Explosive!

If the Public Broadcasting System (PBS) is concerned, Americans should be concerned.  After all, PBS is a highly regarded and reliable source for news and information that affects the citizens of the United States of America.  A recent PBS report raised awareness of an outbreak of Cyclosporiasis. For the uninformed, Cyclosporiasis is an intestinal illness caused by the cyclospora cayetanensis parasite.  Cyclosporiasis is transmitted through consumption of food or water that is contaminated with feces.  It is not fatal, but it is uncomfortable creating nausea, fatigue, bloating . . . and explosive diarrhea.

You read that right . . . explosive diarrhea.

 

Diarrhea . . . Montezuma’s revenge . . . Hershey squirts . . . the runs . . . the trots.  I’m certain that we are all familiar with diarrhea no matter what name we call it.  We know how uncomfortable, frustrating, and embarrassing diarrhea can be.  But if a person can set aside all of those feelings and emotions associated with diarrhea, they would discover that in reality if is a fascinating topic.

 

Diarrhea is not a disease.  Despite its insistence of wanting to be called a disease . . . it is not.  Nope, it is a symptom.  Diarrhea is a disruption in the process of the body absorbing liquid.  Did you know that 99% of the liquid ingested and secreted by the salivary glands (stomach, liver, and pancreas) are absorbed by the digestive tract (intestines and colon).  On average, this is 9-10 liters of liquid a day.  In addition, small intestines can absorb 6-8 liters.  That is a whopping five gallons of fluid a day.  Diarrhea occurs when there is a disruption in this process.  This process disruption creates a frequent passage of a loose or watery stool.

 

The causes of diarrhea are varied: parasitic infection, bacterial or viral infection, bowel diseases, allergies, medication, and artificial sweeteners.  The two most common bacterial causes are salmonella and E. coli, while rotavirus, viral gastroenteritis, and norovirus are the viral causes.  Bowel disease would be Crohn’s Disease and Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS).  Allergies fall into that category of eating something “that did not agree” with us—foods, lactose, and gluten.  Medication can be a culprit.  Too many artificial sweeteners.  And parasitic infection—Giardia lamblia and Cryptosporidium—water-borne parasites.  They all cause diarrhea.

 

But . . . explosive diarrhea?

 

That sounds ominous and dangerous.  Diarrhea is one thing . . . explosive . . . well, that is a whole other realm.  I have witnessed explosions . . . the loud boom and then debris flying.  Explosive sounds violent . . . intrusive . . . loud.  Picturing diarrhea as being “explosive” is gross . . . a yucky image . . . a real mess.  Smelly too.  Explosive diarrhea is a severe form marked by abnormally forceful bowel contractions and a high volume of gas, resulting in a sudden, high-pressure, and sometimes loud expulsion of liquid waste

 

I have never witnessed explosive diarrhea.  Thanks to the infantile stages of my children and grandchildren I have experienced the major diaper blowout and the runny poo.  I have endured the consequences and smell of those disasters.  As messy, gross, and smelly as these encounters were they apparently come nowhere close to explosive diarrhea. Explosive diarrhea, in my imagination, is head and shoulders—and spewed everywhere—above anything that regular diarrhea ever could be.  Where one is a mess, the other seems to be a catastrophe.  Where one is a smelly inconvenience, the other is potentially a maiming and possible death. 

 

Scary.

 

My wife was the one who stumbled upon the story by PBS.  Being a good mother, she forwarded the story to her children—more out of humor than concern.  She thinks that “explosive diarrhea” sounds funny.  The kids (at least one of them) took the information to heart.  They wanted to know if any cases of Cyclosporiasis had been reported in Montana.  Fortunately, Michigan, Ohio, and a few other states have reported a few thousand cases.  But who knows for certain about Montana, under the brilliant guidance of the president and his astute leader of the Department of Health, states no longer must report information about outbreaks like “explosive diarrhea”.  We Montanans are too proud to admit if we even have diarrhea, so why would we let the world know we have the explosive kind?  Might hurt tourism.  It would be a stain on our state’s reputation.

