NFTL - RDate 110.29

So, like...where ya' been? Oh, wait. That's your line. Truth is, I took the summer off. Well, not really off. I took the summer off from blogging. I guess that's not really right either. I tried like h-e-double hockey sticks to blog. But kept getting pulled away by more insistent forces. 

First there was an aggressive hosting schedule at the cottage. We'd been shut out from hosting in 2020, except for a little family here and there. And we were anxious to get back into seeing our friends and showing them all the neat improvements we had installed at Wiser Times. But as we're not yet really back into large indoor group gatherings, we spread the fun over several weekends. That meant more company prep and recovery time and more total time in the presence of others. It was great fun having smaller, more intimate groups at the cottage. Nancy and I feel we really caught up with people after the long COVID-driven absences. 

In between hosting gigs I mowed, helped Nancy upgrade the game room at the lake, traveled to Florida to visit my mother, mowed, took a nose dive into a trash barrel, recovered from cracked ribs, chased critters out of the cottage...and mowed. But I mostly remember this.

Before I knew it, it was September and I hadn't posted anything since May. 

So enough whining. Those were all choices that I made. Time to revamp priorities. As I laid out at length in one of my earliest posts, Labor Day Renewal is part of our American culture. But before I proceed with this heavy exercise, I'd like to catch up a little more.

More than a year has passed since my last Notes from the Lab post. And even though the streets, ballparks and restaurants were empty or near empty while we hunkered in our bunkers, stuff did happen. Like the virus-related stuff noted in my January post 2020 - Big Mistake or Bad Idea. But other things happened, too. Things that weren't just about surviving COVID. Good things. Well, mostly. That's where I'm going with this edition of NFTL.

Music Night (8/6/12, Last Updated 5/13/20): In my last update on this subject I explained how our little music club of now over 30 years was planning to go virtual to survive in the world of COVID 19. I and others were concerned that the sometimes tedious nature of mega-zoom calls might not mesh well with the leisurely, open style of our in-person gatherings. That, and would we be able to overcome the technical challenges? 

Well I'm happy to report that everything worked out fine. With strong support in the early days from our tech team, and a couple of adjustments to our methods, we were able to  continue our group activities without skipping a beat, so to speak. This is what our sessions looked like during COVID.

Of course, the pandemic impacted the lives of our group members much as it did everyone else. It was on our minds constantly, as reflected in some of our recent group topics - Social Distancing, Searching, Recovery. All fine collections, and more than a little therapeutic I would say. The move to virtual gatherings also had a silver lining that we didn't anticipate. Increased participation. 

Our group is widely distributed around the tri-county area. Over the years, depending on our venues, it's been difficult to get everyone together. Not so on Zoom. We were very glad to see some of our "outliers" more frequently. And based on the energy often displayed during the Zoom calls, it was apparent that all of our group were very happy for the opportunities to visit with humans outside their immediate households.   

And now I'm happy to report that - in our post-vaccination world - we're expecting to return to live Music Nights with our Christmas edition in December. We're all looking forward to getting our old groove back. Like not having to log in, check our mics, adjust the room lighting and wait our turn to make fun of each other. Exciting. With the Delta variant running rampant these days, nothing is certain. But hope springs eternal.  

Up North (8/15/12, last updated 5/13/20): The big news at our cottage the last year has been the lake itself. It's been busy. Here's a shot of our beach in the summer of 2019. As you can see, even then much of our beach had been reclaimed by the lake since the title picture of this blog was taken circa 2010.

But in 2020, the lake took more. Almost all of it. Here's a shot from August last year.

My poor grandkids had to build their sandcastles on this meager piece of shore. And as you can see in the background, it wasn't only the beach that took the hit. The lawn receded about six feet which was enough to take out two trees. Our beloved twin-trunk "slingshot" tree on the south side, shown above. And my hammock shade tree on the north side, shown below.

They both suffered the usual fate of such disasters, as shown in the following few pics. 

However, the scariest day of the summer of 2020 was when the wind came up suddenly and pushed the already high water up over the berm and flooded the badminton court, also known as our front yard.

At one point we had to put a plank out to get from the deck to the gazebo without wading.

This summer, the lake has been more generous, giving back our beach to about the size of 2019. A far cry from our largest beach, but quite an improvement. Here's a shot of the Kuhlman men enjoying the restored sand castle area.

The other story at the cottage was the retirement of our builder. In past posts you've seen the handiwork of this able craftsman. He built our gazebo -

Designed and built our "barn" -

Rebuilt the floors in the family room and sunporch bedroom - 

And most recently rebuilt the entire front of the cottage including the new deck. 

