Friday, March 11, 2011.
Cleared For Takeoff.
I thought I'd have to miss my radio show today. I needed to check in with my primary care physician to get cleared for the surgery I will have Tuesday. His office said he could only take me at showtime. Mary Ann said that she would take over and get me a better appointment. "When they're full, they're full," I told her. Apparently not. I don't know what she told them, but she got the appointment moved earlier.
My longtime internist (and beekeeper) Dr. Thom Franklin was not happy to see me in a wheelchair. He didn't beat me up about my weight or other matters he rightly (and empathetically) reminds me about. He looked over the blood work from the emergency room, and proudly noted that no sign of drugs appeared--although the did check for all of them. All the other numbers looked good--except one. "Look at this blood alcohol!" he said. "One-thirteen! Oh ho!" Of course, I knew this. Eighty is the threshold for drunk driving, which I wasn't--unless you call operating an elevator driving. Toxicity usually comes at a much higher level than this. He told me that dehydration from my failure to eat or drink water with the three martinis was the problem, and that new reactions to alcohol appear with age. But he said my heart rhythms were fine and he didn't think my fainting was anything more serious. And that he saw no reason why the surgery couldn't go ahead.
I must have eaten more than the two ribs of celery with remoulade sauce I had Mary Ann make for me, plus a bowl of strawberries. But I don't remember what it was. I don't recall being hungry, though. The good side of illnesses is that they have always removed pounds from my frame. So did Katrina, and so did 9/11. Maybe we need a certain amount of trouble to be healthy.
