October 27, 2021 – Wednesday afternoon
Iron River Hospital

So I've been lying here in bed thinking... just thinking. Other than cough and turn various shades of green, there's nothing else to do. Television really is horrible and if I see one more commercial pleading for me to say Yes to the Dress,I'm going to hurl, literally vomit. No, I'm not kidding. I'm talking major projectile and I mean it. I may even throw a lung or two out at you.

I never write like this. One thing about being on high octane oxygen 24/7 is that other than qualifying one for the NASCAR Circuit, it makes a person a bit loopy. I find I have to work a bit harder to form thoughts and often, I just drift out there into space somewhere. This morning, I was dreaming (hallucinating) that I was melting two corners of an envelop together and once that happened, all the blood clots in my lungs had disappeared. Seems Mississippi Brother Garry had come up with some magical solution to make it all work by using his lathe and it made perfect sense.

Well, anyway, I've been lying here on my side coming up with various theories about oxygen and the proper decorum while using the stuff. Today, I'd like to expand on the Walmart theory, how one ought to present himself if using oxygen while shopping at one of my least favorite stores.

There are a couple of givens about using oxygen while shopping at Walmart. First, it's important one wear a pair of jammies, cleanliness isn't important. In fact, ragged cuffs, dirty socks, and greasy hair are near mandatory. Naturally, a large baggy sweatshirt stained with the past month's dribble of missed mouth culinary opportunities is optimum. Throw in some plastic bling and a person's ready for his up and down the aisle Walmart shopping experience.

When entering Walmart in the oxygen mode, it's very important that one prominently displays his green canister. Nothing else is important. It's all about how it looks, the sympathy card.

Of course, with the user being “disabled,” the canister has to have a medical marijuana sticker plastered to one side. 

There's the all important cart selection. With dirty feet and ragged cuffs, a canister toting driver must have exactly the right cart, preferably one with a bit of trash left in the front basket. Such trash can be pitched onto the floor at the driver's leisure when convenient. Isn't that why there's a floor?

THE CANISTER MUST BE PROMINENTLY DISPLAYED from all angles, preferably head high if not higher. While setting the green tube into place, it's important for the driver to make a scene in an attempt to connect the hose from the bottle to his face. If he's really good, he'll get some hair caught in the plastic connection causing even more attention. It's the stuff Hollywood scripts are made of. Noises, grunting and groaning, are an obvious desperate attempt to beg for help. Occasional flatuation has been known to fly from the driver. That should simply be ignored. Anyone else would excuse themselves, but oxygen carting drivers have an automatic bye. Failing to elicit any offers of help, the soon to be shopper quickly forgets the cart's still connected to the wall and drives away in a huff, extension cord dragging behind.

It's part of the game.

Part Two: Which little old blue haired lady is targeted?

One must realize that there are special due rights and privileges that accompany driving an oxygen filled dirty Walmart electric cart.

1. You NEVER stop to let a more elderly person go in front. It's very important to put them in their place, to remind them that YOU are disabled. If they had your life, they'd understand... or would they?

2. If grocery shopping, be sure to open at least one package along the way. It'll help keep one's strength up. If the selection is not desirable, just throw the rest of the box on the floor. That's why it's there.

3. It's always a good thing to throw in a few kids, yours, your neighbors, any kid will do. The optimum munchkin will be a barefoot, snotty nosed, little urchin, that should appear as if he were just plucked from a half night's sleep. If you can get a minimum of four or five to hang off the cart, even more sympathy can be amassed.

4. Be sure to occasionally correct any misbehaviors with your riders. Yelling such things as: "You shut your mouth or I'll tell your daddy, who's also your uncle and very well may be your grandpa when we git home and he'll lick your hide good. Now go git my cigarettes that fell on the floor."

5. Be prepared to give dirty looks and plenty of them. Some non oxygen'ers think they actually have equal rights to the shopping aisles. You go out there and show them who's boss. After all, you have an official Walmart electric cart complete with a green canister. With that comes special privileges and expectations.

The shopper is on a roll. Little old men and ladies have been shoved to the side. Boxes and totes of goodies are piling into the electric cart. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead! Whoops, don't forget the service aisle. A person never knows when he'll run out of cigarettes.

What's that? 

Out from under the baggy sweatshirt pops a dog, a small one, one that you'd better believe will rip the tip of your pinky finger from your hand. But worry not, it's a service dog... well, it will be just as soon as our driver can find the vest that was pulled from the trash earlier.

And finally, with our shopping experience almost finished, the all important cigarette. No lighting up in the store, that would be too obvious, but as soon as we're in the parking lot, we'll have that oxygen powered mini rocket lit as we drive our treasures through the parking lot to the car.

