Dave Fox's Outbursts!

Ouch

Driving to my doctor's office, I break into a cold sweat. I'm several miles away, but I'm already feeling nauseous.

The last time I had a tetanus shot, I was 25. I'm 39 now. I'm overdue.

I hate tetanus shots so much, I used to include that fact in online personal ads. Likes: Travel, writing, Belgian beer, Celtic music. Dislikes: Karaoke, George W. Bush, tetanus shots.

I'm driving down Aurora Boulevard, one of the main arteries through Seattle, on my way to my doctor's office on Queen Anne Hill. I am trying to stay calm. Trying to breathe. Now shortness of breath is kicking in.

"The last one wasn't that bad," I tell myself. "Seriously, dude, quit torturing yourself with worry."

But the last one was just tetanus and diphtheria. I am now going in for what my doctor has referred to as a "D-TAP." On my way there, it dawns on me, that probably stands for "Diphtheria, Tetanus, and Pertussis."

The last time I had a pertussis vaccination, I was about six years old. I know this because as a child, I had an especially cruel pediatrician who insisted on giving me a tetanus shot every two years. At age eight, I knew the word "pertussis," the technical term for whooping cough, because my mother was trying to calm me. "It's the pertussis part of the shot that hurts the most and makes you sick, and you never have to have that again. You're immunized for life."

Now, at age 39, I'm preparing to tell the nurse this -- that I'm immunized for life against pertussis, so can I please have the less ouchy tetanus shot?

Another mile down the road, talking myself through all of this, I realize I have missed my exit.

How psychologically fascinating, I think, that I just missed my exit at a time like this. Also, I think, I am such a freaking baby!

I loop through downtown and head north again. I arrive at the doctor's office 15 minutes late.

"Dave! How are you?" the receptionist asks.

"Scared."

I just want to get this over with -- before I throw up. Nausea is a possible side effect of the typhoid vaccine I've been taking, but I'm quite certain that is not why I am feeling this way.

"I'll be right with you," the nurse smiles. Then she calls a different man back to the examination room. I sit and wait. And wait. And panic. And wait.

"Are you ready?" the nurse finally asks me, 32 years later.

I'm not sure how to answer that.

"Does the "P" stand for pertussis," I ask her as I take my shirt off.

"Yep."

"Well my mother says I don't need that. I'm immunized for life."

"There's been a resurgence in whooping cough. We're re-vaccinating adults now."

All I can do is whimper.

"Hey," the nurse says with a suspicious half-smile, one of those "you are in big trouble" smirks, "are you up to date on your other vaccinations?

"Yes! Yes I am! I had hepatitis B last week. I'm cool with hep A. I redid my measles shot a few years ago. So back off!"

"Okay," she smiles. "I'll be right back."

The nurse knows me and my needle phobia well. She's been drawing my blood on a weekly basis ever since I started gobbling rat poison back in December. And when I say drawing my blood, I don't mean drawing my blood in a sexy, vampiress way. She's been using needles.

She re-enters the room with a couple of syringes. "You'll be fine," she says, coming at me.

"Wait!" I shriek.

"Dave, I'm just putting some alcohol on your arm."

That is not where I need alcohol right now. Where I need alcohol is in my mouth, down my throat -- large quantities thereof.

I realize there is no escaping. She is going to jab me.

"There," she says. "Done."

"That was it?!"

"Yeah."

"I didn't even feel that."

"I'm good," she says.

"It's going to hurt later, isn't it."

Her work is pretty much done. She doesn't have to calm me anymore. "Yep," she says.

She jabs me for another blood draw. That one's easy. I'm used to those now.

Driving home, my arm begins to get sore. Sore in a weird, burning, tetanussy kind of way. My nausea returns. My cold sweats return. At one point, I almost have to pull over.

Safe and whiny at home, I run to the bottle of Tylenol I set out just before leaving for my appointment. I can't take the good stuff -- Ibuprofen. It doesn't mix well with my rat poison. I pop a couple of Tylenols and sit down in front of my computer.

I Google "tetanus shot pain," looking for magical tips to make it hurt less. I've heard that light weight lifting actually stops your arm from stiffening up at times like this. I'm looking to confirm that fact.

I come across a website that suddenly makes me feel extremely brave. There are people out there worse than me. One out of every 1,000 tetanus shot recipients reportedly cries for more than three hours after receiving the shot.

Then I realize, the site is referring to children. Children younger than 39.

Just a Touch of the 'Phoid

If it isn't bad enough that I've been ingesting rat poison for the last three months, I am now storing microbes of a deadly virus in my fridge, and gobbling them down periodically.

