On Appendicitis

Last Thursday marked not only South Carolina’s second snowstorm of the year, but also the first of this year’s seven requisite Captain Ryan’s Inopportune Medical Emergencies. Like all other of the past Inopportune Medical Emergencies, this one was anticipated to be another bout of food poisoning but ended not with a renewed appreciation for Bidet, but with the loss of my most treasured vestigial organ. 

The coccyx, on the other hand, is a pain in the ass. 

But before I start dissecting this story, the stage must be set:

‘Twas the night of the snowstorm, with all the stores boarded

Praise be to sense, ‘twas not bread I had hoarded

With power still on, and back from a walk,

“I’ll cook if you clean!” the Liverbird squawked.

She made us spaghetti; I’ll admit I was nervous

I silently held a private prayer service.

But lo, I was wrong – it was quite delicious

I begged her pardon for my comments so vicious.

And everything went smoothly until midnight, at which point I woke up and immediately thought I had spoken too soon. Memories of long nights spent with Bidet in Argentina flooded back into my mind, but fortunately, the symptoms were different and less, let’s say…confining. When I woke up again at 4 AM for the same problem, I knew something was wrong, but it didn’t stop me from sleeping. The next morning, I learned from the Liverbird’s chipper disposition that the second coming of the dreaded Bowel Monster had clearly not interrupted her sleep. Knowing that Liverbirds are blessed with exceptionally corrosive stomach acid, I couldn’t decide if she had avoided the food poisoning or if I had contracted something else.

Admittedly, appendicitis was at the forefront of my mind, based on a deep-seeded fear that all of my digestive organs secretly have vendettas against me. However, I didn’t have any of the usual symptoms: my pain was minimal, I experienced no nausea or fever, and the results of prodding my abdomen were more “Pillsbury Dough Boy” than “Murder-Me-Elmo” in nature. At the advice of my sister-in-law and mother, who I had initially written off as append-alarmists, I begrudgingly made Livebird drive me to the hospital.

"To the ER, Liverbird. My tummy is upset"

To make a short story long, after waiting seven hours for a CT scan and having more blood drawn from me than a rural Mexican goat, the doctors confirmed that I had appendicitis and hadn’t been faking it all along. In their defense, I thought I was faking it all along too. It was pretty rewarding to know that I had a legitimate issue and hadn’t wasted the nurses’ time with a crippling instance of Constipation Complaints. After the diagnosis, I was informed that I couldn’t eat or drink any water, which was great because I hadn’t done that for the past 7 hours anyway, and I had long since forgotten what hunger felt like. So around midnight, they wheeled me into surgery, told me a lovely anecdote about the effects of anesthesia, and before I kn-

I woke up without an appendix and three new scars! After forcing the nurses to allow me to eat everything in sight and having another 15 liters of blood drawn, I was allowed to leave my new home. With a brief visit from my parents and my mom’s generous donation of Laura Lynn Non-Aspirin…

"We're not legally required to tell you what it is, but we assure you, it's not aspirin."

…I was well on my road to recovery. Which is great, because I’m sick of writing about food poisoning.

Notes:

1.     A big thanks to Liverbird, who went above and beyond her roommate duties in taking me to the hospital and staying through the surgery and recovery.

2.     Another big thanks to Jeff, Sarah, Kyle, and my parents for buying my food, tying my shoes, and taking me for walks off the leash.

3.     Jeff determined that the reason I didn’t experience much pain was due to the location of the infection – most people get the infection in the bottom of the appendix, which causes it to swell and press on a nerve. I had an infection at the top of mine, which caused little swelling near any nerves.

4.     The hospital was kind enough to snap a photo of my appendix as they were snipping it. I’m going to treasure this memento forever.

5.     All things considered, an appendectomy is markedly easier than having your wisdom teeth out. It’s important to note that wisdom teeth can’t explode and kill you, though.

