If a person is already mainlining copious amounts of antibiotic medication and they happen to get the former in to their bloodstream, it will start posturing like the latter. At least that is what happened to me a few weeks ago. With an immune system already suppressed by several weeks of antibiotic treatment, the body doesn't take well antibiotic-resistant micro-organisms. My new friend Serratia marcescensfit that bill. My body's reaction was a persistent two-day fever that peaked at 102.7 degrees Fahrenheit. That was enough for mom to shuttle me off to the Emergency Room and another three-day stay at the hospital. The length of the stay was determined by the length of time it took to culture and identify the bacteria that grew out of several samples of my blood. The hot zone in this instance turned out to be the PICC line in my left arm that was placed to dose the IV antibiotics that were supposed to get me healthy after my most recent surgery. Somewhere in the two and a half weeks after the surgery, the bacteria got into the line and reared its ugly head. Treatment of the fever consisted of knocking back the occasional Tylenol, and alternating between a cold washcloth on the forehead and shivering through fever chills; treating the infection consisted of ten-days worth of a couple different oral antibiotics to kill off Mr. Graham-negative stain, as S. marcescens is sometimes known.
For me, going to the hospital is becoming such old hat that I'm starting to not care what the diagnoses are anymore, and mostly just focused on when they will let me go home. It becomes a dance of how can I answer these doctors' questions so that I'm properly diagnosed, but yet don't set off too many alarm bells that will keep me here more than a day? It's the same type of attitude that keeps me from seeking medical attention in the first place and that will probably be my ultimate downfall: “Tell me sir, how did you get your legs cut off?” “Uh, I think I was hit by a train.” “And when exactly did this happen?” “I think it was Tuesday?...Monday or Tuesday.” “Tuesday! You realize today is Friday?!” “Um yeah. Well, you know, 'Lost' was on last night and it was a new episode and I wanted to see it on a big TV.” “You've lost an insane amount of blood.” “Well, I can't really feel it, so I figured...”
In summation, a week after I left the hospital I saw my infectious disease doctor and he decided to have me finish out the course of medication I was on when I left the hospital and then to stay off of any further antibiotics. The good news was the bone biopsy that was done in January didn't reveal any further bone infection and the wound site of my pressure sore seems to be healing up properly this time around.
*I was all set to recount this episode but then the day after I left the hospital I found out Deep Purple was playing a command performance at the Kremlin and then things got a little crazy around here.
**The amount of time I spent in MS Paint trying to get this image to look just right probably far outweighs the amusement value of the intended sight gag.
I've covered this territory before (see My Left Toe), but this time I decided to make it a multimedia experience.
In the interim between my first visit to the podiatrist and my most recent sojourn, about a year after the first visit my right big toenail needed some attention. Similar to what happened to the toenail on my left foot, somewhere along the way I split the skin away from the outside of the nail. During the second visit the right side of the nail also needed some attention. When I went to get the toe looked at, the podiatrist did his usual straddling-the-thin-line-between-medicine-and-torture-routine and removed significant chunks of both sides of the toenail.
As the toenail grew back in, the outiside of the nail came back ingrown and about 15 degrees to the right off verticle. All of this took place over the course of about a year, as toenails grow at a rate on par with continental drift. At one point, I ended up snagging the outside edge of the nail on the thin side of the footrest on my shower chair and separated a portion of the nail from the nailbed underneath. Of course, I can't feel any of this so it was quickly out-of-sight, out-of-mind. On occassion, the side of the nail would bleed a little bit and then scab over but it wasn't showing any signs of swelling or infection and I continued to let it go. One time I even considered doing a little home podiatry, but realized I didn't have the right tools or dexterity to pull off the task.
While I was hospitalized after my most recent surgery, one of the nurses made a comment that I should get the toenail checked out. So while I'm currently laid up, I finally decided to get the nail taken care of - kill two birds with one stone. This time I got a little video footage of the experience. Unfortunately, I wasn't quick enough on the draw to capture the very beginning of the procedure.
I'm debating whether or not to upload this on YouTube. I'm sure the creepy, foot-fetish video enthusiasts would love it though...Not that there's anything wrong with that.
The following has nothing to do with SCI, pressure sores, or anything of the like. It is based—quite loosely—on actual events.