There are two ways to vaccinate yourself against typhoid. You can inject it or you can swallow capsules. The oral vaccine contains the live typhoid virus, which means if you take it, you are basically giving yourself an extremely low-grade case of typhoid. The injection does not work this way, but I went for the live virus because (1) the results last longer, and (2) shots make me whimper.

I've been getting way too many jabs in the arm lately -- a series of hepatitis shots for my upcoming trip to Asia, tetanus (in a matter of hours -- waah!) because I've avoided it way too long, and frequent blood tests to be sure I'm getting just the right amount of rat poison each day. (Because, seriously, too much rat poison is bad for you.) The typhoid vaccine is also for my upcoming travels.

It's strange to think I'm actually ingesting small amounts of a potentially deadly virus. And I'm having some minor side effects -- fatigue, muscle aches, and severe whining.

"What's wrong?" my girlfriend, who had not yet started munching typhoid capsules herself, asked me over the weekend when I started nodding off at 6 p.m.

I could have said I was experiencing side effects from my vaccination, but that sounded stodgy. I needed a trendier answer. And when we have influenza, we call it the flu.

"Eh," I said, "I think I've just got a little touch of the 'phoid."

Where the Hell Have You Been, Dave?

I’ve been trying to tell my story, but it comes out sounding like an After School Special. I did not blog for the entire month of January because I have been dealing with high drama of the medical persuasion.

Back in November, I made the hard-hitting editorial decision not to blog anymore about my alleged foot fracture because, well, that gets about as tedious as people who blog ad nauseum about their children (who are better than your children). Oh, and also, I was convinced I was going to die, which is a challenging topic to work into a humor blog.

First there was the bone fracture diagnosis. It turned out to probably be wrong.

Then came the blood clot. It was in my calf, which is a pretty good place to have a blood clot.

"However," my doctor told me, "if you have any chest pain or shortness of breath, you must go immediately to the emergency room. It could be a sign that the clot has moved into your lung, and the Dark Angel of Death is about to gobble you up.”

“Fine,” I told my doctor, “but I am a raving hypochondriac. If you tell me that, it is inevitable I will experience chest pain and shortness of breath, even if the Dark Angel of Death is actually a safe distance away in, say, Idaho or Turkmenistan.”

“That’s very interesting,” my doctor said. “Take an aspirin a day and call me in a month.”

I changed doctors.

My new doctor put me on Warfarin, which is both a blood thinner and rat poison. Seriously. You can look it up. So yes, as I type this, rat poison is coursing through my veins.

Let’s see... then there was the day I almost caused an emergency landing of an airplane, my visit to an emergency room in Las Vegas, my unplanned overnight in Las Vegas when I was supposed to be visiting my mother in Maryland, and my diagnosis three weeks ago with a scary sounding nerve disorder called Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy.

RSD is a strange condition in which your nerves go all wonky after a trauma to a foot or hand, and keep sending pain signals to your brain even after the injury has healed. Sometimes, with treatment, it goes away. Sometimes it doesn't. The key to recovery is to ignore your pain and walk, thus convincing your pain receptors that everything's okay and they can shut the hell up.

“I don’t mean to be melodramatic,” I said to doctor number four in this ordeal, “but will I ever walk again without crutches?”

“Your chances are excellent,” he said, “but I can’t promise anything.”

A simple "yes" would have sufficed. I refer you back to eight paragraphs ago -– the part about being a raving hypochondriac.

The doctor, a pain management specialist, continued. “If you’d like, there’s this procedure we can do where we shove a humongous needle in your spine. That might make you feel better.

"What if it doesn't work?" I asked.

"Then we can try it a few more times.”

I told him I needed to go home and think.

It was a bad weekend, three weekends ago. Then, four days later, things started to improve.

“Dave,” my physical therapist said, “you need to start putting weight on your foot. It’s the only way you’re going to get better.”

“But I can’t put weight on my foot. I’ve tried. It hurts like hell.”

“I know it does,” he said. “Now give me one of your crutches. You are going to walk with just one crutch right now.”

“No.”

“Give me a crutch, Dave.”

“No.”

“Give me a crutch.”

“Nope.”

“Give me a crutch!”

“NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

At that point, a tug-of-war began. My therapist won.

“Now walk,” he said.

“No.”

He gave me some instructions –- where to put the crutch. Where to put my good foot. How to move my leg.

“No.”

“Okay. Then go get needles shoved into your spine.”

I decided to try to take a step.