In summary, Dave the builder has been the key to the restoration and major upgrade projects for our little piece of paradise. Not to mention several other smaller repair and improvement jobs he did for us - new shower, new bathroom flooring, some roof repair and new living room carpeting. We wish Dave a happy retirement, of course. And we will miss his contributions. 

We are also a bit sad about Dave's retirement. Mainly because we have one more big project on our list - remodeling our game room. It needs new flooring, new walls, a new ceiling and maybe even a new door wall and back patio. Pretty major. Aggravating the situation is the fact that other builders are fully booked with work for months due to the post-COVID home renovation boom.

We still plan on finding a new builder eventually, and moving ahead with the reno. But likely not until the industry and the price of building materials return to normal. A year or two maybe. In the interim, we decided to upgrade the game room where we could without reconstruction. Here's what we did.

We started with this.

And went through this.

After ripping out the old carpet, installing a new oversize area rug, replacing the closet doors with drapes, changing out the large window drapes, assembling a new bed headboard, purchasing a new queen bed along with bedding, side tables and lamps, assembling and loading a new "wall of sci-fi/fantasy" shelving unit, upgrading the key table and - trickiest of all - installing wall-to-wall hospital curtains for privacy, we ended up with this. Who needs Dave?

Hell Month (6/29/13, First Update): In this early post I described in detail our family ritual of spending the month of May grooming the house and the yard for the summer. So that we would be motivated to accomplish the necessary tasks, we invited all our friends to a picnic on the first Saturday after Memorial Day. We've done this now for over 30 years. And while we still plan on hosting the picnic as long as we're able (or until someone else takes over the franchise), Hell Month has run its course. 

The most arduous tasks involved with Hell Month was maintaining our backyard deck, where most of the picnic action takes place. Sure, there were other activities, like prepping the lawn, planting flowers, laying in provisions, that sort of thing. But the big nasty was power washing, digging tree droppings out of the crevices and re-staining/refinishing the deck originally installed in 1969. Here's a couple shots of the old deck in its glory days.

A few years ago the deck began to show its age more, so we had the top surface boards replaced in an effort to pretty things up. 

But the weather and the big honkin' maple tree in the middle of the deck took their tolls. The cedar planks weren't spaced correctly, resulting in unwelcome standing water in some spots. And the wood began rotting. Making matters worse, the maple tree began shedding limbs with increasing regularity. So in the spring of 2020 we had the tree removed. All but the last 14 feet of the main trunk and the stump. Couldn't get the equipment necessary to remove those pieces in until the deck itself was removed, which we weren't quite ready to do. 

A couple of months later we decided to move forward. We had the deck and stump removed except for a small section of deck left to facilitate access to our back door. This reduced the back yard to dirt and wood chips.  

Finally, this spring the ground had settled enough for us to replace the deck, but not with another deck. We opted for a patio. Concrete. Durable. Attractive. And very low maintenance. While we were at it, we also replaced the driveway as it was as old and tired as the original deck. Here's the new look of the place. First the new party patio, complete with new planters.

And our new drink patio added at the end of the new driveway.

So without the deck work, Hell Month has officially been retired. And replaced with a little gardening, a little mowing, setting up a few chairs, and a trip to Kroger's. Well, not quite that simple, but pretty close. Beginning of a new era.

Feeling Good (1/30/17, First Update): In the original post I explained how important I think it is to have times where you feel really good. The way I described it was a feeling like "ooh, life is fabulous, can't grin wide enough, please let me do this forever". Since the beginning of the pandemic, it's certainly been more important to generate such feelings, and likely more difficult given the steady diet of horrible, scary news. 

Everyone's first goal, of course, has been to stay safe. That remains paramount. But once you're safe, what do you do? For me and I believe many if not most others, those "feel good" times often involve being with other people. During this period of reduced human contact, alternatives were needed. 

Zoom and other virtual meeting tools have played a huge role in helping us overcome our isolation. But while I like the Zoom experience, it seldom gets me to "ooh, life is fabulous, etc." For that, I turned to old hobbies. You know, those things for which one never seems to find time? For the last 18 months, I had much more time than normal not in the presence of other human beings. So I spent more time on music projects, photo projects, reading, catching up on my "must-see" movie backlog, and at times just sitting quietly contemplating the universe. The latter usually with a cocktail in my hand watching an episode of Ancient Aliens. A lot to think about there.

I've even rebooted my career as a musician. I cracked the case of my nearly 70-year-old 120 bass Scandalli accordion and have been working my way through my old lesson books. This has made my mother - and my grandkids - very happy. 

With my waning fine-motor skills working overtime, I've even starting to wade slowly into the pop music world. At least what I define as pop music ('70s and '80s mostly). It's been invigorating. I'd forgotten the joy of making one's own music.

