Entry 538: Burning Hand

I had to be rushed to urgent care last night because I burned my hand.  It was partially me being stupid, but mostly it was just an accident.  To err is human, after all.  I was fixing dinner and there was a saucepan sitting on a burner that wasn't turned on.  Inside the pan was a stirring spoon, the kind with an oval plastic head and a long thin metal handle.  Since the saucepan wasn't hot I wasn't expecting the spoon to be hot, so I grabbed it barehanded.  What I didn't realize (but probably should have) is that the spoon's handle had been sticking out directly above a burner that had been in use, and it was red hot (not literally, unfortunately, as then I would have known not to touch it).  When I wrapped my hands around the spoon's handle, it was like that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when the creepy Nazi grabs the medallion from the fire.  I instantly let go, of course, but by then the damage (to my skin) was already done.

[This is what it looked like immediately after burning.  White splotches = intense pain.]

I knew it right away too.  I thought to myself, Shit, this is gonna be bad.  I did all the things you are supposed to do -- avoid ice, hold it under cool running water, etc. -- but still I could feel it starting to blister up.  And it hurt.  I mean, it really fucking hurt.  Without exaggeration, I can say that I cannot remember ever feeling a more intense pain.*  It's a hard to thing to measure, pain, because there are so many different types.  My shoulder pain, for instance, is awful, but that's largely because it's always there.  There's a psychologic effect, a hopelessness, that magnifies it many times over.  This pain was very different.  But on the just-make-it-stop, I'll-confess-to-crimes-I-didn't-commit scale, it was about as high as I've ever experienced.

*One thing that could rival it was another burn I got when I was about 14.  I was at Cannon Beach with my friend J, and I picked up a log to move it into our beach fire not realizing that the underside of it was already smoldering.  I barbecued two of my finger tips and spent much the next few days with my hand in the cooler.

At times like these, it's good to have a spouse to convince you to go to the doctor.  I didn't want to go, but when two hours had elapsed, and the pain hadn't subsided at all, S convinced me using the "Do you really want to be lying awake at 3:00 am the night before Thanksgiving because your hand hurts too much to sleep?" logic.  I relented, and we hustled to our neighborhood medical center before they closed.  (There was no way I was going to the ER.)  S dropped me off, as it would have been difficult for me to drive.

I am so glad I went.  Literally nobody was in the waiting room when I got there, and I was in and out in no time.  The doctor (physician's assistant, technically) diagnosed it as a second-degree burn, applied some ointment, and wrapped it with a bandage.  He gave me some Tylenol with codeine for the night and some extra strength Tylenol without codeine for the day and called in a prescription for a topical cream.  The nurse gave me a tetanus shot, and then I walked to the pharmacy, picked up my prescription, and then walked home.  It was as easy a trip to the doctor as I've ever had.  And, like a miracle, by the end of the night, my hand was substantially better and the pain had almost totally subsided.  I didn't even need the pain meds.

[Much better by the time I went to bed.]

So, now I get to enjoy Thanksgiving.  We aren't doing much.  (No big gathering like the last few years.)  I took the kids to the park, where Lil' S1 climbed nearly to the top of a tall tree, and now I'm writing this with a lousy Lions-Texans game in the background.  I am looking forward to a Thanksgiving feast, however.  We're getting carryout from some place called Sababa here in DC.  We didn't want to cook, so S sent me a list from the Washington Post of places that are doing special carryout meals for Thanksgiving, and Sababa was the only one that wasn't already sold out.  It looks pretty good though.  They're an Israeli restaurant, so it's not quite your traditional Thanksgiving fare (one of the starters is hummus and the entrée is turkey kabobs), but that's fine by me.  The kids will only pick at it either way, and S really likes Middle Eastern food.

[It's hard to see, but if you zoom in enough you can make out Lil' S's head in the red circle, and he went even higher after I took this.  It made me a little nervous, but I figured the branches would stop him if he fell.  Also, what was I going to do?  Climb up there and get him myself?] 

Other than that, I'll probably fix myself a cocktail and enjoy the day off.  S and I are about halfway though Queen's Gambit, which I'm enjoying quite a bit (although I'm a total patzer of a player, I've always been very interested in chess), so episode five might be in the offing.  I also have a new issue of The New Yorker sitting on my mantle, and the book Three-Ring Circus loaded on my Kindle.  I've been tearing through it.  It's a sports book (subtitle: Kobe, Shaq, Phil, and the Crazy Years of the Lakers Dynasty), and I always tear through sports books.  Once I'm finished, I plan to move on to Claire McNear's book about Jeopardy!

And speaking of move on: Until next time...