It hurt.

A lot.

“Okay, now do that again,” my physical therapist said.

“No.”

“Follow through this time. You need smoother movements.”

“Smoother movements? Smoother movements?!?!! I’ll show you smoother movements you....”

But I did it. I walked into the next room with a single crutch and hopped onto the exercise bike I had been riding for the last couple of weeks to try to bring some muscle tone back to my atrophed thigh. It’s amazing what happens to your leg after two and a half months on crutches. I don’t know where your muscles go. Maybe Turkmenistan.

I could go on, but this is the part where the After School Special kicks in. Writing about how I pushed through the pain and learned to walk again, blah blah blah, comes out sounding irritating and self-absorbed. The point is, thanks to physical therapy and a strange but effective medication... I’m walking. (Okay hobbling.) I’m expected to make a full recovery... relatively soonish.

I’ve got stories to tell about my last two and a half months on crutches. You learn a lot of things about people when you can’t walk. But I’ve rambled long enough for now. I need to get back to my regular bloggy stupidity.

So that’s where I’ve been. I haven’t been in a blogging mood, but I'm back now. I'm playing catch-up on a slew of work projects I’ve fallen behind on, so my time here may still be limited. But stay tuned. I have exciting announcements and idiotic humor coming in February.

Thought of the Day

If a habitual sleepwalker breaks his foot and finds himself on crutches, what happens in the middle of the night?

Much Ado About Bruised Armpits

I continue to be in excruciating pain, but it's no longer my injured foot that hurts.

My armpits feel bruised and my palms are swollen. Crutches, it turns out, relieve the pain at the point of injury but they cause pain elsewhere on your body. Meanwhile, my left foot -- "the good one" -- hurts more than my "injured" right foot because it's been bearing twice the weight it's used to.

My bad foot -- the one with the alleged bone fracture -- feels fine as long as I don't put any weight on it. That's dangerous.

After an hour on the couch this afternoon, I almost stood up normally. I've become so used to the cast on my leg, I forgot it was there. The results would not have been pleasant. I know this because at my doctor's office today, the X-ray technician asked me if I could put "just two or three pounds of weight" on my right foot while he zapped me. I tried. Then I shrieked. Then I called him lots of bad things for asking me to put weight on my injured foot.

I also discovered that going to the doctor at all is not a good idea. Going to the doctor involves going outside. It involves getting into a taxi. Getting into the taxi, attempting to balance on my "good foot," I whacked my head on the door frame. Getting out, I whacked my shoulder. Crutches are dangerous things, I have learned. They really should be illegal.

I see people all the time going down the street on crutches, and they make it look so damn easy. You know what? People who look like they are getting around easily on crutches are faking it. Why are they faking it? Because, let's face it, walking around town with an expression that says, "Ouch! My armpits are bruised! Oww oww oww!" just isn't sexy.

"Well," my friend Erin said to me on the phone this afternoon, "at least you're getting some good blog material out of this."

Yeah, whatever.

Damn you all for finding this entertaining. Damn you all for laughing. You who laugh are going to hell. And if there is such a thing as karma, you will be forced to spend eternity on crutches.

There's Something Soggy in Denmark

Copenhagen, Denmark

Copenhagen is experiencing torrential rains and flooded streets today. Before our walking tour of the city, I passed out snorkles.

Tomorrow, the rain is expected to taper off. Then, forecasts say, the 50+ mile per hour wind gusts shall commence... just as my tour group boards the little ferry to the island of Ærø, 75 minutes south of the "mainland." (The main part of Denmark is really a peninsula plus two big islands, so the word "mainland" is not entirely accurate.)

Yes... 50 mile per hour winds, high seas, puking tourists. I am excited.

In preparation for this event, I went to a pharmacy today in search of Dramamine. Dramamine is not available in Denmark. They have something else, which the pharmacist assured me is both safe and effective. Okay, fine, but due to our lawsuit-obsessed society back in the States, I am not supposed to give non-American medicine to my American tour members.

It's a difficult dilemma. I do pass out seasickness medicine; they sue the company. I don't, and they vomit on me.

If the issue were that simple, the solution would be obvious. I don't pay personally if the company gets sued, but I do have to pay to replace my ruined shirt. But I'm convinced seasickness is partially a state of mind. Suggest to people that they should take precautions, and the threat of nausea is enough to trigger it.

My Whiniest Blog Post Ever

Am I allowed to call in sick if I'm self-employed?

