This aint no diary

This is a blog. The Gloomy Boomer’s Blog. What’s the difference? Shit, I don’t know. Wait a minute. I’m supposed to know. I’m the Gloomy Boomer. Okay, lets say a diary is where you date your entries. You talk about yourself as if you’re somebody special. Usually, unless you’re a big shot, you keep the enterprise private. Why? Because you’re a normal person gifted with common sense. The Gloomy Boomer’s Blog is the very public rantings of a wretched old man. A man with no shame. A mirror star self pig glorying in his own sick and twisted take on this sick and twisted world. I don’t necessarily need to include dates.

Friday the 13th

Or was it Thursday the 12? Yeah. Probably. I’m no good with dates. And that’s okay because I’m like not an authority figure. Anyway, Lets just say it was one of those days.

So it’s Thursday or Friday. I’m working out at the gym and I’m feeling good like I’m a superhero and nobody’s fool. Then I’m driving around in my car. I’m driving around in my car because I got nothing else to do. I got nowhere to go. I’m just driving around looking at shit. Thinking. Whizzing down surface streets. I’m not a fugitive; I’m aged. Then…as I’m whizzing by going nowhere…I start having chest pains. Not your normal everyday old fart chest pains. These don’t go away. They don’t go away and it hurts to nap. That’s when I decide to visit the emergency ward at the V.A. hospital.

That’s right, I’m a veteran. Don’t bother thanking me for my service. I was basically a freeloader for the duration of my service…but I did manage to weasel a favorable discharge which is why I get free medical care in my old age.

So I go in there and they take me in right away like I’m some big shot. I got two regular nurses and two head nurses petting me like you pet a cute doggy. I got a pair of earnest caring Doctors asking me questions and looking me over like I’m a rare mineral. It’s as if I’m the sole reason they busted their asses in Medical School.

They dress me in a robe and cover me with a warm blanket. They do two EKGs. Two Chest Ex Rays. They take my blood twice. They rub my feet. They wanna tell me why their doing shit: “We’re taking your blood because when the heart is damaged it releases troponin.” They want to make sure I’m comfortable while they take my blood. “Let us know if you feel any discomfort!” Every few minutes they take my blood pressure. “Did you take his blood pressure?” One of the Doctors asks. “Yes, doctor,” a diligent caring nurse responds, “but we’ll do it again!” They do a third EKG. Finally, a doctor, frank, direct, but a model of empathy, and who bears a striking resemblance to a young Mathew Broderick, stands at the foot of my bed.

He says, frankly and emphatically, “We’d like to do a CT scan. It means you’ll need to stay here a bit longer. But we’d like to do a CT scan. Just to be safe.”

“A C-T Scan?”

“Just to be safe.”

A C-T Scan?

A small hunched figure enters my room, staring about like an old dog and wagging the floor with his broom. The Janitor.

“That’s a lot of money for one of those,” the janitor says.

While I lay on my hospital bed, under my warm blanket, awaiting my C-T scan, which I’ll be having as soon as they set it up with Radiology, while I lay there, staring at my right foot, my thoughts turn to how fleeting life is. How empowerment is nothing but an illusion. How the security of my normal life is a façade. The Horror of an indifferent universe is the true reality. Life is uncertain and the the end is always near. The Troponin test came back negative. But with a C-T scan they’ll certainly find something.

“They always find stuff,” the Janitor says. “And it cost a lot to do one of those.”

You think your everyday life is everyday life. You’re not living your everyday life. The Horror behind the veil is the true everyday life. My aged heart pooped out like it was meant to do. Time to make plans for the Soldiers Home up in Yountville. That’ll be a one way ride.

A round trip to Radiology

The earnest caring nurses stick me in a wheel chair and wheel me to the elevator and upstairs to Radiology where I sit in my chair awaiting my turn and listen to yet another nurse behind a curtain explain to an aged man awaiting a procedure somehow connected to a CT-Scan…explain in gruesome detail what he potentially faces…”then we do the biopsy with the C-T scan and then repeat the biopsy…this is of course a routine procedure but I need you to understand that the possibility of Death, while extremely remote, in fact less than one percent of one percent, is still a possibility. There is that possibility. Just so you know, Mr. Boodle.”

“Oh, I’m fine with that,” Mr. Boodle says, “My Son has an Advance Directive.”

An Advance Directive. What’s an Advance Directive?

I think I know.

I don’t want to know.

Twenty minutes later I’m being wheel back downstairs to my original sick bed, which feels like home.

