The Crud
Lately I've been lying low, primarily due to having the crud. Not the computer sort mind you but rather the urban sort such as my wife telling me not to get too near to her as in, "I don't want to catch the crud." Of course, the crud wasn't really mine to begin with, she coming home from an overseas visit to her sister and after a lack of sleep and other jet travel maladies, developing bronchitis which the doc said needed a round of antibiotics, all of which blew it out of the water (and unfortunately onto me). So alternatively defined as the stuff that is baked onto your oven walls and becomes nearly impossible to remove, the crud emerges as that tickle in the throat late at night, the one that makes you cough every now and then, not consistently but just enough to keep you (and most everyone else) awake. Your energy wains, your head grows fuzzy and soon you begin to feel like the stock market, up then down, up then down. It was...the crud. And after about a week, you begin to see the analogy to that baked-on junk that just seems impossible to get rid of.
Part of feeling sick is that somehow you sort of know, perhaps arrogantly so, that in a few short days --less than a week for sure-- you'll be better. You just need to rest and drink plenty of water, the old doctor's remedy from childhood. But when you have the crud you soon get tired of just resting, as in you want to get up and do something, even if that means just a quick jaunt to the store or a detour to pick up your mail or whatever; hey, you tell yourself, you're feeling pretty good so why not; and actually, you do feel better...until you get home where the crud has been patiently waiting. Or so it seemed to me, for anything that I did in the day (even that which required the least bit of effort) resulted in my nights becoming miserable. Gulp down a bit of the expectorant guaifenesin mixed with the cough suppressant dextromethorphan* (the generic combo pills run about $2 for a bottle of 20) and that should do it, right? Ha! The crud seemed to just laugh, my feeble attempt at a quick night's sleep discarded as easily as Magneto throwing away a bus.
But enough of my whining. Prior to the arrival of the crud two of my larger fresh water fish died; now these are fish that we've had for over a decade, clown loaches that seemed unrelated but emerged as a family unit complete with mama, papa and baby (in the wild, clown loaches reportedly can live for 20 years and grow to be 50 cm, although mine were only about 13 cm or about 5 inches). Something happened to the female for one day she was fine and the next, floating at the top. Who knows, maybe it was some sort of fish crud. But we had had it happen some twenty years earlier, a pair of loaches experiencing a problem and one getting sick and dying. But here's the thing, and bear with me for here comes a story straight out of Heartbreak Hotel. The whole "dying of a broken heart" tale...it happened. Way back when, as one of the loaches we had died, we watched the other just slink back to a corner and stop eating...like stop. (no other fish seemed to be having any problems and tests of the water in the tank came out fine) Before long, perhaps ten days later, that clown loach was also dead. So ten years go by and here we were again, a trio of loaches and now one of them suddenly passing. Would the scenario repeat itself? The larger (I assume male) loach retreated to a corner; we peered in, watching as flakes of food floated past its mouth...nothing. Perhaps it was mourning. Day two, day ten, day fifteen...and still nothing. Yet after so long, the only difference we could see was that its color was changing, growing pale and no longer shunning the other fish that gathered nearby, the other remaining loach often coming to a rest right along the side of the ailing fish. Perhaps late at night it was sneaking out around the tank and eating after all for it's weight seemed about the same. Then on day eighteen, the loach was gone (the solo survivor, the baby, appears to be bouncing back from it all, eating and swimming normally just days after the passing of the second loach). So, broken heart? Was it coincidence about the refusal to eat or was this something that was a specific behavior of loaches; was there something in the water that affected only those fish or was this actually a display of love and emotion? But among fishes? Was I putting far too much into it?
Jump with me to Ebay. After all, since moving my mother down this way, there was quite a bit of stuff that also made its way down. Antiques and old paraphernalia from my childhood, stuff that was likely worth quite a bit of money. And what better place to bring you back down to earth from your imagined riches than Ebay where so many hundreds and thousands of others have --gulp-- exactly what you have. First up, a near-perfect super-8mm projector, complete with case and manual and in terrific working order. Zillions of them on Ebay, many older than my mother's model, and all priced at less than $20 (and no bidders). Okay, maybe not that one, but what of my mother's almost-unused Lady Sunbeam electric razor, again with a fine-looking case and a mint-condition booklet of instructions...$8.99 (no bidders). Hmm, okay how about those roles of Indian Head pennies, something both my parents loved to sort and collect in their spare time while watching the television (let's face it, I had hauled all of this down in the hopes of continuing her valuable tradition of holding onto things). Yup, same disappointing results. As one vendor of the pennies explained, one had to remember that millions if not billions of the things were made, and many were still out there; the odds of finding something valuable in a role of pennies was something along the lines of 480,000 to 1...just being upfront and telling you not to get your hopes up, he added. But what really caught my eye was that many of the items (just like my mother's) were from estate sales, those auctions where relatives like me try to get rid of the stuff from other relative's households, relatives who have, you know, passed away. And now after all this time, all those valuable items my mother had tidily hoarded away, those carefully preserved instruction sheets and pristine cases, were amounting to little more than donations. And what did all that say for my stuff, where even more of those things had been manufactured so were likely worth even less (one saving grace, our disposable society possibly favoring the hoarder...no, no, wipe that silly notion out of my head).