The house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac in an unassuming subdivision in suburban Atlanta. It is a ranch home of modest size, but not all that spectacular. In fact, it looks to have seen better days. A black 1978 Pontiac Trans Am sits next to the driveway, its hood emblazoned with an airbrushed image of a purple dragon rising out of ann eerie mist. The car is up on cinder blocks and not in working order. In the backyard is an in-ground swimming pool in the shape of a music note, that when originally constructed, had a working water-level smoke machine. The pool hasn't had water in it in years.
The interior of the house is in a similar state of neglect, it has the trappings of a previous life of significant disposable income that is now all gone: free-standing arcade-style video game machines, big screen TV, billiards table (only one remaining cue stick has a felt tip still attached), a black Gibson Flying-V guitar that when held in the right light, at the right angle, reveals a metallic purple finish. Everything in the house is covered with a hazy, sticky film that reveals a history of numerous party goers smoking too many cigarettes. In the kitchen the phone begins to ring. The answering machine does not pick as the machine garbled the message cassette tape a long tine ago.
In the back bedroom, Ritchie Blackmore slowly becomes aware of the distressed ringing as well as his own returning state of consciousness. The two things that pass through his mind in this moment are, Who could possibly be calling at this ungodly hour of the morning? and, None of those other guys are going to get up and answer that phone. Blackmore pulls himself slowly to the edge and the bed and makes a concerted effort to get to his feet. The cocktail waitress from the lounge at the airport Holiday Inn, hardly stirs on the undulating water bed mattress as Blackmore sets his feet under wiry frame, she is still dead to the world at this moment. The phone continues to ring as he makes his way down the hallway to the kitchen. When he picks up the receiver the connection sounds far away and the voice on the other end of the line is unfamiliar to him.
“I am trying to reach 1970s rock and roll masters Deep Purple.” The voice's diction is short and choppy, The accent sounds eastern European. “Who is this?” Blackmore asks.
“I am Vasily Karpov, Assistant to the Minister of Culture, Russia,” the voice says. “I am looking to speak with heavy metal pioneers Deep Purple. It is of utmost importance.”
“Who gave you this number?”
“A mister Goldman at Warner Brothers Recording Company, said I could reach Deep Purple on this line. Am I correct? To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Ritchie Blackmore. What do you want?” Blackmore's head was beginning to ache.
“Mr. Blackmore, it is truly a great honor. I am calling on behalf of Dmitry Medvedev - First Deputy Prime Minister of Russia and Gazprom Chairman. Do you know this name, Gazprom?”
“Gazprom? No, never heard of it.”
Karpov filled him in, “Gazprom is greatest natural gas company in all of Russia and eastern Europe. Most successful company in history of Russia free-market economy. We will be celebrating our 15th anniversary in a week.”
“O.K., but what does that have to do with me?”
“Mr. Medvedev is a great fan of you and your super rock group, Deep Purple.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. He has all of your original albums.”
“He does?” Blackmore was stunned, “I don't even have all our albums. A lot of them aren't that good.”
“Oh, I think Mr. Medvedev would heartily disagree,” Karpov said, a chuckle in his voice. “He has been a fan of your rock group his entire adult life.”
“That's nice Mr. Karpov, but is there something I can do for you? If not, I'd like to go back to bed.”
“Mr. Blackmore,” Karpov continued, “At the request of Mr. Medvedev, I am to convince you and your heavy metal comrades to play a private concert at our Gazprom anniversary celebration. Here in Moscow. At the Kremlin.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, Mr. Blackmore. In all seriousness.”
Blackmore thought for a moment. Moscow? In February? It didn't sound that great to him. “I don't know, Mr. Karpov. This isn't that great an time for the band. We've got a lot on our plate at the moment.”
“It is odd to me that you say that, Mr. Blackmore. Mr. Goldman at Warner Brothers said you haven't toured in years. I hope you are not being disingenuous with me”
Damn, that Goldman. “No, of course not,” Blackmore stammered. His headache worsened, “What Goldman said, that's not entirely true. We've done a few things here and there and have some county fairs lined up co-headlining with B.T.O. in the spring. Just last month I --”
Karpov cut him off, his tone now stern, “Mr. Blackmore, Mr. Medvedev is a man who gets what he wants. Soon he will be succeeding Vladimir Putin as President of Russia.”
“You don't say.”
“Yes, and his wish to celebrate this accomplishment is the have the Deep Purple play a heavy metal, rock and roll concert for himself and his friends.”
“I see.”
“You will be highly compensated for the effort.”
“That might make it a little easier to convince the rest of the band.”
