What follows is an utterly true, insanely compelling, and totally unbiased report to my Russian translator, known here for his protection only by his initials A.R., of what has happened to me since last Sunday evening that is of some significant medical note!
I say “unbiased” even though I write here about my own experiences, not because I think I can be seriously objective, but because this didn’t make the local news the way it did when, for instance, the celebrated primatologist Dr. Jane Goodall kicked the bucket recently, and if I don’t write about the shit that happens to me, who the fuck will?
I’m not naive enough to think that anybody else gives a rat’s ass about what’s going on here at Casa Galla del Delfino, aside from my scant friends and my money-grubbing family, all of whom are only awaiting my ultimate demise so they can divvy up Brenner Industries and my other significant holdings in painkiller pharmaceutical precursors, cluster bomb manufacturers, North Slope oil holdings, Sea Whirled Kuwait, and of course my secret whaling fleet, which I bought cheap after Aristotle Onassis died!
But after a night with no sleep, some rum and a bit — okay, more than a bit, a couple of joints of pot — I wrote A.R. this letter to inform him on these changes with my health, and then realized that if I didn’t post it here, on WordPress, I’d be kind of stupid not to inform you, my legions of slavering, demanding fans, of my impending, but hopefully uncertain and far-off demise!
Because if you really want an autographed or, Godz 4bid, DEDICATED copy of “Wet Goddess” or “Mel-Khyor,” the time to get one is, perhaps, soon? It’s not that I don’t trust my beloved daughter Thea, she of the sometimes-purple hair, to keep publishing the books after I die, if she sees any money or benefit in it, it’s just that I don’t think, even with electronic amplification, that hooking up an Auto-Pen to a Quija board is going to deliver the results you want! Just saying. Now, the letter…
Hey A*****, here’s some news that may move you to contact: I was just in a local hospital for 2 days! And let me level with you, it was no fun at all! A hospital may be a place to get tested, diagnosed, treated and healed, but is is no place to get well! That is best done at home, or some place where you can relax. In the hospital, you can’t relax unless you are so sick, that is your only option! But as usual, I digress:
Last Sunday evening, right around sunset, I was out walking my dog Epic around the block, which my house sits on the SW corner of. We had gone about 3/4 of the way, and were on the home stretch, when it felt like a gale-force wind, or some invisible thing, struck my right side, pushing me HARD to the left! But there was no wind! I staggered, and found I could no longer walk a straight line; I was zig-zagging like Trump awaiting Putin in Alaska! I dragged the mutt home as fast as I could, about 30 meters at that point, and once we were inside I looked in the bathroom mirror. The left side of my mouth was drooping down, even when I tried to smile.
These were all signs of a possible stroke. In her last years, my poor mother suffered a lot of small but incapacitating strokes, and I was familiar with the symptoms. I called my friend Dave, who lives about 30 minutes away (13 miles, 21 km), and arranged for him to take care of Epic while I got myself to the local ER of the better of two hospitals in town. I gathered up the necessities of aged life — glasses, my apnea-preventing CPAP sleep machine, cell phone and charger, dentures and Fix-O-Dent — stuffed them in a carry bag and called an ambulance by dialing 911, the American number for the nearest emergency dispatcher.
When it showed up in about 5 minutes, I reassured Epic (who has some serious abandonment issues) that I’d be back, and walked out to meet the ambulance. The EMT’s strapped me down on a gurney, even though the hospital is only 1/2 mile – 0.8 km away, and one started unwrapping a needle to insert a catheter in a prominent vein in the inner elbow of my left arm — all this while we were driving to the hospital.
“Couldn’t you wait until we get there?” I asked the EMT who was playing Dracula.
He looked at me with a rather bored but nevertheless professional expression and said, “We do this all the time. We know what we’re doing.” SKRRRRICH! He drove the needle in.
