to make my exit,  That is when it happened.


“Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

Only now I was stuck.  I pressed my back against one side of the well, and propped my feet up against the other side, and I managed to “Spider-man” my way up to the top.  I then kicked one leg over the top, and then managed to flop out of the window well.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“I’m fine”

It is now three months later, and tomorrow I go under the knife, as the doctor needs to put several pins in my shoulder to re-attach the muscles, repairing my dislodged rotator cuff.  I am told the first week is going to be hell, and it will be followed by six weeks of keeping my arm immobile so that my body can knit a web of tissue over the pins.  Then it can take several months of physical therapy to get my shoulder almost good as new.  Something tells me this is going to cost a whole lot more than $100.

Which of course we ended up paying anyway, so that Larry the Locksmith could spend about five minutes removing the broken piece of key, and getting us back into the house.

Doo, doo, doo. Looking Out My Back Door

I am starting to believe that there is really no such thing as aging gracefully.

As I pass through my middle forties on my way to the big five 0, I have found that my body has begun to revolt against me.  There are pains in my back, in my knees, in my hips, and just about every joint that I have.  When I get up in the morning, my body is a virtual cacophony of cracks and snaps as I walk across the floor.  My hearing is going bad, there has been a constant ringing for about ten years now, and my eyes can’t seem to make up their mind as to whether I am near-sighted or far-sighted.  Then this past weekend, my body got tired of fighting on the front lines and swung around to attack from the rear.  I got a hemorrhoid.

You can pretty much set aside any hope of retaining even the slightest bit of dignity when you have to step up to the counter and explain just where the pain is, when the pain just happens to be where the sun don’t shine.  It gets even worse when it starts to set in that someone is actually going to have to take a look at what just happens to be ailing you.  Worst still when the first person who has to take a look is a young nurse half your age.  Now, I would never assume to know what someone may be thinking, but I have a suspicion that the last thing the young lady really wanted to do that night was to take an upclose and personal look at my back side.

There is really no way to ease into the examination.  Shorts needed to be dropped, and bending over needed to commence.  Then parts were poked and prodded that the nuns told us would make us blind if we touched them. All this only to find out that, yes indeed, I had a giant pain in my tookas.  Then there was a lot of talk, using big words that made me squeamish.  Words like insert were used in conjunction with some more medical terms, and a prescription was given for something that needed instruction about insertion into the said medical term.  Then things got worse as the doctor explained that if the treatment didn’t work, the area might then need to be lanced.  Suddenly the word suppository sounded much better.

An attempt was made to go to work this morning, but I only made it a few hours.  I hate to say it, but as I have aged, it seems that my threshold for pain has decreased.  I can’t stand, I can’t sit, and getting from one point the other is almost unbearable.  The mass itself seems to be getting bigger and more painful despite the promise that the little white bullet thing was going to relieve swelling, itching, and discomfort associated with the condition.  I made a futile attempt to pick up the blue recycling bins when I got home, but decided that it would be best to send my son out to retrieve them instead.  When sitting or standing is not an option, bending over to pick something up was a real bad idea.  And trust me, you don’t want to hear about what happened when I sneezed.

So here I am.  Lying on my stomach in bed attempting to type to keep my mind off of things.  Judging by my choice of topic, I would say I have failed miserably.  I have left the kids to their own devices downstairs while I grumble to myself.  Molly stops up to see me every now and then.  I have simply told her only that dad is not feeling well.  I have all the confidence that at 14 Alex is more than capable of making a frozen pizza without burning down the house, and that they have both done their homework.  Certainly my kids would never take advantage of poor old dad in his time of discomfort.

Certainly, every parent has had those times when they wanted, or actually uttered a certain phrase to describe their offspring at a time when maybe they were not behaving.  Or maybe the words have been used in reference to a spouse or perhaps an ex-spouse when things were not going that well.  Although I can’t promise that I will never use the phrase again, I will certainly be more careful when I do.  Because if there is anything I have learned over the past two days, I certainly have come to understand the real meaning behind the phrase:

Pain in the Ass.