I won't claim that all of these hobby activities have taken me to new heights of euphoria. But when I reflect on the fact that I've spent much of my forced isolation making progress on goals that have lingered for years, I get to feeling pretty good. 

***********

Enough catching up for now, so I'll close and move on. And I hope everyone finds ways to "feel good" while staying safe. 

Grosse Pointe Charles

Memory Lane - The Rise of the Magic Kingdom (September - October 1982)

At the end of my last Memory Lane post, Christy had celebrated her first birthday with fanfare and flourishes on Ipperwash Beach capping off a pretty fun summer. September of 1982 would see some interesting developments including the blossoming of a special era in my work life. A little background.

The IRS like the rest of the Federal Government is funded on an annual basis. Additionally, about 85% of the IRS budget goes for employee salaries. In other words if the IRS has to cut significant costs for whatever reason, it has to do it through a reduction in salary costs. And since most IRS employees are full-time permanent, this can be tricky.

Over time the budget wizards have come up with numerous policies and procedures to match resources with needs. One of those is to vary hiring practices. As there is high turnover in many IRS jobs, not filling vacancies for a while can help cope with a shrinking budget. This has resulted in a feast-or-famine approach to on-boarding new staff.

Due to an extended period of lean budgets, by the spring of 1982 the IRS Collection Division of the Detroit District (the State of Michigan) hadn't hired but a handful of revenue officers over the previous several years. Our authorized staffing of 300 had dwindled to about 180. Of course, during this time the workload had actually increased. 

Finally the new budget for Fiscal Year 1983, which would begin October 1st of 1982, provided funding to restore our revenue officer complement back to 300. The bulk of the new hires were brought on board in July with all the hiring completed by the end of September. Our goal was to have the new hires contributing to Collection Division productivity as early in the new fiscal year as possible. 

How the Collection Division was able to hire and train 120 newbies with an existing staff of only 180 while keeping the Field operation viable is an interesting story in itself. But it will have to wait for another time. Suffice it to say that we did it using smoke, mirrors and a few creative skill-development techniques. Not dissimilar to teaching your kids to swim by tossing them off the back of the boat and hoping for the best.  

Despite the obstacles, by late summer I and my hand-picked staff were saddled with 110 of the new trainees (the additional 10 new hires were part of a separate operation in Pontiac). Of our 110, 90 were located together on the 19th floor of the McNamara Building in downtown Detroit. The other 20 were split between Ann Arbor and Grand Rapids. So with the eight new managers, 20 (mostly) experienced coaches and one brand spanking new branch chief (yours truly), the training branch had a total of 131 BIS. That would be butts-in-seats, a technical budget term.

Setting aside the operational challenges for the moment, the McNamara-based staff was facing a daunting socialization obstacle. How quickly could we get this diverse group of 90 individuals to embrace each other and focus jointly on our mission? Let me clarify.

An IRS revenue officer is a strange job. Not everyone is cut out for it which is why we have high turnover in the first place. Essentially, ROs as we refer to them spend much of their time interacting with people who in some manner have failed to meet their tax obligations. This failure is usually the result of poor money management, lack of business acumen, unforeseen health or personal problems, or occasionally just outright disregard for the law. You might say it's complicated.

An RO's stock in trade is the ability to poke into other people's business, ask a lot of personal questions, identify the root cause of the problem and get the taxpayer to make whatever changes are needed to return to proper compliance. And do all this without putting him or herself in danger or alienating the taxpayer. Not an easy task. 

True, ROs have some legal authority to enforce their demands. But those procedures take time and usually damage relationships, and as such are generally used as a last resort. The more ROs can achieve results through informing and persuading, the more effective and productive they are.  

So you can see why we hire strong, independent types for this job. On the down side, such individuals often come with a competitive streak. And having 90 of these smiling, empathetic, pit-bulls-in-training in close proximity could be troublesome. We wanted to avoid having them sharpen their skills on each other. But how to do that?

What we came up with was - fun. We would encourage and accommodate as much fun among the trainees as we could. This we thought would build relationships within the group that would lead to mutual support and a sense of teamwork. They would compete together against the challenges of the job rather than against each other. For the most part, the strategy worked.

The fun took on many forms. In the work place we held group lunches and Monday morning ugly-tie contests. There were the after-work happy hours at local watering holes and the occasional outing to Tiger Stadium. To introduce the trainees to the rest of their Collection division colleagues in the McNamara Building we took special steps. We hosted a catered reception in our 19th floor space and invited everybody.  

About a hundred guests came to this virtually unprecedented event for a Collection division office. Most I think were just curious about what the heck was going on down on the 19th floor. But many ended up introducing themselves and spending time chatting with our new people, which was the whole idea. We thought it was a great success.