The thing is, we all get sick and we all, generally, get better. So imagine the horror of the doctor who rushed to help stabilize the frail and elderly woman collapsing at his doorside, a natural and almost instinctive reaction; it was the beginning of the Ebola epidemic and the other doctor standing nearby only asked if the helpful doctor had touched her without gloves (he had)...in a few weeks time, that doctor was dead. As we age, at what point don't we get better, that cough or fuzzy head just staying and staying and perhaps even growing worse? At what point would our body simply decide that it had had enough, that the bacteria or virus or whatever was simply too much. And if that happened, would we --like our loaches-- decide to follow our loved one into that abyss. Would we have the guts or the courage or the fortitude to do so? Maybe...but here's one last story. My friend's uncle, an old country boy who lived a hardscrabble life, hated --as in hated-- the idea of being put in a nursing or retirement home should the time ever arise. "Put me in one of those," he told his nephew, "and I'll be dead in two hours...you know, people can just decide to die," he winked. My friend said that he thought nothing of those words until the day came when his uncle's close relatives made exactly that decision, finding the uncle a nice place and moving both him and his belongings into a nearby home. As the story goes, some two hours later those relatives received a call to come get their father (my friend's uncle)...he had passed away. Rubbing the stubble on his cheek, my friend said that his uncle's words made him think twice; maybe even in sickness we can still make some of our own decisions to get better. The trouble might be --as with our clown loaches-- that a better life might not be the one we outsiders picture, that a decision to leave might truly be just a matter of hours.
*One wouldn't think that anyone would want to take a bunch of cough syrup but unfortunately, in our prescription-drug-crazed world (see my earlier pieces on prescription drug abuse and the running opioid epidemic continuing to make its way across the U.S.) teens find the easy-to-buy cough syrup a convenient and inexpensive "high." Here's what one site had to say: ...there are supposedly four plateaus or “levels” of effects that DXM produces. Doses between 100 and 600 mg (a normal dose for a cough is 20-30 mg) cause mild stimulation, euphoria, hallucinations, distorted visual perceptions and loss of motor control. However, DXM abusers are often seeking the “dissociative” effect, which occurs at much higher doses (500-1500 mg). Males aged 15 to 19 are most commonly associated with DXM abuse. DXM is also called Skittles, Robo, Robotripping, Poor man’s PCP, Sizzurp, Agent Lemon, or DXemon Juice and has been touted as a drug of choice by popular musicians such as Three Six Mafia’s song, Sipping on Some Sizzurp.
Part of feeling sick is that somehow you sort of know, perhaps arrogantly so, that in a few short days --less than a week for sure-- you'll be better. You just need to rest and drink plenty of water, the old doctor's remedy from childhood. But when you have the crud you soon get tired of just resting, as in you want to get up and do something, even if that means just a quick jaunt to the store or a detour to pick up your mail or whatever; hey, you tell yourself, you're feeling pretty good so why not; and actually, you do feel better...until you get home where the crud has been patiently waiting. Or so it seemed to me, for anything that I did in the day (even that which required the least bit of effort) resulted in my nights becoming miserable. Gulp down a bit of the expectorant guaifenesin mixed with the cough suppressant dextromethorphan* (the generic combo pills run about $2 for a bottle of 20) and that should do it, right? Ha! The crud seemed to just laugh, my feeble attempt at a quick night's sleep discarded as easily as Magneto throwing away a bus.
 |
| Photo of clown loach from aqaurium blog by Matthew Seymour |
But enough of my whining. Prior to the arrival of the crud two of my larger fresh water fish died; now these are fish that we've had for over a decade, clown loaches that seemed unrelated but emerged as a family unit complete with mama, papa and baby (in the wild, clown loaches reportedly can live for 20 years and grow to be 50 cm, although mine were only about 13 cm or about 5 inches). Something happened to the female for one day she was fine and the next, floating at the top. Who knows, maybe it was some sort of fish crud. But we had had it happen some twenty years earlier, a pair of loaches experiencing a problem and one getting sick and dying. But here's the thing, and bear with me for here comes a story straight out of Heartbreak Hotel. The whole "dying of a broken heart" tale...it happened. Way back when, as one of the loaches we had died, we watched the other just slink back to a corner and stop eating...like stop. (no other fish seemed to be having any problems and tests of the water in the tank came out fine) Before long, perhaps ten days later, that clown loach was also dead. So ten years go by and here we were again, a trio of loaches and now one of them suddenly passing. Would the scenario repeat itself? The larger (I assume male) loach retreated to a corner; we peered in, watching as flakes of food floated past its mouth...nothing. Perhaps it was mourning. Day two, day ten, day fifteen...and still nothing. Yet after so long, the only difference we could see was that its color was changing, growing pale and no longer shunning the other fish that gathered nearby, the other remaining loach often coming to a rest right along the side of the ailing fish. Perhaps late at night it was sneaking out around the tank and eating after all for it's weight seemed about the same. Then on day eighteen, the loach was gone (the solo survivor, the baby, appears to be bouncing back from it all, eating and swimming normally just days after the passing of the second loach). So, broken heart? Was it coincidence about the refusal to eat or was this something that was a specific behavior of loaches; was there something in the water that affected only those fish or was this actually a display of love and emotion? But among fishes? Was I putting far too much into it?