On The Psychological Effects of Snow Amongst Southerners

Look at me, look at me. Look at me. Would you? Would you believe that snowflakes are among the most dangerous naturally occurring phenomena this side of the Mason-Dixon line? That frozen water -- a necessary component in such Southern staples as sweet tea and Type 2 Diabetes -- is responsible for more deaths than cotton balls and corduroy pants combined? It’s the honest truth, friends. Last year, cotton balls and corduroy pants accounted for almost 2 fatalities when Carl Kittering, the corduroy-clad Cotton Ball Company employee, consumed too much caffeine, causing an acute fire as his chaps combusted. Several onlookers also suffered severe alliteration intoxication.

He deserved it for wearing corduroy, though. 

Judging by the bread section at the local supermarkets, I predict that this winter storm will be responsible for nearly 15,000 deaths. Not human, of course, that would be preposterous. Innocent sandwiches, however, will needlessly suffer disgraceful deaths at the hands of people who apparently believe that 1-5 inches of snow constitutes a State of Emergency. These barbarians, having bought up loaves upon loaves of white, wheat, pumpernickel, and brave rye breads, will likely toast the spoils of paranoia in the warmth of a perfectly-illuminated kitchen. That is not what these breads were trained for. These breads were specifically crafted to be palatable for lonely children, disgruntled employees, and woebegone hikers in their times of need. The wanton use of processed bread during hours of merriment and school closings is a disgrace to the callousness and mechanization that goes into producing them, and should be eliminated posthaste. We should be disgusted by our gluttony and avarice.

What we see here is the result of the innate savagery of short people.

Aside from the decimation of our doughy comrades, frozen precipitation seems to bring out a unique type of stupefaction in many southerners. Regardless of the situation, you will catch many a redneck staring intently out the window during a snowstorm or even staring up at the sky outside, slowly accumulating little snowballs in their gaping maws. It’s really quite majestic.

Cletus and his father Bubba also have turkeys. It is unclear as to who is raising whom.

Nevertheless, a very real danger presents itself when southerners attempt to drive in these conditions. The lack of focus is exemplified behind the wheel, as we are not only are distracted by the snowflakes, but also believe our untimely demise at the hands of Old Man Winter can only be prevented by driving slowly and liberally slamming brakes. Common wisdom will tell us that this is actually the opposite of what you should do (driving breaks and liberally slamming slowly are much safer), but we suffer from guilt. For after witnessing our vicious breadlust at the Battle of Pepperidge Farm, we’ve grown cautious and preoccupied. Despite this, we will drive on into that good night, staring intently at the snow, blissfully unaware that we’re operating a 2-ton death trap on icy roads. You might say we’re too dumb to drive in snow, but I say “Look at all the good we did for the baking industry.”

But seriously, you alarmist bastards bought the last loaf of honey wheat, and some of us are still expected to function when temperatures are below freezing. Cut it out, the snow is gonna melt in 24 hours anyway.

Notes:

1.     Out of work early and probably going in late tomorrow! I love you, Cold Front.

2.     You’d better believe I’m going to destroy some neighborhood kids tomorrow in a snowball fight if I can. And yes, I am a newly employed adult.

3.     On the other hand, this will probably make for a busy couple of days in the office. Pity your insurance adjusters.

4.     I actually love the snow and get pretty excited about it. Not buy-out-the-supermarket excited, but I will stare at it intently.

5.     And maybe whisper sweet nothings in its earflakes.

On Growing a Beard

After some preliminary testing in November, I have determined that I am going to pursue long-term maintenance of a beard. This is not a decision I have made lightly. It has been the result of weeks of deliberation, apparent homelessness, and relentless scratching. Ultimately, it appears that my employer truly is living up to its Equal Employment Opportunity standards by allowing a vagabond to represent them in business transactions, and I am grateful to have this opportunity to join the ranks of the Real Men™. Membership in this group is not something I will take for granted, and so, in order to prove my worthiness, I would like to document this beardly process. Similarly, if any other Beta males would like to follow in my feminine, French-manicured footsteps, I hope this guide will allow you to start your journey on the right equally-French-manicured foot.