When we arrived I was wheeled directly into the ER room where X-rays and other non-invasive diagnostic techniques are done. An ER doctor on duty gave me a blood thinner and anti-coagulant, and after a short exam by CAT scan, I was listening to a preliminary diagnosis from a remote neurologist on TV, and feeling very much like the protagonist in a low-budget sci-fi movie!
Although my symptoms were those of a stroke, there was no gross evidence of one that would show up on a CAT scan; a more detailed diagnosis would have to await Monday, when they could do a detailed MRI scan. They kept me overnight, and I barely got any sleep at all, because that goddamn catheter hurt! I asked my nurse to move it, but he didn’t get to it until the next day.
Well, long story short, they not only did the MRI scan Monday, I also got a chest echogram, an EKG, and echograms of my carotid arteries on both sides of my neck. They were looking for any irregularity that might have caused the presumed blood clot in my brain, but they came up empty handed. Much to the disappointment of many of my harshest critics, I turned out to be disgustingly normal.
A very nice woman neurologist came by eventually to explain what they thought it was: a Transient Ischemic Attack, or T.I.A.. No, this has nothing to do with Radical Islam, “ischemic” means not getting proper blood supply. I probably did have a “mini-stroke,” but my circulatory system then got up off the mat and proceeded to beat the snot out of the blood clot, which broke up and was promptly flushed away. Those blood clots, they can dish it out, but they can’t take it when the tables are turned! GRRRRRR!
I agreed that that explained my symptoms, which had gradually waned, and I’d recovered most of my ability to walk again without support by Monday afternoon. After another night of observation, the doctors agreed it was safe to release me back into the game preserve.
I had to catch a Lyft ride to get home, as it was too far for Dave to drive that day, and when the Lyft driver arrived, I got into his car without a shirt. Dave had visited me in the hospital the day before, and thinking of poor Epic sitting at home not knowing when or whether I was ever going to return, I gave him my T-shirt so she could smell it and know I was still above ground.
Walking the dog again that afternoon, I was astonished by the vibrancy of the sky, the glory of the beams of sunlight drawing water through the clouds, the lushness of the greenery all around me and the nicely ordered houses.
Nothing like a little brush with death to make you appreciate life, eh? I’m OK, but I’ve got a whole new list of medications, a new diet that basically eliminates everything I like to eat, and a couple of new specialist MDs, a cardiologist and a neurologist. Oh joy!
Well, our governor, Ron De Santis, has said “Florida is where WOKE comes to die!” I know you were trying to express your false dreams for the death of social responsibility, Ron, but let’s face it: SO DOES EVERYTHING ELSE!
Thus concludes for now my tale, A****. Tell me of your life, if you will! Or tell me to get lost. Just tell me something, OK? Thanks! — Malcolm
My sincerest thanks to the doctors, nursing staff, technicians, administration, and everyone else on Floor 4, HCA Fawcett Hospital, Port Charlotte, who took pretty damn good care of me while I was there, and put up with all my dumb Boomer-Age jokes! You’re a great bunch, and believe me, there’s no other place I’d rather be sick than with all of you around! — MjB
“My beak is sharp and deadly, and I can spear fish, amphibians, reptiles and even small mammals with it,” the GBH crowed. “Everyone better watch out for this death-dealing beak!”
To which the Toucan replied, “My beak eats fruit, doesn’t kill anybody, is charmingly colorful, and people think I’m a feathered comedian! HA! Go fuck yourself, you pompous, death-dealing excuse for a toothless sauropod! All the little critters fear you, but humans LOVE me!”
So far, the argument has not reached a definitive conclusion, and I have to listen to old 1970’s hits to tune it out. Any suggestions?
ALL CONTENTS ©2025 Malcolm J. Brenner/Eyes Open Media. All rights reserved. Secured in that giant computer in Brussels, Belgium that has everybody’s information in it. Yeah, yours too, you schmuck! Signatory to the Interplanetary Secrets Treaty of 1958, Dwight D. Eisenhower, President and Commander-In-Chief of Terrestrial Forces, officiating for Earth.
Malcolm J. Brenner 