It was at this event that a senior advisor from our Special Procedures unit, Al K., coined the term that stuck with our operation from that day forth. Smiling, with a cup of coffee and a sandwich in hand, gazing out over the nearly two-hundred people enjoying themselves, Al noted, "This looks more like the Magic Kingdom than a Collection operation." And indeed it did.

Now to why I dragged you through all this. During the first few months of "The Magic Kingdom" we held a couple of social events that cemented our social structure firmly in place. They were a branch-wide picnic at Kensington Metro Park and a killer Halloween party.

Let's start with the picnic which was held in mid-September. The day began with a softball game. I've opted to include shots of personalities that might be familiar to some of my readers. Hard to believe these pictures were taken nearly 40 years ago.

In this first pic we have an eager young lady (can't make out exactly who from this angle) swinging away at a high hard one. Well, not that hard as we were playing softball. And from the position of the ball I would guess she's just popped out to the pitcher.

Behind our aggressive batter are me, in a position I can no longer assume, and Tony C. happily making like an umpire. Like most ROs, Tony liked to be in charge.

Next a couple of wannabe heavy hitters. First is Dick Hickson, our division chief at the time.

Dick was a controversial figure in those years, caught between some ugly top-level politics and his genuine desire to make life in the Collection Division better for all of us. For my part, he always treated me well and taught me a lot about being prepared for when opportunities come along. It was his confidence in our management and coaching staff that encouraged us to take risks and learn by doing. 

Here we have yours truly in an outfit that could only be worn in public in the '80s. Note the socks.

I'm hesitant to admit that I still have the hat, the shirt and the shorts. The socks are long gone, but it may be time for a little more wardrobe purging. Perhaps some thrift shop could offer the whole ensemble as an '80s-look package.

After softball and a couple of beers, we moved to volleyball. Here's a group shot of the action, just to document that at one time some of us actually had vigor.

I can't identify all the faces, but a few are clear. That's Bruce C. second from the left with the curly hair and glasses. On the far side of the net in the left spiker position is Tony C. again. And to the right are me and Dick M. trying to avoid getting hurt.  

In this shot Ralph S. is focused on avoiding the embarrassment of a "beer" serve (that would be hitting the ball into the net because of too much beer), a too-common experience in picnic volleyball.

After the action we relaxed, grilled and in general promoted the good will we were trying to build. In this pic Greg T. is enjoying the day with Anne K. on the left and his bride Melissa on the right.

Below is Dick M., known for the last 40 years in our circles as the "Duke of Inkster" (yet another story for another time), stirring up a pot of beans with what appears to be an able assistant (I don't recognize the young lady behind the Foster Grants). Good will blooming all over the place.

In this shot, I in my bucket hat am demonstrating why I'm seldom seen tending a charcoal grill. I never mastered the smoke thing, nor have a clue when things are done. As a result I'm' usually restricted to toting charcoal and cleaning the grill. 

Also in the pic are Tony C., just heading off for help I think. And that's Ralph S. giving the photographer that "can you believe this guy" look. Despite the subject matter, I was very glad to come across this pic in my prep for this post. We lost both these old friends in recent years, and I have fond memories of each.

I'll share this one final but classic shot from the picnic. Bruce C. carving a watermelon in the way that only he can. No mystery as to why Bruce's nickname for decades has been "Sledge". 

While work during this time was demanding, with long hours and a steep learning curve, I did get to relax every once in a while. At least that's the way I remember it. I went to a college football game once or twice. Here's a pick of the MSU-OSU game that year. You can tell the quality of tickets I was able to get by the angle of this pic. I call it "unremarkable alumni, upper-end-zone reserved".

I was okay being far from the action that day as my Spartans were hammered by the Bucks 31-10.

Back at home, Christy was still viewing the world mostly over the rail of her playpen.

And as often as we could, Nancy and I sat on the large front porch of our Baby Ford home in Dearborn. It was the best feature of the house.

If we tired of watching the neighbors go about their business on Francis Street, we would retire to our small but inviting screen porch at the back of the house to watch the local wild life (birds, squirrels, the occasional opossum and one year a crop of cicadae).

But, most of what was happening to us was work. I in the "Magic Kingdom" and Nancy in her pressure-cooker management job in the yet-to-be-automated, sea-of-paper telephone operation known as Office Branch.

Back to the training branch. Things were working well as we rolled into the new fiscal year on October 1st. After a couple of months of classroom training and generous exposure to field collection techniques, the new hires were getting their feet wet on the streets of Detroit and surrounding communities. The coaches in the McNamara contingent were working hard to expose their charges to the broad range of issues and situations they had to master. And the six managers just down the hall were asserting their independence more and darkening my office door less. For my part, I was learning mostly the hard way what to share with Collection Division leadership and what to keep to myself. So we all thought it was time to party again.

