Cheating death, eating rat poison

So I went for a mall walk last night, feeling like a senior citizen as I tried to find one of those Medic Alert tags. I've been to Target, I've been to Walgreens, I've been a miner for a hear of gold. Oh, I tried Things Remembered on my jaunt, and they don't have them either.

I need one since I am on blood thinners and, until further notice, am a de facto hemophiliac. I am taking warfarin, a drug I read was once used as rat poison. No wonder I've been craving cheese and wanting to crawl through tight spaces.

It's weird to joke about this, as the worst I felt was what I imagine it's like to have asthma - or to have Brian Urlacher squeeze your lungs. But friends of mine have told me about people who have died from pulmonary embolisms, and there is ample proof of this on the Internet.

So right now I feel lucky and stupid at the same time. The stupid part comes from not going to the doctor sooner and for flying home, which actually could have killed me. Google "pulmonary embolism" (blood clots that decide to to travel from the legs or elsewhere, through the heart and to the lungs) and you'll find that they can be caused by sitting in the same, cramped position for several hours, say, like flying on a modern commercial airliner, where the seats and spacing are designed for the comfort of thin, 10-year-old girls, not beefy Midwesterners.

The doctors still aren't totally sure what caused me to have four such clots, two a couple weeks before the bad ones, the latter ones on my trip to Tahoe. My legs, pelvis, lungs, and even a genetic test have all been negative. I like to think, too, that exercise may have helped keep me from winding up in a morgue, but I am not sure what, if anything, I did that led to what happened.

Being raised Catholic, I do think it must be something I did, that I must have some responsibility for my ailment. But I don't smoke, have lost weight, work out and my only bad habit really is having more than two or three beers when I go out on a weekend. That has to end now, as the warfarin I am on is processed by the liver, as is booze and is Tylenol, the only pain killer I can take now. So now I am the designated driver by default, I guess.

I probably should have had more water on the plane and stretched more, but reading stories people in far better shape then me have had blood clots form on their lungs. A cousin of a friend recently died in her apartment from one, and she was a marathon runner.

The trick now is how to live within restrictions while at the same time having been given the lesson that life can end at any moment. How do you balance caution with savoring moments?

Already I have bowed out of going to meet friends at bars on two occasions, once to watch a football game, once to see a Celtic rock band. I am still sort of tired, not quite sure I want to be around smokers, and haven't had a beer in two weeks.

One nice thing, though, is a lot of buddies called or e-mailed. Not that I am going to parlay this "popularity" into a run for office, but it is a Mr. Rogers-like feeling to find out you how good your friends really are, that you matter to people. It makes me want to put on a cardigan and take a trolley to the land of make believe - or maybe that is a side effect of the drug.

I do feel hungry a lot, have a bit of cottonmouth, and have to shave with an electric razor. I bought a $70 one, which seems to take forever to do its job. Why anyone would willingly use of of these things is beyond me.

I did try to convince my doctor to give me a note claiming that my medication causes me to swear without control, but she wouldn't go for it. That could have come in handy while readjusting to the daily routine, the same old things.

Instead, I'm being even more of a smart ass lately, as things just seem slightly more absurd right now, from taking rat poison, to having that dulled sense of taste, to having my work computer writing system down for three days, to reading that metrosexuality has been replaced by menergy in the world of male fashion.

Menergy sounds like the name of a gay bar, but some idiot New York writer uses the term to mean guys who are guys, as guyish guys with facial hair, like George Clooney with a beard, are in right now, while guys who gel too much and shop at Abercrombie & Fitch are out, so to speak.

People actually care about stuff like that? What the...

I must be getting better.