Out from under the sweatshirt will come the dog, sans service dog vest. If one looks closely, there could be a few other goodies produced from beneath the massive material, some that might have skipped the scanner.

So that's my take on shopping with an oxygen canister at Walmart. I'm not passing judgement, I'm just perusing through years of casual observations. As I said, I never write like this, but it's what traveled through my oxygen clouded mind today.

For the nerd med heads today's updates are rather boring. The oxygen is turned onto maximum and as long as I remain perfectly still, I'm just fine. For whatever reason, I'm plugged back into a line that is carrying antibiotics into my quickly vanishing veins, more of a precautionary move I think than anything.

There's been discussion of using WHO YA GONNA CALL? CLOT BUSTERS! I heard an attending physician might be consulted to have a procedure to actually suck these clots from my lungs at another facility. Until then, I'm just laying low, cooling it.

In all seriousness, thank you for all your well wishes. My email box is full to overflowing and though I don't/can't answer everyone, I lay on my side reading and re reading every single word. I'd love to talk with everyone, but honestly, the mere act of conversation wears me out. Please know I read everything and though I may not know you personally, I am no less appreciative. God bless and thank you.

OK, time to lay my head back down and drift once again into an oxygen induced fantasy. Hmm, maybe I'll go dumpster diving and find a good used pair of filthy PJ's in this next one.

Stay tuned.

October 26, 2021 - Tuesday evening
Iron River Hospital

Life's really all about priorities, isn't it? I've been lying in bed for the past twenty - plus days trying to organize mine. In fact, all have been condensed down to two objectives: breathing in and breathing out.

It's simple. In/out. In/out. In/out. Cough/blood. In/out. In/out. Rinse and repeat. Ah beautiful sweet air. Who cares if it comes force fed from a green bottle?

Currently, my newest passion is breathing.

I wonder who gave whom the Covid that's wracked my body, the disease that still insists it wring every last breath from my soul. I'll blame Yooper Brother Mark. It's always easy to blame the baby brother, the guy who's not here to defend himself. On the other hand, I probably shouldn't get too carried away. He's been after me since early last August to get “the cough” checked out, to see a doctor and make sure I was hitting on all eight cylinders.

But then, it was all about priorities last summer. I had a garden to tend, wood to process, grandbabies to visit, a beautiful wife with whom to share the near perfect summertime weather. Plus, anyone who's read anything knows that the entire culmination of the past several years of activities was to have ended with a February kick off of the Appalachain Trail 2022 through hike.

It was all about priorities.

Sargie brought me to the emergency room the first time a couple of Thursdays ago.

Amazing how, when a person is lying on his side at 1 AM and reaching for the stars in an effort to grasp any amount of oxygen, the number one prioritiy is in the simple act of breathing.

In/out. In/out. In/out. Cough/blood. In/out.

"Take nice, slow, easy breaths,” said the ER charge nurse. “We've got you.”

I must have been somewhere outside the zone, wherever that is.

“Who are you? Where are you?” she began asking. Hell, if she couldn't see who she was talking to, I wasn't going to answer. It was obvious I was right there in front of her. Maybe she was the one with Covid, not me.

I'd like to say I saw beautiful music, mystical birds singing songs only I could hear, or a quiet voice that reassured me I'd be okay. At one point, I did see Mom and Dad, standing there watching over me, neither seemingly concerned, just knowing, telling me to keep calm and all would be okay.

Brother in law, Pat, told me when he was so ill, Sargie's parents came into his room, the exact same where I lay, and stood over him, but that was then and this was now.

Typical Dad. I could actually hear him saying, “We got this Charlie.”

And we did. Dad and I always were a good team. Hell yeah, it was all about priorities.

Oh and yes, Jesus did make a cameo appearance, but I'm not sure from where He appeared. He was either in back, in front, or around Mom and Dad but only for a few short seconds. That's okay, when it comes to Jesus, I can go for quality and not quantity. He was there long enough to let me know that as usual, He was in charge.

I've had no fear of death, haven't for many years. I've often said I'll welcome Heaven when it's time to go home. Dad always said he knew where he was going when he passed as did Mom.

So do I.

Until it's my time, I'd rather hang out with Sargie, family, and friends, and enjoy our little slice of Heaven on Pentoga Road.

Back to Jesus and yesterday afternoon's arrival back at the hospital. I think He said to just let go... and I did. The next thing I knew, I was in capable hands, blowing veins that had been filled with contrast left and right, bleeding from any one of the multiple holes that have taken up residence in this thin skinned frame of mine.