Tony C. stepped up and offered to host a Halloween party. The word went out, plans were made and excitement began to grow. Everybody got into it. And I don't just mean the costumes. They were ready to party like people who had high-pressure day jobs. You know, like spending all day greeting people with "I'm from the IRS and I'm here to help." 

The party - as well as Tony's house - literally rocked. I mean the vibe had to have shown up on somebody's Richter scale. Here are a few pics of some perhaps familiar personalities.

In this first one, Dave K. is bustin' a move. Mae R. looks like she's calling for backup.

Here's Dave again in a pensive moment with French maid Mary Beth D. Probably reflecting on the rush one gets from completing a well-written case history sheet. Not.

Speaking about a rush, here I am as an MSU cheerleader. Somehow I'm managing to make conversation with mime Anne K. 

I'm including this second shot of me fighting off vampire Nancy M. mainly because of my beer. If you look closely at the distinctive bottle you'll see it's a Stroh Signature, a premium brew of the time that was sort of the official beer of our social circle.

Here's a shot of our host, pirate Tony C., taking it all in and enjoying the hullaballoo. Also, it looks like another Signature fan had passed this way.

In this shot sheikh Frank P. is holding court with his bride Lucy who went AWOL from the nunnery for the party. Frank is famous in our social circle as the only one of us who ever rolled a golf court. 

Behind this award winning werewolf costume was another one of our new managers, Al M. Though you would never know it from this look, Al was a softie.  

Here's a shot of Al's bride Nancy as a vampire. Also a bigtime softie. 

In this shot Susie B. is saying something in Greek. I think it was about her drink, but as I don't speak Greek...  

Here veteran RO Imogene O. is passing along a few tricks of the trade to newbie Mike P. As I recall, Imogene was pretty tricky.

Posing as Smurfs were George K. and his bride. George did double duty for us as a coach and a classroom instructor. Under that fake beard he wore a pretty well-tended handlebar moustache. 

Closing out our photo review again is Bruce C. first in a frog outfit. 

And then performing his normal end-of-party ritual (remember the picnic) - carving plant life with a large sharp instrument. This time a pumpkin.

There were many more strange attendees at the big do, but I think you get the idea. It was a memorable night. In my opinion, the 1982 Halloween party was a turning point in the life of the training branch. We had risen, shall we say, and went on to a number of operational accomplishments before the experiment ended as planned in May of '83. That's when the now full-fledged ROs were distributed to line Collection groups. 

For my part, I still have a number of close friends from those days. And we still tell stories about the work, and the parties, that we collectively refer to as "The Magic Kingdom".

Grosse Pointe Charles

I See You...

...in the ICU. At least that's what my Bride told me as I lay on a gurney at Cottage Hospital. Let me back up a bit.

I'm taking a short break from my family historian duties to share some more recent events. To be specific, my first whack on the head in a long time, my first few CAT scans, my first ambulance ride, and my fourth night in a hospital ever. Also my first experience with an intensive care unit. I've been told at times that I'm not always receptive to change. After the last few days, I don't think that situation is likely to improve. 

Not to give away the ending, but I've been home for several days, required only observation in the hospital, and am seemingly on my way back to normalcy. At least what passes for normalcy for a gentleman of advancing years.

It started a couple of weeks ago on March 30th. I had a follow-up appointment with the family doctor to review a few test results. My Bride had previously asked me to hang a birdfeeder on a hook located on our roof overhang just outside the family room window. I decided to do it before leaving for my appointment. 

The hook in question is about 10' above the ground. Of further note is that this area immediately behind the house is in transition, from having been covered by a deck to becoming our new patio. At present, it's a rather uneven sea of mud, small pieces of broken stone and about a billion wood chips left over from the grinding of the stump from our old deck maple. Sort of a hard hat area. In retrospect, I should have worn one.

With the best of intentions I sauntered out the backdoor to the garage and grabbed my two-step ladder. It's called a two-stepper even though it actually has a top level which can be - but shouldn't be - a third step. I can now offer a testimonial to that principle.

I placed the ladder sturdily, I thought, in the dirt next to the house and began my climb. I quickly realized two things. I forgot to take the birdfeeder with me, and that even on the second step I probably couldn't reach the hook.

A reasonably competent handyman at this point would have climbed back down the ladder, gotten a bigger one, grabbed the bird feeder and resumed the climb. But being a liberal arts major with concentrations in philosophy and late-night bridge, none of that occurred to me. Hey. The (dreaded) third step was right there, and I was (pretty) sure I could reach the birdfeeder with just a little stretch. And it felt like the hook was staring down at me with a wry grin, taunting me. I swear I heard it mutter "you wimp" under its breath.

