Small town government - it can ruin your health

I am propped up in bed as I type this, wearing gym clothes and one of those Old Guy in Sarasota support stockings on my left leg, which is propped under a pillow. Sultry image, ain't it?

I have been ordered to keep my travels to a minimum, to walk about for 5 - 10 minutes or so every couple hours, but otherwise keep that leg up in bed or a recliner at least until early March. Maybe this is karmic payback for all those weekends wasted watching TV sports. How I got this way remains a medical mystery, which is to say I am like a patient on a mediocre-at-best episode of "House." But apparently my blood is as thick as Aunt Jemima syrup, and while not at all high in cholesterol or sugar, prone to causing sticky problems.

I'm not telling you anymore about my malady. HIPPA, you know.

What I will tell you is about this weird dream I had after filling out paperwork related to my condition for my job. My blood thinned, I shivered dreaming about my paperwork being challenged by someone from Carpentersville or some other local burg, someone I never met, who maybe didn't like some story I wrote or was just really into following the letter of the law, like Eric "Respect My Authority" Cartman on "South Park." So, because they convinced a panel I had violated the law, my claims were all being denied and I was being kicked off my insurance.

In the dream, on one page of documents I signed my name Mike Danahey and on another Michael Danahey. To my challenger and her attorney, standing there in the shadows, the rules clearly stated that the name had to be the same. Oh, and I forgot to number my pages. And I put them in a sealed envelope and used the wrong kind of clip to hold them all together.

"The law is the law," they said in unison. Which is so true, yet often so very confusing.

"Is this fair? I am not deceiving anyone. I go by Mike or Michael, depending on my mood. I think its sexy when someone calls me Michael. I didn't realize I had to number the pages, so can't I just go back and do that? I sealed the envelope so stuff wouldn't get lost. And all I had was a big green paper clip. Sorry. I've been in the hospital," dream version Mike pleaded.

"It doesn't matter," they said, in unison again, which creeped me out.

"Why are you doing this," I whined. "Why are you people like this? Why can't someone who wants to run for office just run for office as long as he or she doesn't have a c riminal record, lives in the area they want to represent, and is a registered voter? Why the dog and pony show of petitions?" I meant to say, why can't I just refill out my forms if I must or do what I have to do so they I don't wind up destitute, which I think I did eventually get out. But hey, it was a dream.

"We are just enforcing the law as it is written. Because we can," the duo sang this time.

So there I was in one of those embarrassing hospital gowns, chasing after the two as they headed down a hall, out to a driveway and into a Hummer carrying more than 3/4 ton of petition papers from all over the place. Apparently this is what this couple does for fun - and it was a DREAM so I can know this.

"Wait a minute!," I shouted. "You're using a vehicle, possibly for commercial purposes, that fully loaded weighs more than 4 tons that I bet you leave in a driveway overnight sometimes. You should be the ones in trouble. Ordinance breakers!"

"Nope. Towns with such laws, the laws may seem to apply to us, but they are really about those ugly panel trucks or for preventing someone from parking a semi in the driveway or a bus. It's not in the spirit of the law to prevent me from parking my petition-filled Hummer wherever I want to," said the lawyer, who was smoking a cigar made from ground up petition p apers.

"What the..." I said as a wind blew up my gown, and they drove off to bother another election.

I called a friend in Chicago who doesn't have a car to come help me. It would take him three hours to get to me by bus, then train, then bus or cab. That's a=2 0nightmare for another time.

This time, in the words of Tommy Lee Jones' character in "No Country for Old Men," then I woke up. And double checked my paperwork.

Get a Leg Up: The Further Adventures of Clot Boy

So my blood apparently is as thick as maple syrup, probably that fake kind, like Aunt Jemima.

Which is a glib way of saying, I have gooey blood clots again. I am back on the rat poison, with a leg that feels like the Pittsburgh Steelers defense fell on it. But only when I stand. Or sit. Or walk.