I thought a lot about Sargie yesterday and felt so grateful for all our family and friends. She and Mark sat out in the parking lot for hours waiting to hear news of my progress.

Isolation, full blown Covid, lungs filled with some sort of gooey glass, and an emergency situation meant Sargie was confined to the parking lot to ponder and worry. Thank God for Yooper Brother Mark to help carry the burden.

Somehow I've lost more than twenty days this past month (along with twenty five pounds.) I barely remember being here in the hospital and know I've spent hours staring at the wall or out the window. I've lost time, lots of it.

I was initially discharged last Saturday afternoon. Told my lungs would need time to heal, a quick picture was taken to ensure no blood clots had formed and just like that, I was being wheeled to Sargie's waiting chariot. We stopped at the pharmacy, made arrangements to have canisters of oxygen delivered to the house, and just like that, we were back on Pentoga Road.

Conditions began going downhill almost immediately. Unable to retain any breath, I crawled up the stairs to the spare room and collapsed into bed. I knew I was in trouble, serious trouble, more trouble than I'd ever been in in my life.

I remember going through the ice on the Squirrel River in the arctic years ago. It was in slow motion, the Tundra slowly slipping through an unseen hole in the ice. I tried to crawl over the machine, but ended up being submerged, caught on the fender.

What I really remember is being grateful that one ski had caught on the edge of the ice. Holding my breath, I reached up and tried to use the ski to my advantage.

Time was running out. My lungs cried for air. Five seconds, four, three, two... I couldn't hold my breath any longer... but I did.

Fighting for breath with Covid has been the closest thing to drowning I've experienced since. It's made everything else seem small, almost diminished.

Sargie called the ambulance Monday morning. With no supply of available oxygen in my lungs, I told her I'd never leave the spare bedroom, that I would probably die right there. After twenty days of fighting, I was tired. There was no fuel in the tank. I tried crawling to the bathroom, but I could only wretch and fight for breath.

It was the first and only time in my life that I thought it would be easier to let go than to fight. This tough old bird was tired. I laid on the bed thinking how comfortable and cool it felt, that no breathing was necessary, and how nice it would be to simply quit breathing in/out. In/out. Cough/blood. In/out.

It wouldn't have taken much.

Thank God I have a fighter in my corner who was strong enough to do it for both of us. She and God did for me what I was incapable of doing for myself.

The ambulance arrived and transported me to the emergency room. What a wonderful medical staff we have in our little town. CAT scans show I have multiple blood clots embedded in my lungs, those nasty things that refuse to allow even a little spare oxygen to pass. I'm told it could be days/weeks, months, even the possiblity of years, before my condition improves. I was even given the news that it may never, that my life could be reduced down to gulping continual oxygen and handfuls of blood thinning pills.

Yeah, that ain't gonna happen. As I said, it's all about priorities.

I got the news today that I'll be in the hospital for a few more days. I'd much rather be here than putting Sargie through the suffering at home. Poor girl. She has to be all done in. What a trooper, but then anyone who knows Sargie knows that's the way she rolls.

For you medical nerds, I'm currently on 9 liters of oxygen so to hold my saturation rate around 9 or so. As soon as it's removed, that number sinks into the low 8's and below, dangerously low. Sure makes brushing my teeth or even eating a dicey proposition.

So you know what I know. Am I happy? Heck yeah, I'm writing this aren't I? Twenty four hours ago, I'd have given you a rifle, a bullet, and a five dollar bill and begged you to shoot me, so see, it's not so bad.

After all, life's all about priorities. Time for the next chapter to begin.

As Dad said, “We got this Charlie.”

Damn straight we do, Dad! Let's get 'er dun.

October 23, 2021 - Saturday morning

3:38 AM

43 degrees/clear skies/calm winds

Pentoga Rad

OK, I'm up, I'm showered, I'm ready to go home... or am I? It's going to be touch and go for the next few hours. Nicole, the PA, is "iffy" about kicking me out of the hospital just yet. Nic seems to think I'll be turned loose on Pentoga Road and is fearful of having my lungs turn back to some sort of Covid glass from overuse. 

So, I'm practicing all the right signs, seals, and gestures in these early morning hours. My best is the teary-eyed puppy dog look, the type that says, "I'll love you unconditionally for the rest of my life if only you'll just let me out of this cage."

I just finished a 2 AM shower. The night nurse asked if that sounded like something I might enjoy and after a week of spit baths, the shower felt wonderful. Ah, clean skin, clean underwear, my heavy, thick, luxurious hair glistening under the sheens of shampoo cascading from my head.

Heavenly. Purely heavenly.