Well I guess what happened next is no mystery. I went for it. I reached over and down to grab the handle of the birdfeeder as I raised my leg to achieve the third step. In my defense I did reach out to the side of the house with my other hand for purchase as I executed this maneuver. But neither the reach for the house, the grab for the feeder nor ascension to the third step were consummated. Instead, I found myself suddenly airborne and not in a good way. My flight plan was short, downward, and bumpy. Head bumpy. I ricocheted off something hard on my way back to Earth. I believe it was the brick house at 651 Vernier Rd.

The next thing I remember is trying to sit up from an odd prone position. It seemed like my eyes were recording events two to three seconds either before or after they happened. Was I remembering or peering into the future? My mind was sort of buffering.

This next part I learned later from Nancy, as I still have no memory of it. She managed to get me to my feet, back into the house and into a chair. She then asked me a couple of questions. Simple ones like "Do you know why you were going to the doctor?" and "Do you remember that you went to the dentist yesterday?" After giving the wrong answers (even more wrong than the answers I usually give), she escorted me to the car and drove me to my already scheduled doctor appointment. It was while riding in the car that my memory began to return. Not about the last five minutes but about my life before the fall.

So I was all better, right? No. My doctor took one look at me, heard Nancy's report and planted me in a wheel chair on its way across the street to the Cottage Hospital emergency room. It was a pleasant ride as I recall. Friendly conversation with the nurse like, "How many fingers do you see?"

Once in the emergency room, I was pretty quickly ushered into a treatment room and examined. I was asked more questions as I lay on my back staring into bright lights. I wasn't feeling too bad, but my grip on what was happening was less than firm. And my head hurt.

The ER doctor ordered a CAT scan. So I was returned to my wheelchair and given a short ride to the scan room. Ten minutes sliding back and forth in and out of this giant metal donut and it was done. I was trucked back to my ER bed to await the results. 

It was about a half hour or so when the doctor returned with less than happy news. My brain was showing signs of internal bleeding. That meant a second scan, a more detailed one, to map the current state of the blood vessels around my brain. At this point I was pretty sure I wasn't going anywhere for awhile. But I was lying down and reasonably comfortable. So I had that going for me. Yes, my head still hurt. At this point it was about a four on the ten-point smiley/frowny-face pain scale.

After the second scan, it was determined that my blood vessels had been bruised, but they were intact. That meant that the brain would probably heal itself by clearing the blood away naturally in a matter of a couple weeks. Maybe a little longer. But - it also meant that I was in a critical 24-hour period during which things could go bad. 

If the healing didn't commence as predicted, pressure could build in the brain that would require "intervention". The kind of intervention that you hear about in gothic horror novels. Like drilling a hole in your head. All I could think of was poor Chekov in Start Trek IV - The Voyage Home. If you recall Pavel, like me, suffered a head injury. 

He was in a coma and about to have a hole drilled in his head to release the pressure on his brain. Kirk was trying to get back to the 23rd century with his sperm whales, but he couldn't leave yet because, as Dr. McCoy put it, "We can't leave him (Chekov) in the hands of 20th century medicine." I felt the very same way. Can't you just beam me out of here? I felt a little better when I realized that I was actually in the hands of 21st century medicine. 

I was quickly ripped out of my fantasy world when the doctor told me what was going to happen next. It turns out the protocol for this critical 24-hour period was frequent monitoring in a controlled environment. Very frequent and very controlled. So, if things go south one could be whisked promptly into surgery for the hole-in-the-head thing. This monitoring process might be thought of as, I don't know, intense? Then the doctor dropped the other shoe. I would be transferred downtown to the Intensive Care Unit at Henry Ford Hospital where this critical monitoring would occur. 

As I processed this information, several thoughts occurred to me. One, how was I going to get there? Would Nancy drive me? Two, what about the items on my Prioritized Daily Task List (to-do list for you non-Franklin folks). What things could I still tend to from my ICU bed? And three, would I get to the ICU in time for the dinner hour? I'd already missed lunch due to all this monkey business, and I was getting peckish.

The answers came swiftly and painfully. My ride downtown would not be provided by my loving, supportive spouse. Rather, I'd be relocated by "two men and a truck", sometimes generously referred to as an ambulance. I did rally on the day planner issue remembering that most useful of techniques, the arrow forward. I mentally arrowed everything indefinitely, known in the trade as a "Custer's last stand" moment. That provided me with the faint but welcome illusion that I was actually still in charge of something. 