 

Apparently, this outbreak is nowhere close to being an epidemic.  If it were at epidemic proportions, there would be a massive shortage of toilet paper.  I imagine that explosive diarrhea would need epic amounts of toilet paper.  Then I would be concerned.  Being somewhat logical in my thinking . . . there are 349 million people in the United States.  Only a couple of thousand cases of explosive diarrhea have been reported.  That means that .000859598854 percent of our nation has contracted explosive diarrhea.  Though I am not a gambler, I would bet we are all safe and should not lose any sleep over this explosive diarrhea outbreak

 

Still, you must admit, “explosive diarrhea” sounds funny . . . humorous.  Admit it, you smiled when you heard it.  Explosive and diarrhea do not and should not go together.  They don’t mix, but when they do—yuck.  Picture it.  A person sitting in a chair.  Suddenly there is a roar of a gurgling sound, a thundering herd of horses . . . and BOOM!  An explosion.  Crap everywhere—loose crap, watery crap everywhere.  The mess . . . the smell.  Explosive diarrhea.  Wouldn’t want to be around it.  Wouldn’t want to have it.

 

Don’t panic.  Despite PBS’s excellent reporting on the outbreak of explosive diarrhea—we are safe.  But just in case, don’t go to Michigan or Ohio.  Make sure you clean your fruit and vegetables, wipe down your counters, avoid artificial sweeteners, and know what your body can handle.  As Bucky the Broccoli says, “You, too, can prevent explosive diarrhea!”  You’ll have to excuse me now, after all this diarrhea talk, I feel a great need to wash my hands.

 

Still Here

 I am not sure why everyone suddenly cares about my health since retiring six months ago.  Seemed like the concerned were coming out of the woodwork.  A daily litany of questions about how I was feeling . . . did anything hurt . . . was I okay?  The only missing question was whether or not I had had a bowel movement.  Daily, if you must know.  The constant querying about my health, though well-intended, was wearing me out.  A daily grind.  The wife, my children, friends, and those wonderful people at Medicare.  They all wanted to know . . . how is my health? 

I can handle my wife’s constant questioning.  It is a part of her commitment as my spouse.  It was in the vows made to one another . . . “in sickness and health.”  She needs to know which category I’m in and adjust accordingly.  The children . . . well, I’m certain it is written somewhere in the Children’s Handbook under the chapter “Aging Parents”.  Children are supposed to care if they want to stay in the will.  Friends . . . they are just nosy.  But Medicare . . . for them it is all business with any eye on the bottom line of profit or loss.  They only want to nip any health problem in the bud before it becomes a money pit.  Their concern for my health warms my heart.

 

I activated my Medicare at the start of the year as the door at the university ceremoniously hit my butt on the way out at retirement.  Shortly after Medicare started calling about my free annual wellness check-up.  Their persistence was admirable as they called several times a week for nearly six months.  That tenacity finally paid off and I returned their call.  The guy on the other end was insistent that I schedule my check-up right then and now.  He reminded me that it was free.  So is a toothache.  He even called my healthcare provider to personally set up my appointment.  He even made sure that they would remind me of my destiny with wellness.

 

That is how I came to be sitting in my doctor’s office this past week for my free annual wellness check-up.  I like and appreciate my doctor.  She is a good doctor and person with great bedside manners.  She gets to the point.  She is honest.  Her concern for my health, I do not mind . . . she ranks right up there with the wife.

 

Prior to the appointment my mind did what it does best . . . it wandered.  Boy, did it wander.  With the present president in the office in the realm of being ancient and his numerous “wellness” check-ups in his first year . . . the “intelligence” evaluations he received . . . and his definite, daily incompetency displayed for the whole world to witness . . . I will admit I had some anxiety.  After all, I’m getting to worthy of the title “old fart” and the concern about my health that comes with it from others.  I worried that I would not pass the test and would be seen in the light of our bumbling and incompetent president.  No sane person wants to be seen as a chip off the ol’ presidential block.  Certainly, I did not.

 

With the wellness check-up there is a “cognitive assessment”.  It does not come close to the one the president received and that he “aced” with is self-proclaimed “superior intelligence”.  The Medicare version is simpler.  It is not the Montreal Cognitive Assessment (MoCA).  To assess my cognitive ability, I was told three words that I was to remember and recite later.  The words were “banana, sunshine, and chair”.  Then I was given a piece of paper and told to draw a clock putting the hands on 10:30. Morning or afternoon, I asked. I thought that was a cognitively astute question . . . the nurse rolled her eyes, telling me to “just draw it.”  After a few random questions I was asked to recite the three words from the start of the test.  That was it.

 

The nurse who administered the test passed me despite some questionable answers on my part.  She proclaimed my clock art was perfect even though the doctor said I had the wrong time.  The nurse had said 10:30, the doctor said, “11:10.”  I heard 10:30 and that is what I drew.  She scored it “perfect”.  The doctor said, “close enough.”  On reciting the memorized words, I said, “banana, sunrise, and chair.”  The nurse corrected me while telling me it was “sunshine” and not “sunrise”.  She said it was “close enough.”