Jump with me to Ebay. After all, since moving my mother down this way, there was quite a bit of stuff that also made its way down. Antiques and old paraphernalia from my childhood, stuff that was likely worth quite a bit of money. And what better place to bring you back down to earth from your imagined riches than Ebay where so many hundreds and thousands of others have --gulp-- exactly what you have. First up, a near-perfect super-8mm projector, complete with case and manual and in terrific working order. Zillions of them on Ebay, many older than my mother's model, and all priced at less than $20 (and no bidders). Okay, maybe not that one, but what of my mother's almost-unused Lady Sunbeam electric razor, again with a fine-looking case and a mint-condition booklet of instructions...$8.99 (no bidders). Hmm, okay how about those roles of Indian Head pennies, something both my parents loved to sort and collect in their spare time while watching the television (let's face it, I had hauled all of this down in the hopes of continuing her valuable tradition of holding onto things). Yup, same disappointing results. As one vendor of the pennies explained, one had to remember that millions if not billions of the things were made, and many were still out there; the odds of finding something valuable in a role of pennies was something along the lines of 480,000 to 1...just being upfront and telling you not to get your hopes up, he added. But what really caught my eye was that many of the items (just like my mother's) were from estate sales, those auctions where relatives like me try to get rid of the stuff from other relative's households, relatives who have, you know, passed away. And now after all this time, all those valuable items my mother had tidily hoarded away, those carefully preserved instruction sheets and pristine cases, were amounting to little more than donations. And what did all that say for my stuff, where even more of those things had been manufactured so were likely worth even less (one saving grace, our disposable society possibly favoring the hoarder...no, no, wipe that silly notion out of my head).
The thing is, we all get sick and we all, generally, get better. So imagine the horror of the doctor who rushed to help stabilize the frail and elderly woman collapsing at his doorside, a natural and almost instinctive reaction; it was the beginning of the Ebola epidemic and the other doctor standing nearby only asked if the helpful doctor had touched her without gloves (he had)...in a few weeks time, that doctor was dead. As we age, at what point don't we get better, that cough or fuzzy head just staying and staying and perhaps even growing worse? At what point would our body simply decide that it had had enough, that the bacteria or virus or whatever was simply too much. And if that happened, would we --like our loaches-- decide to follow our loved one into that abyss. Would we have the guts or the courage or the fortitude to do so? Maybe...but here's one last story. My friend's uncle, an old country boy who lived a hardscrabble life, hated --as in hated-- the idea of being put in a nursing or retirement home should the time ever arise. "Put me in one of those," he told his nephew, "and I'll be dead in two hours...you know, people can just decide to die," he winked. My friend said that he thought nothing of those words until the day came when his uncle's close relatives made exactly that decision, finding the uncle a nice place and moving both him and his belongings into a nearby home. As the story goes, some two hours later those relatives received a call to come get their father (my friend's uncle)...he had passed away. Rubbing the stubble on his cheek, my friend said that his uncle's words made him think twice; maybe even in sickness we can still make some of our own decisions to get better. The trouble might be --as with our clown loaches-- that a better life might not be the one we outsiders picture, that a decision to leave might truly be just a matter of hours.
*One wouldn't think that anyone would want to take a bunch of cough syrup but unfortunately, in our prescription-drug-crazed world (see my earlier pieces on prescription drug abuse and the running opioid epidemic continuing to make its way across the U.S.) teens find the easy-to-buy cough syrup a convenient and inexpensive "high." Here's what one site had to say: ...there are supposedly four plateaus or “levels” of effects that DXM produces. Doses between 100 and 600 mg (a normal dose for a cough is 20-30 mg) cause mild stimulation, euphoria, hallucinations, distorted visual perceptions and loss of motor control. However, DXM abusers are often seeking the “dissociative” effect, which occurs at much higher doses (500-1500 mg). Males aged 15 to 19 are most commonly associated with DXM abuse. DXM is also called Skittles, Robo, Robotripping, Poor man’s PCP, Sizzurp, Agent Lemon, or DXemon Juice and has been touted as a drug of choice by popular musicians such as Three Six Mafia’s song, Sipping on Some Sizzurp.
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