But the biggest blow was the food thing. Since technically I was one wrong answer from brain surgery, there would be no food. None. Not until the threat of surgery was passed. Ugh. They did allow me a sip of water to choke down a couple of Tylenol tablets, but that was it. None of the staples of my normal nutritional regime like coffee, whisky, ginger snaps or Skinny Pop. It was brutal.

After an hour or two deep in dietary depression, the "two men" showed up. That was about 4:30, so I was a little over six hours into the adventure. The pace was about to pick up.

The two ambulance guys were friendly, dutifully concerned and seemed just a little befuddled by the paperwork. At least that was my impression as they went in and out of my little holding room a few times muttering with the hospital staff. I was hoping that it wasn't about directions to Henry Ford. But finally they wheeled in a rather skinny gurney that I surmised would fit neatly into their vehicle. They had me swivel off my ER bed and onto the gurney, whereupon I was strapped in like I was getting into one of those theme park thrill rides I try to avoid. Little did I know.

After bidding farewell to my Bride and my new friends in the ER, the boys whooshed me out the door and over to the ambulance. It was large, boxy, and had a pretty loud paint job. They squared me up to the rear door and with a big heave ho, slid the gurney into the vehicle. The wheel supports of the gurney folded up in the process, and I felt the package - me and the gurney - snap into place. Locked and loaded. They elevated my head rest a bit so I could see out the back window. Thoughtful.

So I was secured in protective equipment in an ambulance built like a tank. What could go wrong? Just then the two attendants parted ways, one to the driver's cab the other into the rear compartment with me. The attendant with me took a seat built into the wall of the compartment and strapped himself in. As he did he explained to me how strong the wind was today and that "these high-profile vehicles are just like giant sails. Might be a bumpy ride." Great. A bumpy ride (off my ladder) is how I got here in the first place.

The ambulance pulled out of the hospital parking lot and made it to I-94. So far not so bad. A couple of potholes on the way to the freeway told me this truck was built for strength, not comfort. As we merged onto I-94 toward town, I finally realized why I was strapped in so tight. I was actually on one of those theme park thrill rides I try to avoid. Perched up high on the gurney with my head rest elevated I could see everything out the back window just after it happened. 

The impact of every pothole was recorded by my aging organs. The sway of the truck from one side of our lane to the other as our driver battled the wind was recorded by my wounded sense of equilibrium. I would have hung on for dear life, but my arms were immobilized. So I just stared out the back window and tried to convince myself that the engineers who designed this contraption knew what they were doing.

After about 20 minutes, the G-forces on my psyche began to subside. We had dropped out of warp drive and were coasting into the HFH parking lot. Whew. The boys parked the truck and whisked me out, the folded gurney wheel supports springing back into action. As we broke through the ER doors, the gurney took a hard right and came to a halt. After a few more minutes of paperwork, my fellow travelers transferred me to a larger, more comfortable hospital gurney and took their leave. Package delivered. They were on to their next victim.

An ER nurse found me a short time later and wheeled me through another set of doors into the HFH ER. A different world from Cottage Hospital in Grosse Pointe. She steered my gurney around a number of other gurneys, work stations, and briskly moving staff members into a small space between a nurses' station and a small curtained area occupied by another poor soul needing help. There I would lie for about five hours. 

My Bride joined me a little while later. She had tended to a few other items at home while I was on my way downtown. We had kept in touch by texting, so she knew where to find me. I was lying back, head slightly elevated, masked of course, and holding an icepack on my sore head. My pain down to about a three now thanks to a couple of Tylenol I'd been allowed to take. Here's a photo to confirm my lowly state.

We visited for an hour or so. The ER staff had told me upon arrival that I would be moving to an ICU bed as soon as one was available, and that I would be here in the ER until then. The answer every time I asked when was - soon. What else would they tell someone in my position. So after awhile I stopped asking.

About 8:00 Nancy decided to go home and tend to the dog and other matters. We knew from the doctors that I would be there at least until tomorrow afternoon, so there wasn't anymore she could do for me. So there I was, now about ten hours into the adventure turned ordeal. With not much to do except freshen my ice pack and pay attention to my surroundings. And I found my surroundings interesting.

What I remember most was so many people, with occupied gurneys in every open space leaving just enough room for passing through. And with modern casual hospital attire and everyone wearing masks, it wasn't easy to discern who was a doctor or a nurse or sometimes even who was a patient. I guess most of the patients were lying down, but occasionally some would get up and walk around. At first it looked like chaos. But as the hours went by, I realized it wasn't chaotic at all. It was just complicated and busy. I began to see patterns, and to get a sense of well-honed efficiency. 