“You will make it happen, Mr. Blackmore.”
“I'm glad you're confident about this.”
“Mr. Blackmore, Dmitry Medvedev told me that when he is selected president of Mother Russia he will run the country using only three phones.”
“Three phones?”
“Yes, three. A black phone to speak directly to Putin at party headquarters. The red phone hot line to the Oval Office. And a purple phone.”
“A purple phone?”
“Yes. Deep Purple.”
Blackmore rubbed his aching temples, “Of course.”
Ritchie Blackmore stayed on the line for several more minutes as Karpov outlined the details of the soon-to-be-resurrected Deep Purple's Russian itinerary: travel to Moscow on Gazprom's private Gulf Stream jet, lodging at the Metropol Hotel, new instruments, and lucrative expense accounts. The concert would be at least an hour and a half and Medvedev would get final approval of the set list—this was stipulated mostly as a guarantee he would get to hear his favorite songs. If all went as planned, there would most definitely be the opportunity to parlay this show into other high paying, more formal state functions—to be the Kremlin “house metal band,” if the group was so inclined. Such is Dmitry Medvedev's love of the D.P.
After ending the conversation with Karpov, Blackmore lit a cigarette and walked across the shag-carpeted living room and picked up the old Flying-V. He started to strum an all-too-familiar, simple three-chord progression. He was a bit rusty, but it came back quickly.
Shortly thereafter, the rest of his housemates began to stir. The first to emerge was Ian Gillian, lead vocals. Gillian was not a morning person and he and Blackmore quarreled many times over the years about the creative direction of the band. They had both quit and/or been fired from the band on more than one occasion. Blackmore continued to quietly work through the famous opening bars of his most famous song.
Gillian shoots Blackmore a sideways look on his way to the coffee maker, “Jesus, man. Don't you ever give it a rest? 'Most famous riff in Rock history.' I get it, alright?”
“Nope, not today man,” Blackmore wasn't interested in an argument. His headache had started to subside. But he was going to be outnumbered in this one.
Next to join the land of the living was bassist Roger Glover, and he wasn't happy either, “Ritchie, who were you yammering to on the phone his morning? I'm hung over and trying to catch up on some shut eye. Can't someone buy a new tape for that damn machine?”
“Give it a rest fellas,” Blackmore said calmly, “I just cut us a deal that's gong to put Deep Purple back at the forefront of the geopolitical music scene.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Gillian incredulously. “We were never political.”
“Well, whatever. The point is we will be now, and we're going to get rich doing it.”
Glover chimed in skeptically, “What'd you do, release the rights to another one of our masterworks so a bunch of kids can pretend to play guitar on another stupid video game?”
Blackmore was beginning to tense up, “You got a problem with our songs being used on another video game, Rog?”
“No Ritch, I've got a problem with you negotiating these backroom deals by yourself when the rest of us have just as much invested in the proliferation of these great pieces music as you do. I don't want the cultural significance of our music sullied by a bunch of corporate suits, man!”
“Oh, Roger, come on!” Blackmore was fully on the defensive now, “First of all, let's be realistic. We do 'Woman From Tokyo.'”
“What's wrong with 'Woman From Tokyo?'” Gillian asked. “You've always said you liked that song.”
“Of course I like it, I came up with that riff--”
“Oh God, you and your 'amazing' riffs! What's your point?”
“Have you ever listened to the lyrics of 'Woman From Tokyo,' Ian?”
“Don't patronize me Ritch, I wrote the lyrics.”
“It's not like we're the Beatles, or something. We do 'Space Trucking.' To say it's beneath us to have a couple of our songs used in a video game is ridiculous. I think we're grossly overestimating the cultural significance of our music.” Blackmore continued, “And for your information Roger, that video game deal of mine put food in that refrigerator last month, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you.”
At this point, original members, drummer Ian Paice and keyboard player John Lord, entered the room where the other three are arguing.
“What in the hell are you guys fighting about? It's 7:30 in the morning. We're going to get the cops called on us again.”
“Ritchie, who was that who called so damn early?”
Blackmore looked up at the two original Deep Purple torch bearers and then back at his other two bandmates, “Pack your mittens, bitches. We've got a gig in Moscow.”
Blatant factual inaccuracies: Pretty much everything, aside from song titles, band member's and future Russian president's names. Deep Purple are actually from England and apparently tour the Continent quite frequently, although I did not investigate their current line up. Also, the Volga does not flow through Moscow.