 

“Close enough.”  Cognitively I am “close enough”.  I imagine that I fall on the skinnier side of the bell curve, somewhere on the functional side.  Probably not in the category of “superior intelligence”, but solidly in the functional realm.  Though passing grade, I was disappointed that I did not get to name any animals . . . I spent a whole week studying animal shapes by eating a box of animal crackers.

 

The cognitive assessment was only a part of my wellness check-up.  There was a two-page questionnaire about my health that I had to complete.  It asked me things about my sleep (yes, I do—6-8 hours a night), eating habits (three daily squares), sex (male), exercise (I suppose), feelings (yup), and general overall sense of being (I am still here).  There was a review of my medical history (Yep, still breathing with the ol’ heart pumping).  Checked on “functional ability and safety” which amounted to how well I performed my daily tasks and whether I had recently fallen.  I passed as I can still perform those daily tasks along with those assigned to me on the wife’s “honey do” list.  Hadn’t fallen except once while playing basketball with the grandchildren—tripped over my own feet.  Otherwise, I was functional and safe.  Then there was the “other” category of my wellness—height, weight, and blood pressure.  I had some height, though they did not say how much.  I figure 5”10” . . . at least that is what I was the last time someone checked, but with old age you do lose height . . . which seems to deposit itself around the waist.  The weight was there but they did not say what it was.  Apparently, it was of no concern despite the obvious “Dunlop” in my southern extremities.  I passed.

 

The final step was the “preventive plan”.  Doc was straight forward with her assessment.  Keep doing what you are doing was the plan.  You are still alive. You are still functioning physically, cognitively . . . or at least close enough.  Get a shingles shot.  No red flags.  Return in a year. I imagine that somewhere in the great Medicare-land a bell rang as another client got their “clean bill of wellness”.  They can cross me off their list.  I am good for another year.  Money pit avoided.  I passed.  I won’t be hearing from them for at least another six months before they start reminding me about my “free annual wellness check-up”. 

 

I am still here.  That’s what I told my doctor when she greeted me at the start of my wellness check-up . . . I’m still here.  After 68 years, I am still here . . . physically, mentally, and spiritually.  I may not run like a brand-new model, but I run.  I get what needs to be done and get it done.  I keep plugging away and will until the motor quits running.  That is all I can do and I am well aware of that.  In the meantime, I want everyone to relax and quit asking me about my health.  I am “close enough”.  Functional.  I’m retired . . . not on my deathbed.

 

I am still here.    

Oops! Jumped the Fireworks!

The fireworks came and it wasn’t even the Fourth of July.  The town exploded shortly after it was announced that there would be no fireworks allowed in the community for the celebration of our nation’s 250^th birthday.  That original news was received with great joy by many.  Those veterans with PTSD rejoiced.  There would be no explosions to trigger traumatic memories of combat experience.  Those with small children and babies who are sensitive to loud noises ruining their bedtimes . . . same with the old folks wanting to go to bed early—they rejoiced.  Those with pets, especially dogs, who hear loud noises six to eight times louder than humans and are scared into panic.  They rejoiced, knowing there would be peace and calm.  For a moment there was great joy . . . but only for a moment.

Then the fireworks began.

 

Social media blew up attacking and ridiculing the town, the council, and mayor.  Like a scorned lover they beat a path to town hall like the villagers storming Frankenstein’s castle.  The only things missing were the pitchforks and flaming torches.  Wisely they left those in their pickups.  For seven days the campaign was waged.  The battle was referred to as “lively discussion”.  Of course, that description depended on which side of the discussion you were on.  Needless to say, it escalated to the point that it blurred the lines of civility and mayhem.

 

Mayhem won.

 

Seven days after the town announced its fireworks ban the mayor rescinded the ban.  Fireworks were back in business.  The mob patted itself on the back.  The noisiest wheel had gotten greased.  A different joy filled the air pushing the brief exhilaration of the previous declaration to the side of the road.  The veterans mourned.  The parents and elderly sighed.  Pet owners were sad.  Fourth of July without fireworks was lost. The noise and chaos had won.

 

I count myself among those who grieve over losing a noiseless celebration of the Fourth of July.  I’ll be drugging one of my pups to relieve her fear and anxiety.  We will sit in the basement with the television loudly blaring in hope that between the mindbenders and competing noise she will feel safe and calm.  It is sad that we will become prisoners in our own home to satisfy the need of a few wanting to blow up something.  But, hey!  That is the American way.

