Jul 26, 2011 - 4:22 am
(Elvis Presley reference)
Here's how it goes: one day I am stepping over Dusty, the older of the two golden retrievers and the one who believes his job is to be in your way in whatever way he can be in your way, and he decides to rise, to move, as I am stepping over him.
I cannot say how long I rested on that fine, cool, tile. I do know that at some point I wondered how long I might lie there before being discovered. Like the woman in that commercial who falls and can't get up (how embarassing), I called for help, my son, in my case.
This was NOT a test of the Emergency Broadcasting System. I was pretty sure that I needed some help getting up. It took several yells, but he eventually came, he eventually lifted me up, he eventually asked what happened, we eventually decided to shoot the dog (but didn't) and life went on.
I'm pretty sure I was out for at least a brief spell, and I'm pretty sure this all had to do with Christmas decorations. I do not know that you can gather any important philosophical stuff from that, but you might be able to ascertain that either the dog or me has to go and I would agree. My family would agree, in fact, and chances are that if we voted, the dog would still be moving from strategic spot to strategic spot tomorrow, trying to get in the way of anyone and everyone, while I was suddenly sleeping under a bridge.
Such are the vagaries of life.
I blew that off, considered it a chance encounter with fate and an obese golden retriever (really: who HAS an obese golden retriever?).
Then it happened again, with the dog nowhere in sight, nowhere to blame. I was in the 'big' bathroom (as opposed to the somewhat smaller 'little' bathroom) just hanging on to the important stuff in front of the commode (if you know what I mean and I think you do) when I did it again. This time, I didn't trip over the dog (who was nowhere to be seen, lucky for him) but simply crashed.
No harm, no foul.
This morning, however, I arose at about six AM, went to the 'little' bathroom, and attempted to take a whiz, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Somehow, I slammed my head against the sink and ended up on the floor.
Ouch, as we say in the business.
I decided to go back to bed and work that out later. But, as you know, when your bladder is sounding the alarm, you are going to answer it.
I got back up, I went back into the 'little' bathroom, held on to a rail, and gave it another shot (yes, a one-hander, you cyncial creatures). This time my face hit the toilet lid and my left leg landed in an awkward position. My lip was cut, my jaw was hurt, my forehead still hurt, and now my left knee felt like it had issues.
I had issues. I CRAWLED out of the bathroom, afraid even to stand in that place, and once on the carpet slowly found my way back into bed. I had no idea how this had happened, how it happened more than once, more than twice. I blamed myself, of course. Later, my wife suggested it sounds like a blood pressure problem, some fancy name for what happens when you first wake up and don't have all of your stuff together.
I believe her, for the moment. If it is a cancer thing, it is a by-product, you know? Or so I expect.
With the exception of the staph infection days, my blood pressure has always been right around perfect, so this is a new thing, an aberration, if it proves to be so. I am only 54 years old.
I do not want to sit down to take a leak, but I did, ultimately, today.
A man has to get his sleep.