Entry 537: Birthday Wishes

Fun fact: Today is president-elect Joe Biden’s birthday.  He is 78, which is pretty damn old to start a presidency, but whatever, I’m not an ageist.  I hope all his birthday wishes come true.  In no small part this is because surely one of his birthday wishes is also my big (non-birthday) wish at the moment: An end to the insanity.  I’m not going to lie, Trump’s refusal to concede gracefully (or even ungracefully) is causing me a lot of consternation.  But, I'm going to do my best to try not to think about it for a while.  There's nothing I can do about it, and the constant anxiety is only hurting me.  I need to try to focus on other things: Can't let the terrorist's win.

Speaking of winning, the Seahawks scored a big win last night.  They're back in first place in the best division in football, which makes me happy.  When my sports team do well, it's comfort food, it's a nostalgic melody, it's a shot of dopamine.  It really changes nothing about my life, but it makes me feel a little better, and we could all use things that make use feel a little better right now.

Because it is not looking good on the coronavirus front, that's for sure.  I've basically gone into lockdown again.  Not that I was doing much before, but we would have people over in our backyard or go to another couple's house for a cookout, that type of thing -- very small gatherings, outdoors, masks.  But I think we need to cut that out again.  For one thing, it's getting too cold to do things outside.  (Winter is going to be brutal, trapped inside with the boys.)  For another, infection rates are skyrocketing.  We have our pod -- our family, one other family, and the sitter -- and I'm sticking to that for now.  Even that isn't super safe (obviously I don't have much say in what the other family and the sitter do), but I also have to work, S also has to work, and the kids need to go to (virtual) school, so... it is what it is, so to speak.  Hopefully, we can get that vaccine going ASA and P.

In other medical news, the results of my MRI came back.  No structural damage.  I'm not sure if this is good news or bad news, honestly.  It sounds good on its face, but it's not like it makes my shoulder feel any better.  Something is bothering me, and if it was something structural, it could likely be fixed with surgery -- fixed being the operative word there.  I had microscopic surgery on my knee to repair a partially torn meniscus when I was 18, and the procedure itself was terrible*, as were the next few weeks of recovery, but after that it was like, Whoa, I'm totally better now!  No physical therapy, no anti-inflammatories, no more pain or discomfort, whatsoever.  It felt like a miracle cure.  Since then, I've been very pro-surgery.  But repairing a partially torn meniscus is a very easy procedure, as these things go, and I definitely don't have the same regenerative powers today I had 25 years ago.  It's quite likely shoulder surgery at 43 would be a very different experience than knee surgery at 18.  So, maybe it's good I don't have to go that route.

*Actually, the procedure itself was tremendous, because they gave me awesome drugs and then put me to sleep.  But the aftermath, when I came to and the meds wore off, was the worst I've ever felt.  It was like that scene in Trainspotting when the baby is crawling on the ceiling and its head turns all the way around.

Instead, I just have to live with arthritis in my shoulder -- that's what the MRI revealed.  So it goes.  I've entered that stage in my life.  Now I know at least, and I can manage it, by which I mean I'll probably just go back to doing Krav Maga and weightlifting in about a month or so.  I put a medical freeze on my membership, and once that expires, I plan to resume my training -- my Zoom training, that is.  It'll probably only aggravate things in the long-run, but I'll deal with that in another 25 years, when, incidentally, I will still be ten years younger than the president-elect.

Alright, it's late here.  Until next time...

Entry 536: Not That Schlubby

After the election was called for Biden, I saw the same joke several times on Twitter in reference to Kamala Harris' husband Doug Emhoff -- something to the effect of "Finally, a moment in the sun for schlubby Jewish men with far more impressive wives."  It's supposed to be a self-deprecating joke, tweeted by other "schlubby" Jewish men (who apparently have impressive wives).  But it's actually a humblebrag.  Saying your wife is more impressive than you or "out of your league" or, if you're a football fan, saying you "outkicked your coverage" in the spouse department is totally tooting your own horn, because it's your wife you talking about.  If an amazing, incredible person picks you to be their life partner then that obviously reflects well on you.  I kinda hate this sort of humblebrag, but a lot of guys do it -- I've probably even done it myself -- so I usually just let it slide.

But here's the bigger problem I have with this joke: Doug Emhoff isn't that schlubby.  In fact, he doesn't appear to be schlubby at all.  He's a totally normal looking, you might even say good-looking, fiftysomething man.  He's not Donal Logue.  (There's a deep cut for you.  Remember him?)  I mean, if you were a middle-aged woman, and you were on a dating app, and you came across the guy below, would you be, like, Ugh... look at that schlub?  Probably not.

The better joke: Finally a moment in the sun for the husbands of successful, beautiful South Indian women.  Now if only I could be second gentleman someday.