I have not been well for several days. It's nothing serious. No need to make funeral arrangements. It's one of those low-grade viral things that causes you to feel whiny. (Or at least it causes me to feel whiny.)

It began last week with a screaming headache. I thought it was a migraine, but the next day, when the congestion and mild acheyness set in, I realized something else was going on in my body.

I have tried to ignore it for several days. I have tried to go on with my usual daily schedule. I've got writing deadlines, books to promote, tours to prepare for, and speeches to outline. I don't have time to wallow. But after a reading last night at a local book store, I passed up the opportunity to go out with other travel writers and drink beer. When I say no to beer, something is very wrong.

I love self-employment, but today, I am longlingly recalling the days when I had a job in cubicle land. I had three sick days a year -- use 'em or lose 'em. On a day like today, I could have called in sick.

Hell, on a day like last Friday, when I didn't even feel that sick, I could have called in sick. I could have been paid for laying on the couch all day and watching Jerry Springer.

But here in the land of self-employment, I cannot take a day off like that. My boss won't let me.

My boss can be a real bastard sometimes.

Men Over 45: Stay Away from Omaha!

The idea would be gross enough without the sponsor.

In Omaha, Nebraska, they're putting on a musical called "Urinetown." It's a fun-for-the-whole-family, song-and-dance extravaganza about everybody's favorite topic, Urine!

Now, I could take this opportunity to berate the good people of Omaha, Nebraska. I don't know much about Omaha, and probably, neither do you. But when I say "they" are putting on a musical, I don't mean "they" as in all the people in Omaha. I mean "they" as in the Urology Center of Omaha.

"Urinetown: The Musical" first appeared on Broadway in 2002, and -- now, this is scary -- it won a Tony Award. Tonight is opening night at the Omaha Community Playhouse with the Urology Center's sponsorship, and according to the Associated Press, dessert will feature -- now, this is scarier -- "something yellow... served in specimin cups."

Why are a bunch of Omaha urologists  sponsoring a production that features hot musical numbers such as, "It's a Priviledge to Pee?" Because, says Dr. Mike Kroeger of the Urology Center, "We thought it would be fun for our staff and would let people know we have a sense of humor."

Okay... ummm... Dear Dr. Kroeger... I am a professional humor writer. I am also an amateur urinater. One of the things I teach in my humor writing classes is that part of being funny is knowing when to hold back, and when to let it all hang out, so to speak. When I'm in your office, undergoing a prostate exam, that is not a moment in which I want to experience madcap, zany antics or song-and-dance routines.

I'm approaching that age. And I'm staying the hell away from Omaha.

Vacci-Nation

Doctors are testing a new "anti-smoking" vaccine that, if effective, could help smokers quit, according to a report from the Associated Press.

This is exciting. If this vaccine is effective in changing the behavior of smokers, just think of the other behavior-altering vaccines we could create:

• A no tailgating vaccine.
• A no yabbering away on your cell phone oblivious to the traffic around you vaccine.
• A no letting your dog poop on the sidewalk and pretending you didn't notice vaccine.
• A no telemarketing vaccine.

Most of all, I would like to see a vaccine that would stop spammers from clicking the "send" button. That vaccine would work by targeting the area of the brain that gives spammers a sense of pleasure when they annoy people. It would replace that sensation with intense waves of nausea, and voices in their head telling them to learn how to spell "V1ag-Ra."

What other vaccines do we need? Anybody?

Whining About Sneezing

Kalmar, Sweden

If I had a normal job, I would have called in sick to work today. But when you're a tour guide, you can't just show up for breakfast and say, "Sorry folks. Sweden is cancelled today due to post-nasal drip."

I learned a long time ago that when I get sick while guiding tours, I must keep it hidden from my tour group. If I don't, I end up with 26 people who, with the nicest of intentions, want constant updates on my condition.

"Are you feeling any better?" they ask.

"Any better than when the last person asked me seven minutes ago? Oh, yes, much better; thank you for asking. ( ::sniffle, cough:: )"

They ask frequently enough that their question becomes the motherly equivalent of "Are we there yet?"

A couple of times, I've had to guide tours with nasty flu bugs. "You look horrible," people say. "You should go home."

"Home? But we're in Scandinavia. Home is 4,900 miles away."

"Yes! You should go there and eat chicken soup!"

"But who will lead this tour then?"

"Oh. Ummm, never mind."

So when people ask, I am blaming my coughing and snorting and wheezing on "allergies." I am on the brink of losing my voice, which is not a good thing when your job is to talk all day. It's days like this when I long for the thrill of lying on my couch in Seattle and watching bad television.