“How did that go, Mr. Gloomy?” my kind earnest nurse wheeling me home asks.

“The C-T scan? It felt weird, kind of like…”

“Like you gotta pee?”

“Exactly!”

“Everybody says that. But now it’s over and well have your results within an hour!”

“I don’t have an Advance Directive.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The Horror! The Horror!

I used to live in my van. Not long ago in fact. I didn’t van life it for very long. Frankly I don’t remember exactly how long. A month. A month and a half. Maybe a couple months. Last Winter. I was between boats…

Was it Horrible living in my van? No. It was uncomfortable. Was it dangerous? Not really. I locked the van doors, rolled over on my cot and crashed out. I mean, I’m in Sausalito. Who’s gonna threaten me in Sausalito? Aged Billionaires? Most of you’re Gang Bangers, including Thugs and Rapists, live in The East Bay. There’s no screaming in the night here in Sausalito. Maybe a stray coyote wandering around. That’s about it. I never heard anybody scream. Not like this guy in the adjacent room here at the V.A. emergency room. He makes sounds like they’re pulling out his fingernails.

Aaahhhhh! Argh! Ah! Oh, Gad! Ahhhhhhhh! Gad! Oh, Gad. Aaaarguh! Stop, it! Oh gad!

The problem is…well, two problems…one, it’s really loud and horrible this guy’s screaming…two, he doesn’t stop. This poor dude just keeps screaming. Howling. And Screaming. And howling to high heaven. Meanwhile, the nurses come and go like it’s no big deal. A nurse brushes in and says, “we’re still waiting on your results.” Another nurse askes, “are you comfortable?”

“Jeez. Is that guy okay?”

“Oh, I see you’re water bottle’s empty. Would you like a refill?”

Then my favorite doctor, Mathew Broderick, appears.

“Well, it looks like the CT-Scan came out very well,” Doctor Broderick announces “…but what we’d like to do is have our Radiologist give it a second go over, just to be safe…better safe than sorry…”

“Thank you so much! You’ve all been so kind to me. I’m overcome with gratitude. Really!”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Gloomy.”

“BTW…that poor man screaming next door. Is he…eh…is he okay?”

“Oh, well, you know I can’t comment…”

“Of course! Of course! Thank you, Doctor.”

He slips away. While the Radiologist looks over my results, I’m left alone with that poor bastard screaming in the next room.

The Janitor shuffles in and empties the empty trash tub.

“That dude screaming,” I say. “I know you can’t talk about it, but…”

“Talk about what?

“That poor bastard screaming. Can’t you hear it?

“Oh they all do that when a nurse inserts the catheter. This guy’s nothing. You should hear some of them.”

Sunday 15 June

I’m fairly certain of this date. It’s Father’s Day. I’m kicked back at my girlfriend Joan’s pad. It’s nice and quiet over here. No screams from a man being inserted with a catheter. Just the quiet. The quiet and a tranquil lake scene.

I get a call from my Daughter. She always calls me with Father’s Day Greetings and I’m always grateful when she calls me. She has two other dads so I understand it’s kind of a pain in the ass when you gotta call three dads. If I had three dads I’d probably blow them off on Father’s Day. Pretend I’m a Jehovah’s Witness, like my sisters. Blow off the Dads. Leave them to their own selfish self-pitying selves. I don’t like holidays. I think my sisters have the right idea. In fact, if I could be a Jehovah’s Witness and forgo their entire belief system. Join for the sole purpose of eschewing holidays. I would certainly do it. Or at least entertain the idea.

So I’m telling my daughter all about my adventure at the V.A. emergency room. How everything came out okay in the end. It was just me suffering the after effects of working out too hard at the gym. Standard mussel pains for an old dude too stupid to moderate his exercise. I’m giving her all the details, excluding the screaming man part. While I’m telling her I’m thinking why am I telling her? Who wants to hear this grim stuff.

She’s putting up with my rant, but I can tell it aint her favorite subject.

Nor mine.

What would be a better subject? Certainly not politics! You wanna hear about Trumpy’s latest fiasco? His parade was a bust. Thank god. The No Kings Rally’s were a huge success. Thank God. Now we got him freaked out over his military image. What he plans to do with the Iranians is anybody’s guess…

Best to talk about something silly and inconsequential, like love relationships.

Or what her plans are for the summer!

This blog post is dedicated to the incredible human beings who staff the San Francisco Veteran’s Hospital where I have never received anything less than excellent care.