In other political news, every major network has now made a projection in every state.  Biden ends up with 306 electoral votes, plenty more than the 270 he needs to be president.  Nothing is finalized yet -- that happens over the next month or so -- but there doesn't appear to be anything anybody can do to change the result, no matter how amoral or corrupt they are.  There will be recounts in a few states, but recounts typically change the vote total by a few hundred votes, at most.  Biden is leading by over 10,000 votes in every state in which he's the projected winner.  Law suits to disqualify votes are not going anywhere and wouldn't change the outcome even if they were.  (They seem to be entirely for show, often focusing on, again, no more than a few hundred votes.)  This means the only way things could potentially flip is if state officials try to monkey with their electors in the presidential college, and it doesn't seem like there is any serious appetite to go this route, and it's probably not even legal to do so, anyway.  So, I think Biden-Harris is going to happen.  I mean, I'm still going to have nagging doubts until inauguration day, but that's so much better than how I felt on this date four years ago.

Alright, enough election talk for a bit.

I had an MRI done on my shoulder this evening.  As I've mentioned before, it's been bothering me for years.  I think it's tendinitis (because that's what the specialist thinks), but it's been going on so long that I decided to get an MRI, if only to rule out the possibility of a tear or other structural damage.  It'll be nice to know either way.  I hate getting MRIs though.  I've had three done now in my life, and they're always torture.  I mean that literally: If you wanted to torture me, putting me in a little box and preventing me from moving would be a good way to go.  It's so hard to stay perfectly still too.  I thought I was doing an excellent job, and then I got chastised through the headphones for moving.  Whatever.  The whole thing only last 30 minutes, eight songs.  That's how I marked the time.  (The play list was very calming -- The Cranberries, Fleetwood Mac, Roberta Flack.) Now, it's over.

And speaking of over, I'm going to stop here.  I have a few more topics on my mental docket, but I'm very tired and a bit hungry.  I want to eat a bowl of granola and then go to bed.

Until next time...

Entry 535: Well, I Guess It's Decided Now

That was an agonizing four and a half days.  I spent almost the entire 84 hours anxiously refreshing my phone, waiting for data dumps from counties like Fulton, Maricopa, Clark, Allegheny, etc.  Everybody has their own way of handling this type of thing.  Many prefer to tune out everything until the big news comes along, states are actually called, or a winner is declared.  I'm the exact opposite.  I have to obsess over every bit of information and every possible scenario.*  I crunch numbers on scratch paper; I map out different electoral maps; I follow various data-journalists on Twitter and hang on their every analysis.  (Nate Cohn of the NYT's The Upshot is the most insightful, in my opinion.)  It's excruciating, yes, but it's better than not knowing.  Of course, I have to take breaks to shower and work and whatnot, but even then, in the back of mind I'm still thinking about it.

*By the way, I totally could've made a career of datajournalism.  I'm not saying that as a joke.  I legitimately think it's something I would be really good at.

The relief still hasn't kicked in yet, to be honest.  I believe Biden will be the next president.  I don't think the allegations and law suits of our current manchild president will lead anywhere.  I'm not even sure they're designed to lead anywhere.  As somebody on Twitter put it (I don't remember who and I'm paraphrasing): The purpose of these law suits is not to change the outcome of the election.  It's to crystalize to the base that the only reason in life they don't get what they want is because somebody unfairly took it from them.  I think this is all true, and nevertheless, I still haven't had that cathartic release of anxiety.  I believe it, but I don't feel it.  I don't know why.  Maybe it will happen when Arizona and Georgia are called; maybe it will be on Inauguration Day; maybe it won't be until I can go in public again without a mask on.

But, in the meantime, I'm not going to abstain from celebration, because it's been wild here in DC.  After the race was called by the major networks yesterday, I wrote "BYE DON" on a white tee, put it on, and ran up a major thoroughfare.  In part, I did this because I needed exercise and was planning on a run anyway, but also it was because I knew there would be people lining streets, celebrating, honking their horns, and I wanted to get in on it.  I wish I would have gone down by the White House -- or as close as you can get right now, an area called Black Lives Matter Plaza -- but I weirdly didn't think of it.  I went back today, and it was cool, but it wasn't a party.  It was like the morning brunch after the wedding reception.  Not everybody is there, and those who are are kinda slow and bleary-eyed, and there are little kids running around, because they're the only ones who have any energy.  

Still, I got a decent bike ride in (about 11 miles) and some pics to share.

[My favorite thing about this pic is the patheticness of this old guy's sign.  I mean, I get it, I'm not artistic at all, but anybody who can write a message on a sign can write it so that people can read it from further than five feet away.  (It says "Congratulations Biden & Harris," if you're wondering.)]

[You can just see the top of the Washington Monument poking up in the background.  By the way, all this fencing was put up during the protests against police brutality earlier this year.  There's an entire park engirded that's no longer open to the public.  If I were the mayor of DC, after Biden is inaugurated, I'd tear all this shit down, and celebrate like it's David Hasselhoff razing the Berlin Wall.]