I had wanted to do a New Year's edition of the Revolution 21 podcast but, alas, festivities and some sort of weird bug have put the Mighty Favog down for the count(down).We (the imperial "we," don'tcha know) will be back next Friday, OK? OK.
OH . . . did I mention that I thought I might be having the Big One early Tuesday morning? And Mrs. Favog's name is Elizabeth, so I really could say "AHHHHHH! This is it! I'm havin' the Big One, Elizabeth!"
But I didn't. And apologies for the gratuitous Sanford and Son references.
I, HOWEVER, DIGRESS. Late, late night Christmas (or early, early morning Boxing Day, as the case may be) I fell asleep on the couch watching old movies after a late supper of a couple of bowls of the Favog's Famous Christmas Eve Chicken and Sausage Gumbo. Woke up about 3 a.m. with a heck of a chest pain.
Your Mighty Favog was concerned. After I described the symptoms to the doctor on call at our medical group, she was concerned, too.
Thus began an eight-hour trip to the emergency room, where the Mighty Favog was injected, inspected, stress-tested and IV-fitted more than Arlo Guthrie on the Group W bench. The verdict: Something else was doing a damned fine impression of a heart attack.
The Mighty Favog is fine. Woefully out of shape, but not a cardiac case.
Even Friday's gastrointestinal X-ray-palooza didn't turn up anything . . . and I was certain it would. Musta been a bug going around that dramatically lowered my spicy-gumbo tolerance . . . and pretty much had me down for the count for the next day or so.
Still, funny what you think about when the doctor thinks you COULD be having a heart attack. And it wasn't any big fear of death.
It was more along the lines of:
1) I'm not done here yet. There's more I can do to make the world just a little better than I found it. Please, God, I want to finish my job here on earth. And . . .
2) Damn! I really need to drop about 50 pounds or so.
Pass the Splenda.
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