Step 1: Shaving

Like preparing for a drag show, the first step in successful beard growth is first giving yourself a clean shave. This lets your face know that something important is happening. The face is a notoriously wily creature and will attempt to sabotage you every step of the way; shaving helps assert your dominance and demonstrate your own guile. Furthermore, with the exception of Vincent van Gogh (The “Pauper Painter,” known for painting on inferior canvases, leading to his notoriously blurry artwork), every artist should begin a masterpiece on a blank slate. A close shave will provide that canvas, and with the help of enough caffeine, may also cure you of your iron surplus.

"But I have anemia!"

Unrelated Side Note: Did anyone see that Marshawn Lynch run in the NFC Championship Game? That man has the grace and power of a gazelle made out of bowling balls. I bet he gave himself a close shave before growing that menacing goatee.

Only diamond razors can cut Marshawn Lynch's hair. If he gives them permission.

Step 2: Brutal Waiting

Beard growth is a game that requires patience, and if you’re like me, the capacity to laugh at yourself in the mirror. Once you move past the forgiving 5 o’clock shadow phase and into the Oh-God-It’s-Long-And-Patchy phase, you sacrifice your dashing good looks and assume the appearance of your favorite vagrants. People may stare, parents will forbid their children from speaking with you, and the disappointment in your friends’ eyes when you go to nice restaurants will be palpable. And woe is you if you have more than a smattering of red in your beard. Nothing is less flattering on the mythical creature spectrum than sporting a Leprechaun beard that contrasts with your chestnut Sasquatch head hair. If you suffer from a similar affliction, surrender now. Mudbeards are a pox on the muggle community just as Mudbloods are a pox on the wizarding community.

You just know this little brat would grow a better beard than Hagrid if she put her mind to it, though.

Step 3: Probably Scabies

I don’t know exactly what happens in week two or three of beard growth, but it is like contracting beard lice covered in itching powder. In my professional opinion, I think the beard has become sentient by this point and realizes just how atrociously destitute you look. In an attempt to save face (Puns are even funnier when you draw attention to them!), the beard sneaks off during the night and rubs itself in poison ivy. The resulting itching is supposed to encourage you to shave and return to proper society, but it is critical that you do not yield at this point. This is a test to determine your worthiness to sport facial hair, and the meek and sensitively-skinned will not survive. If you can endure this final act of insubordination by your beard, you will have gained dominion over it and may finally advance into the realm of Respectable Beardliness.

Step 4: Trim and Celebration

After some weeks, your beard will have potential, but like an adolescent Labradoodle, it should be cut before being allowed into polite society. 

Aww! This Labradoodle is shaved like a lion -- eunuch of the jungle!

Using an electric razor with a guard, trim your beard a few millimeters in order to obtain a consistent length. And for the love of sweet bearded Moses, remove the neck beard. Unless you are a direct descendent of Abraham Lincoln himself, you have no business sporting that breed of facial hair. Once you have trimmed and purged the neck beard, you are ready complete the final tasks in becoming a Real Man™. It is my understanding that you are required to fell a tree and purchase flannel.  I have recently completed the former, and upon purchase of a flannel onesie, I will report back to you all the mysteries and wonders of Real Manhood™.

Notes:

1.     After a successful No-Shave November, I decided that I would grow a beard if it wouldn’t interfere with employment. It didn’t, so now I can nuzzle a fire to life.

2.     I do, however, suffer a rather lengthy “Homeless Phase,” which is not evenly remotely flattering.

3.     Some folks are capable of growing a beard seemingly overnight. These folks are what Gillette calls “Upper Management Bonus Donors” and make me sick with envy.

4.     I recommend that everyone who is capable try growing a beard once. Even if you’re not capable, the rest of us will enjoy your patchiness.

5.     I really did fell a tree with an axe. My beard grew an inch that day.