Well, sorry dear readers, I did not mean to keep you hanging there, but I was so tired and it was after midnight when I posted (There is Good News…and Bad News Part 1) in the wee hours of yesterday morning. After an astounding 3 1/2 hours of sleep and one migraine headache,
followed by a long and semi-productive day at the office, and the opening of an IRA (at the credit union which readily accepts my paycheck but informed me I am not a member) to avoid having to send my least favorite relative, Uncle Sam, any of my hard earned cash – I am ready to complete my delivery of the news. That sentence, right there folks, is deserving of a grammatical “time out” and a mandatory three-post probation. Since I am too lazy to rewrite it, I plead guilty and will not appeal the maximum sentence…
The Good News is…I now know what is wrong with me.
The Bad News is: I now know what is wrong with me.
The first diagnosis, delivered by an actual doctor (Dr. Mack the Knife), is that I am suffering from an intra-thoracic stomach. This explains why, over the past 1 1/2 years, I have had extreme, painful, doubling-over, hurty, moaning, need-to-throw-up-but-can’t pain during meals. At least 1/2 of my stomach is above the diaphram and is residing in the place where my heart and lungs are supposed to live. In addition, the stomach above the diaphragm has a slight twist to it. So, in typical k8edid fashion, at a time when every other body part I own has drifted obscenely SOUTH, my stomach has migrated north of the border. All this can, of course, be surgically repaired if I want to, say, ever eat a real meal again. Until then I am forced to consume small meals consisting of preferably soft or liquid foods (Ummm, Wendy’s Frosty anyone?). Fortunately for me, I can live on peanut butter cups, milkshakes, ice cream, lobster bisque, Riesling, and creme brulee’ indefinitely.
The second diagnosis was delivered by NPR. In a broadcast discussion of marital issues and health problems facing retiring baby-boomers, I was intrigued by the mention of this disorder: Retired Husband Syndrome. Wikipedia (that fortress of knowledge for all things medical) describes RHS thusly: It is a condition where a woman begins to exhibit signs of physical illness and depression as her husband reaches, or approaches, retirement. Symptoms can include depression, rash, asthma, high blood pressure and ulcers. The phenomenom has been studied in Japan where Japanese physicians estimate that as many as 60 percent of wives of retired men suffer to some extent from “RHS.”
In this article from the archives of the National Institute of Health, Dr. Charles Clifford Johnson, MD identified the syndrome and wrote in 1984: I have frequently heard wives rage with such allegations as, “I am going nuts,” “I want to scream,” “He is under my feet all the time,” “He is driving me crazy,” “I’m nervous” or “I can’t sleep.” These emotional statements are frequently associated with symptoms such as tension headaches, depression, agitation, palpitations, gas, bloating, muscle aches and so forth. (Not to be confused with symptoms following a visit to the drive thru at Taco Bell).
This (RHS – not Taco Bell) would explain the remainder of my symptoms. My husband is retired. He has had a couple of jobs since retiring, but they were not really what he wanted and therefore….he is home. All day. All freakin’ day. If I were home all day with him, one of us would probably be incarcerated. My job, and the soul-sucking commute, and the fact that he escapes to his “man cave” when I am home are probably the only things keeping me alive (and living outside the razor wire) today.
So, if I have surgery I will have to stay home all day to recuperate with YOU KNOW WHO. Pass me the lobster bisque, will ya?