This all came to a head - or a foot, in this case - about three weeks ago. I've been having breathing troubles for some time. I walk up stairs, I sound like a horny obscene phone caller. I had tests in October - the year anniversary of the first time I had clots on my lungs - and all came back fine. I thought I was in the clear.

But even then I said my breathing seemed a bit labored on stairs. So I thought, better ask about getting a stress test, in case it's the ticker this time. I mean, my gene pool is dirty with coronary issues.

In the meantime, my leg started hurting, a slight pain in the left calf, a sore vein in the upper left thigh. So two weeks ago, I went to the doctor to talk about both issues.

She sent me to the hospital for an ultrasound, and then they found the baby growing on behind my knee. And they contacted Oprah immediately. Alright, I'm lying. They found nothing on the calf but a surface clot on the thigh.

I was told to keep the leg as elevated as possible, to heat it, and to schedule the stress test in a week or so. Only thing is, by the end of that week, the leg hurt more, especially the calf. It felt like a sports injury, like a sprain or tear, of which I know from experience. And the simple act of sitting on a bar chair caused my foot to fall asleep - that sharp needles and pins kind of numbing in the heel and big toe.

I called my doctor that Monday (Feb. 9) about it, and she said to go for the stress test, but she would order up a chemical version in case I couldn't walk well enough.

Well, I couldn't. In fact, the nurse took a look at the big toe, and it was turning a nice shade of Chicago winter sky. And that wasn't because of the registration hoops I had to jump through - as in I didn't properly pre-register for my test, so I had to hobble over to admitting, then back. Lucky, I had a friend with me.

So the nurse looks at the foot, says the stress test is off, but sets up one down the road for me that takes three hours and uses a dye, and sends me back to ultrasound. Still no baby, but this time, there is a deep vein clot on the calf and the surface clot. So they admit me - which took two hours for a bed to become available.

Another good buddy brought me a sandwich, which is good, because crabby from hunger AND in pain, well, I could have turned into Wolverine.

But I wound up in a single room, which was nice - with an IV in my arm for four days.

I had a VQ scan the first night, which showed a very high probability that I have a clot or clots on my lungs again, too. Interesting test: they make you breath in radioactive oxygen to get the images. The test was administered by a Korean woman with a nice sense of humor. She told me I looked like a genie and asked me to grant her three wishes.

I was poked and prodded for the remainder of the week - but I remain a medical mystery, like a weak episode of House.

My hospitalist put me on blood thinners. A hospitalist is a doctor who manages the care for patients while they are in the hospital. It frees up general practitioners to treat more people and/or spend more time with those who come to the office.

I like the way that every medical person asks you to tell you what happened the first time they meet you. If you're paranoid you would think that was to see if you are faking it. But I think it would be pretty hard to fake a blood clot. And it's not like a store sells some kit to cause one on purpose.

Anyway, the stay was pleasant enough, as far as hospital visits go. The staff was quite friendly and I felt like Brad Pitt for the attention I was getting. I had my laptop, but the place had odd blocks set up - I can understand no xtube, but no blogger sites either, or social networking sites, or pretty much anything with video. And no Internet radio feeds either.

It beat work. But I think if you asked most people these days, would you rather be at the office, or have an IV in your arm and be in bed for four days, choice B would win in a landslide (provided the person answering has good insurance, as I am fortunate enough to have. For now).

Still, the leg hurts, I can't walk for more than a block without the pain. I sit as you might at a desk or restaurant or meeting, and it gets uncomfortable. The toes and heel still seem to tingle. Only when the leg is elevated does the pain subside.

That's why I didn't ask for painkillers. Tomorrow I hope to learn what the doctor thinks my activity levels should be and what to do to manage the pain. The leg clot will eventually dissolve, they told me. It's taking its time, and blocking the flow to my foot, the bastard.

I also want to see of the can find a specialist who can pinpoint what the hell is causing this. There are mysteries in life and I don't want this to be one of them.

I am too much of a puzzle as it is.