 

In the original declaration of banning fireworks, the town council cited fire concerns.  That is a legitimate concern.  Montana has been in a drought for over a year.  We have entered the “fire season”.  With the lack of snow in the winter and sparse rain in the spring things are drier than usual.  The risk of fire is real.  Check out the fires in Colorado, Utah, and California.  As I write this there is a 6,000-acre fire just down the road south of us in between the communities of Bridger and Fromberg.  The council’s decision was reasonable.  The risk was too great.  The council thought better of it.  A resolution was made.  Debate ensued among the council.  The question was raised and the vote was taken.  The resolution passed.

 

For a few of the seven days there had been the possibility of rain.  Calling what was actually received would be generous.  In totality there was only .12 inches of moisture.  A little over a tenth of an inch.    It was what some folks would call a “nine-inch rain” . . . nine inches between every drop.  It wasn’t exactly the deluge of Noah’s epic flood, but it represented a flood in the minds of the local pyromaniacs.  God was telling them, “to go forth and blow things up to your hearts’ content.”  Truly, a tenth of moisture was good enough for shooting off fireworks they argued . . . and argued . . . and argued.

 

Worn by the tenacity of the assault, the mayor—not the town council—removed the ban.

 

Though fire risk and lack of moisture were the reasons behind the ban, the real focus was more theoretical and political.  Those in favor of fireworks felt their freedom and constitutional rights were being attacked and taken away.  It was their “right” to light fireworks and blow up the town.  I checked my copy of the Constitution—both state and federal, and I could not find where it talked about the freedom to shoot off fireworks.  It was claimed that this was the first step toward tyranny—a fireworks ban! I wonder where in the hell they have been since the incumbent president has run amuck over our country, its constitution, and citizen’s freedom for the past 18 months.  I guess that is another day and debate.  None the less, they turned the argument political.

 

Those who were for fireworks were America’s defenders.  True patriots.  Those against the fireworks were libtards, communists, socialists, and anti-America.  Unpatriotic.  They pointed fingers and declared a conspiracy to overthrow the president and government.  Besides it is the Semiquincentennial of the United States of America—the 250^th birthday!  That is enough cause to blow up the town.  It was a patriotic duty and damn all those communistic and socialistic libtards!  If they don’t like it, they can leave America . . . or at least town for the Fourth.  The mayor passively aggressively noted that “right” in declaring the ban removed in a letter to the community.

 

Rain and politics are debatable.  Yet the crux of the problem was actually simple . . . the rules.  In their benevolent desire to appease what many would rather have—a Fourth of July void of fireworks, they got the cart before the horse.  The decision did not follow protocol.  Those in the community who live and die by the letter of the law when it is in their favor discovered that.    As caring as the original resolution was, it was for naught.  There were those who gleefully pointed it out to the mayor and town council.

 

And they were right.  Procedure was not followed.  Notice of the resolution was not made public (it was a spur of the moment thing).  Public hearings on the resolution were not had.  It was not on the agenda for the public to witness.  Technically the resolution and vote were not legal.  Technically it was null and voided out the gate.  The restoration of fireworks was decreed and quickly made.  The town, the council, and mayor did not need the mess this whole fiasco created.

 

Though I was madder than a wet hen upon learning the fireworks were restored, I did calm down by the end of the day.  I’m disappointed in the mayor’s decision, but I also understand the ramifications if the decision had not been made.  I’m sadden because I believe that more townspeople lean towards a firework ban for the Fourth of July celebration than the willful noise assault of exploding fireworks.  I feel for my dogs who must be drugged for their sanity and safety.  I pray for the veterans with PTSD that they are safe and not thrown back into the horrific trauma of the conflicts they experienced.  I wish the parents of children and babies the best of luck in getting their kids to sleep.  And those elderly . . . I guess they are on their own.  We lost.

 

To the victors go the spoils.  Freedom and individual rights have been served.  The communistic socialist assault on our nation and its liberty has been repelled.  The libtards have been put in their place. Freedom rings.  Fireworks have been redeemed to their sacred place.  Life is back to normal.  God will watch over us all . . . God will keep us safe.  After all, we are God’s chosen people . . . chosen nation.  We are the United States of America.  God’s favorites.  The president said so.  Damn the rest.  They are on their own.  Let the fireworks begin . . .

 

. . . I hope it rains.