Content-type: text/html Ray Manning

Monday, October 16, 2000 7:00 AM

Another Boring Wednesday Night

Thursday night sees a rapidly rising body temperature and every body part hurting. I go to my health center's immediate care clinic and they agree to see me when they first record a 101.2 F body temperature. Ten minutes later, despite the coolness of the doctor's office, I have risen to 102.0 F. This gets some activity going in the office! People start scurrying around for liquids and something to lower (or stop the rising) fever. After having pills and liquids shoved down my throat, I explain to the doctor that I need some erythromycin (a wide spectrum antibiotic) in order to reduce the fever. Because it is after hours, this is not my regular doctor and I have to explain to the doctor why I know what I'm talking about and why she should obediently give me the drugs. I thank her for helping me in the past - this being the doctor that started me on the intravenous antibiotics when I had the internal bleeding in my leg about 15 months ago from an ice hockey puck impact. She finally complies and starts explaining all of the restrictions associated with taking antibiotics and I have to stop her and tell her that I've been taking antibiotics longer than she's been alive (It's not quite true, but within fifteen years anyway.) and that I know all of the rules, indications, precautions, contraindications, side effects, and global prices for erythromycin and she should just write the prescription so that I can get it in me and get home to bed. Finally she relents and I'm off to bed.

But she stops me and says that besides looking sick, I look completely worn out. I cannot disagree. I don't explain all of the late night ice hockey games and late night "other" activities that I have been involved with lately, but she can see them. From the dark moons under my eyes to the texture of my mucous membranes, she explains why she can see that I am worn out. After getting a verbal dressing down to slow down, we compromise and agree that I will not use an alarm clock for one week. That is what I agree to. This will insure that my body gets some rest.

Every body part hurts. But the ones that hurt the most are the ones that have been injured in the past 12 years. These are a broken rib (1989), a broken finger (1991), a torn abdominal muscle (1994), a strained right rotator cuff (1997), and a strained left bicep (2000). The body has a remarkable memory for injuries and it is remembering each and every one of them right now!

By Friday afternoon my body temperature is down near normal. It has taken lots of sleep, antibiotics, liquids and daytime television to bring it down. TVLand, a satellite or cable channel, is running continuous episodes of the original Charley's Angels series. I am enthused to start, but after fifteen minutes of one episode I am bored. Though I did see the Angels using a white over red Ford Pinto to chase down some bad guys.

By Saturday morning my body temperature is completely normal. I go for a casual bicycle ride in the sunshine. Sunday morning shows my body temperature at normal again and so I go for another bicycle ride.

Monday sees an early evening ice hockey game. I score the team's first goal to get us started. I get home and sleep. I skip Tuesday's ice hockey game. I feel guilty.

On Wednesday I leave work at 10:30 am to participate in the EOS golf tournament. Having been hoodwinked into playing even though I have not swung a golf club for 5 years. (Since I played with John Leete!) After two holes of warmup, I am striking the ball well - just as I told the team captain that I would - though I cannot putt - just as I told the team captain that I wouldn't. My teammates are making fun of my clubs - they are almost 30 years old. Still using wood for the woods. (Though they do have metal shafts.) I make fun of their new, Titanium offset heads, beryllium metal matrix shafts, with indium iodide plasma balancing fluid built in. By the end of the round, having absolutely "let the shaft out" a number of times off the tee, my teammates cannot believe that the ball can be struck so far and so straight with those clubs. And one remarks, "You'd make the length of this course obsolete, Ray, if you'd play with clubs made in the last ten years".

I give the casual "I don't believe in technology" statement and continue playing. And laugh at everyone when I win one of the four closest to the hole prizes on the long, 200 yard par three!

I skip the Wednesday night drag show at either the Frat House or El Calor. I feel guilty.