I can't say it was quiet, but it wasn't really noisy or distracting. It was more like a constant hum of voices, footsteps and power tools. Expensive sophisticated power tools. And there were frequent PA system messages, seemingly intended for particular audiences. Every once in awhile either a staff member or group of doctors would come by and ask me how I was doing. Some I assume were nurses responsible for my care. Others I think were interns or residents in teaching rounds or possibly checking up on ER operations. All and all, I felt like I was in the good hands of professionals who knew what they were doing. It felt good.

About 10:00 the preliminaries came to an end. I was notified that my bed in the ICU was available and that I would be moving "soon". This time they meant it. About 10 minutes later a staff worker came in to bag up all my worldly possessions for safekeeping while I was in the ICU. She said she had to take my phone, too. As my phone (and its charger) are my lifeline to the outside world, especially to my Bride, I balked. 

Ostensibly, the rule was intended to minimize theft as patients in the ICU can be moved to other areas including operating rooms without much notice. And upon occasion they don't come back to the ICU. Gulp. A little dose of reality. But after a few minutes of polite resistance, the staff member smiled and revealed that if I wouldn't give my phone up, she had no authority to take it from me. So I smiled back, thanked her for the tip, and kept the phone. 

Finally, after hearing about the ICU for about 10 hours, I was on my way. And my head pain was sliding down a bit more to a two. I was beginning to feel like the tide was turning. I texted Nancy that I was on my way to the ICU, and that I would check-in in the morning. Then I was ushered through a double-doorway marked "Pod 6". Yikes.

I arrived at a very large room where I was met by a team of at least six. They went right to work. They removed all of my clothing - all of it - including my mask. They began washing me - all of me - with some type of cleaning solution. One of the team, a doctor I believe, told me "you can't bring those ER germs into the ICU." I felt like I was being promoted from steerage to first class. 

Then I was given one of those not-quite-as-big-as-you'd-like hospital gowns and wired-up. Actually wired and tubed-up. They took blood, and inserted a port in my arm to introduce meds. I had about five chest wires, I think, and a semi-permanent blood pressure cuff. These attachments were, of course, connected to a number of devices. I felt very-well monitored. After all the set-up, I was then left to rest. Until the next check-in. One other item of note. I didn't have to wear a mask in the ICU. I received a COVID test upon my entry into the Cottage Hospital ER, and passed. From there, ICU protocols are apparently trusted to keep COVID out of the pod. That was nice.

Through the night the staff checked on me every couple of hours with the same routine. Light in the eyes, how-many-fingers questions, and a series of "can you feel this" probes. I assume I passed each time as nothing untoward happened after these little chats. I have to admit that except for the intrusions I was able to rest pretty well. Probably a combination of comfy bed and mental fatigue. I was tired of thinking about the day's events. 

About 9:00 in the morning, I was allowed to eat. Apparently the risk of surgery had subsided enough to prevent me from starving to death. I was offered a decent menu to choose from. My pain was down to about a one at that point, but my brain was not much interested in unnecessary engagement.  That I could eat seemed much more important than what I could eat. I took the special. I was also told that after lunch I would receive another CAT scan. If it looked good, I would be released. That got my attention.

I updated my Bride on developments and learned that she would be able to come into the ICU to pick me up if I were released. So she went about her day and kept in touch. After lunch - opted for the special again - they took me as promised for the scan. As this was my third CAT scan in a little over 24 hours, I was a pro. It's not that difficult actually, but I like to think one improves with experience.

About an hour later they gave me the good news that my scan was favorable, and that I would be discharged in a couple of hours. But had to have a follow-up with my own doctor in two weeks. I accepted their terms and notified Nancy. She arrived right on schedule about 3:00 with my clothes. I dressed, signed some papers, and walked out of the ICU and hospital under my own power. Good to go. Here's a shot of me shortly after returning to the scene of the crime, complete with warning label.

Since then I have laid low, mostly. It didn't really require much of a change from my normal routine. Rising from lying or sitting positions slowly. Avoiding as much bending over as possible. No alcohol. And keeping reading and computer time to a minimum. I did pretty well on the first three. Slipped a bit on the last item as I normally spend a few hours most days reading and on-line. But I managed, and a few days ago my lingering headaches finally subsided.

Today I had my follow-up scan. The head issues (at least the medical ones) are now resolved, and I'm back to just the usual aches, pains and other aging challenges. It's been an experience I'd like not to repeat, but I did learn a few things:

1. Ladders require two people for proper use. Be the one steadying the ladder as much as possible.
2. If you must ride in an ambulance, bring Dramamine. Either that or a blindfold.
3. Don't believe everything you see on TV about emergency rooms. Just the good things.

Looking forward to my next Manhattan to put this episode into proper perspective. And, by the way, anyone need a slightly used, slightly bent two-stepper? No charge. 

Grosse Pointe Charles.