Uncle Brian and Lady Macbeth

So I got to meet my Uncle Brian Dennehy last night after watching him hit the boards in DESIRE Under the Elms (I write it that way because the ads for it really stress DESIRE and almost whisper the Under the Elms part).

OK, so he's not really my uncle. You caught me in another lie on the way to my truth. Whatever.

Either way, Uncle Brian was putting on his socks when we got to go into his dressing room, and he was listening to some Bill Evans jazz on his portable which had him reminiscing about seeing Evans at the Village Vanguard.

Uncle Brian was looking tired, and how couldn't he. DESIRE Under the Elms is a son of a bitch of a play, Eugene O'Neill and lots of shouting, treachery, torment, love triangle, sex, deception, maybe some actual love, infanticide, and is this case, all those rocks on the stage.

That it the set looks like the bottom of an unglamorous aquarium, with brown gray boulders abounding, piled like the walls of a fallen castle, dangling from the ceiling even, with a cabin on ropes coming up and down from the catwalks, too.

Uncle Brian isn't fucking sure what's up with the fucking set. That's his buddy, director Robert Falls' decision. And all the fucking nudity, what's the fucking big deal, and why the fuck even have it.

Yeah, he swears a lot. Big fucking deal. He was nice enough to meet with me, a no-name writer at a craptacular publication, and a buddy of mine. And he told my buddy, who took a back-hurting tumble on an ice patch by his apartment building earlier in the day, that he better not fuck with that and get to a doctor come Monday if not sooner.'

We talked about how Wall Street has pretty much fucked up the country, with that asshole Maddoff bilking folks of money that they might still have liability issues about, taking from nonprofits like the Innocence Project, which helps free people who are wrongly on Death Row, to Broadway and other theater where there's less and less backing for mounting productions.

And how the play was cut to just under 2 hours and how you can always cut O'Neill. (And in these times, you gotta, right? Who has the patience and attention span anymore. Hell, you're probably bored reading this already!)


DESIRE was supposed to go to Broadway, but on this night at least Uncle Brian had his doubts. Hey, Broadway is Disneyland now, and even his buddy Angela Lansbury is having a hard time getting a production of Blythe Spirit going. Whose got the money to see it?

The female lead in DESIRE, Carla Gugino is hot and has a career heating up with Watchmen about to open and her one of the stars - she's leaving the cast to promote her films.


And Uncle Brian, like me and way too fucking many of us, was wondering what might be next for us all for work.

Didn't help that dumbass me said the "M" word, mentioning I had seen M-beth at Chicago Shakespeare the prior weekend. That is BAD LUCK to say M-beth in a theater, but I forgot. But Uncle Brian forgave me, luck's been bad enough can't get much worse.

And he was heading over to meet up with a buddy of his in the Scottish play, anyway.


There's nudity amidst the blood there, too, With Lady Macbeth baring her boobies and having them fondled by Macbeth. We see her ass later in the play. Oddly, when she gets into a bathtub, she has panties on. But what do I know? Maybe Scots wear them into water.

The gore in this Macbeth was almost to Tarantino levels, but the production could have been even more over the top for my tastes.

In DESIRE, there was nudity, but oddly, it was male nudity - butt shots, and a burly bearish guy going around for about 15 minutes without his shirt and with boobies almost as big as Lady M's. Hey, women and gay guys in the audience need eye candy too.

Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do to get people talking about your play, even if it means putting Macbeth in a modern setting with an Obama lookalike in the cast, and video and DESIRE having a Bob Dylan song. And to me it seemed organic for these plays to do this.

More organic was seeing Macbeth spray the front row with spittle as he enunciated like a good Elizabethean actor. And seeing a woman sitting next to me fall asleep. Or here the old dude smack his gums like he was a dog eating peanut butter during the whole second act of M-beth.

I don't know what that tangent has to do with anything. After all, this is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Wait, that makes me, and M-beth, sound like Anne Coulter.

And now I am officially rambling.