I didn't realize the rest of me could have been a bit odiferous. I've scrubbed faithfully, once, twice, sometimes more on a daily basis and the toothbrush has been often run through my mouth, sometimes, almost hourly. I'm told it's all the medicines they've been pouring through my body. Each seems to add a layer of gunk that never allows a person to feel really clean. Oh well, that's fixed now, at least temporarily.

Cassie, my nighttime PA just left the room. A doctoral candidate in nursing, she's the best. Having been weighed and measured this morning, I've found I'm much light lighter these days than I was a mere ten days ago. I checked in weighing 215 lbs. As of this morning, I'm tipping the scales at 195 pounds. Move over Jenny Craig, you ain't got nuthin' on me.

Let's see, in other vitals, I'm at 6 liters of oxygen and tipping the saturation point at 91, so I guess that's pretty good, good 'nuff to go home on as long as I cart my little green bottle with. Hopefully, Nicole will agree.

I'm fully mentally back on for Februrary's kick off on the AT. It may be a pipe dream at this stage yet, but you know, a person who doesn't dream has little to live for. Don't worry, I'm being realistic, I'm just dreaming. 

I've spent a lot of time this past week thinking about death and the like, especially after last Thursday night's close call. I remember the charge nurse asking if I knew who I was to which I replied, "Beats the hell out of me."

I remember thinking immediately of Sargie and how worried she'd be by not being allowed to accompany me into the hospital. Then I thought of Mom and Dad. I think I may have seen Jesus passing through, but I'm not sure.

What struck me most was how unafraid I was. I remember laying there on the cold table, arms and legs splayed, grabbing at some invisible object over head in an attempt to find yet one more gulp of air, something that would give me more relief than the machine pushing oxygen into my lungs.

And yet, there He was, I think. God? Jesus? Dad? Grandpa(s). I can't say I heard music nor did I see butterflies flitting overhead, but dang, it was peaceful and I wasn't afraid. In fact, somehow knowing that my friends and relatives would take care of Sargie, I was happy simply lying there relaxing, taking one carefully measured breath after the next.

So, this has been a week, but I don't remember much of it. All four sons have called repeatedly as has Macrea, all wishing me great health and reminding me that though I can inwardly be a bit of a marshmallow, I'm a "tough old shit," on the exterior. It's a moniker that I wear proudly. 

Speaking of... it's just 4:20 AM and there's enough time before the nurses begin moving around to grab a quick nap. 

Could today be the day? Golly, I hope so. I haven't physically touched my Barbi in over ten days. For two people who are constantly touching and loving and together pretty much 24/7, that's almost an eternity. 

Time to get a move on. It ain't easy being an old shit you know. Keep your fingers crossed.

After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...

 

Covid 

October 19, 2021 - Tuesday morning

42 degrees/cloudy skies/calm winds

Isolation Unit - Iron River Hospital

I began thrashing in the spare bed during the wee, early, morning hours of last Thursday. A continual stream of coughing spells had rendered me breathless. Poor Sargie had been up all night with me and had insisted we go to the hospital. Still, there's that stubborn streak of stupid pride that brings a man to his knees before he's willing to admit he's that sick.

"It's time," I gasped. "Let's get to the hospital."

I don't remember much after that. I do recall reaching out in an attempt to grab any semblance of air to breath. At one point, the nurse asked if I knew who and where I was. I told her it "beat the hell out of me," and honestly, I had no idea and could have cared less. At that point, I'd have paid someone to have put me out of my misery.

The doctor told me it was touch and go. I told him it was good to be in the clear and he said I wasn't nearly there yet, just relax, breath my 100% oxygen, and lay still while they filled me full of steroids. 

That was then and this is now, several days later. I just knew I'd be going home this past weekend, but that didn't happen. In fact, I hear departure dates being stated in terms of weeks and even months. Even after getting to go home, it appears I'll be armed with a truck full of green oxygen canisters. 

It hurt to write my buddy, Pokalong, this morning and inform him he may have to go ahead without me in February. On the other hand, I'm an extreme optimist and miracles do happen. 

I want to thank everyone for all your well wishes and most of all, prayers for Sargie and me. She's a real trooper and seems to be holding up doing double duty in good shape.

Your many phone calls, texts, emails, comments, et. are certainly appreciated and I feel more and more emboldened with each. 

Meanwhile, it's time to move back over to the bed and stretch out. This is the longest I've been sitting up since last week and it's showing.

I'll write when I can. Honestly, the mere act of wigging my fingers is exhausting.

Again, thank you and please don't worry. I'll be just fine. After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road....

October 11, 2021 - Monday morning
57 degrees/cloudy skies/calm winds
Pentoga Road

I'm sitting here this morning, basically waiting for the sun to rise so I can get on with my daily walk. Golly, it's good to feel normal once again. The engine's revving and I'm eager for the flag to drop so I can get the day started.

Sunday was a lazy one filled with Packers football and what a game it was. It's been years since I've watched a game that was so well played by both teams, so good in fact, that I didn't care who won. OK, that's a lie and in the end, my Packers came through in overtime.

The one exception to a near perfect contest lay with the kickers on both sides of the ball. I think there was something like five missed field goals in the last two minutes of play. Any one of the five would have won the game for either team.

The Packers' kicker, Mason Crosby, finally pulled his head out of the clouds (or some place much closer to home) and converted a last minute field goal for the win.

Sargie pulled in the drive last evening after a fun filled weekend in Chicago. She said the bride was absolutely gorgeous, the groom a great guy, and the ceremony beautiful. Riding with Mel and Macrea, I imagine there wasn't room to get a word in edgewise in the car going or coming. 

I hope to start disassembling the old porch swing today. I built it from a kit eleven years ago and it's served us well. Initially, I was going to try to repair the thing, but upon further examination, I found several areas of rot, places that would make it unsafe in the future. Other than that, well, who knows?

It's time to put on the hikers and get a few miles under these feet of mine.

After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...

October 10, 2021 - Sunday morning
62 degrees/cloudy skies/calm winds
Pentoga Road

Other than take a quickie four mile stroll yesterday afternoon, I did nothing on Saturday other than watch B grade movies and sleep. Mostly I slept.

I'm feeling 100 percent better and Sargie seems to think I'm worth keeping around. Funny, I used to see older people get sick from a simple cold or the flu and as a youngster, think, "I'm NEVER going to get sick like that. "

Uh huh.

I'm going to have to blame Cheeks for the past two rounds of childhood inner ear infections that moved into my head.

We were taking care of her just before Sargie and I traveled to the East Coast to see my sons. Previous to our leaving, Cheeks became ill, ran a temperature, and managed to infect her other grandpa who was caring for her for a couple of days, as well as Pawpaw.

Last week saw a repeat performance. I felt great, but Cheeks wasn't going to let that stand during her visit on Pentoga Road. I guess when she emptied the contents of her tummy all over Grandma Sargie, the walls, ceiling, and spred her Black Widow germs near and far... well, the rest is history.

Poor girl. I began calling her Cheeks before she was ever born and I say that with a deep pawpaw's love. But, darn it anyway, she insists on bringing home the germ du jour from her daycare, ala Typhoid Mary. 

Typhoid Cheeks? Naw. The name doesn't fit. She's too darn cute,

Hmm. Hmm. 

Cheeks, the Baby Black Widow. Sounds good to me, but I rather imagine Grandma Sargie might have something to say about that.

I think I'll just keep calling her Cheeks and hope Pawpaw begins to develop some immunity to all these munchkin germs our baby girl insists on sharing.

Works for me.

I do feel better today and seem to be firing on all cylinders. It's time to eat breakfast before heading out the door for my morning walk to the Mighty Brule River. 

After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...

October 9, 2021- Saturday morning

60 degrees/cloudy skies/calm winds

Pentoga Road

Whew, where'd that freight train come from? Something sure flattened me.

I've been battling an ear/nose/throat infection for several days now, plus occasionally running a low grade temperature. I've haven't felt horrible, but not 100% either. I think I got the germ from Cheeks who has been sick this entire past week. You may remember she became ill last weekend while we were caring for her.

When my fever spiked at 102 degrees the night before last, accompanied by chills that about shook me out of bed, I knew it was time to get some kind of meds to knock this thing out of the ballpark, or at least my body.

Sargie insisted I see a doctor yesterday who prescribed an antibiotic that already seems to be working. This is the first morning in quite sometime that I feel somewhat normal. I think, I hope, we've got this bug on the downhill slide out of Dodge.

In other news, Josh sent Ellie's school picture. I know I'm biased, but what a beautiful young lady Ellie's grown to be. A freshman in high school, she plays on the varsity soccer team, is a member of the band, is already taking a junior civics course, and best of all, truly loves everyone. We sure love our Ellie.

I managed to bring in the tools from the garden shed the night before last. It took umpteen trips, but as of now, all are piled high in the shop. At least they're closer to being put away.

So that's about all the news from this end. On today's agenda? A big fat nuthin'. I'd like to go for a short walk just to get the blood flowing once again and if there's any energy left after, I'll put the tools away in the shop. Other than that, it looks like a day of watching B movies and taking naps.

Hmm, on second thought, I think I'll skip the walk and tools and concentrate on the B movies and naps.

After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...