Saturday, January 26, 2008
I'm Not Dead Yet
I’m sure that many of my loyal readers have made periodic visits to this little corner of the internet and noticed that there have not been recent entries. Looking at the date of the last post, you may have thought that, at the end of 2007, I had chosen to cease publishing Fantastic Spanking. I assure you, that is not the case. There is a perfectly good reason for my absence. Please allow me to explain.
The days after the new year were beyond hectic. Here in the Midwest, we received approximately 75 inches of snow. The temperatures fell to something close to absolute zero (for those of you who don’t know, the definition of absolute zero is minus 275 degrees Celsius or minus 460 degrees Fahrenheit). I bundled up to snow-blow the driveway and the walks. The snow-blower picked up a rock or chunk of ice, which it threw hard enough to break a window on the guest house. So I had to repair that in the frigid weather. Within days, the temperatures had risen to 60 degrees, bringing torrential rains and causing all that snow to melt. This caused my yard to begin to flood since many of the idiots … or rather … residents of the area had chosen to fill in the ditches that are supposed to carry the water to the reservoir. I became quite concerned that both of the structures on my homestead would become swamped and un-livable. After talking to an engineer, Bernie and a couple of her colleagues were kind enough to help me put out some sandbags to keep the water at bay. While we were successful at preventing water damage, the work was very strenuous and left me drained.
The water receded and the temperatures fell, but I could not shake the feeling of fatigue. To make matters worse, I seemed to have acquired a cold, with a head clogged with snot and my throat burning like I had swallowed fire. Nothing seemed to help the symptoms. The discomfort then migrated to my chest, and I developed a cough. The cough became so bad that I Angela was wanted to cover my face with tape so that my eyeballs would not pop out. I felt like there was a cement truck parked on my chest.
Being a man, I was determined to not seek help and let the infection run its course. However, when the cement truck arrived, I made an appointment to see my doctor the next day. The next day I woke up and, somehow, felt even worse. I was freezing and boiling hot at the same time. Angela insisted on driving me to the doctor. She had to help me walk into his office. As I was checking in, his nurse caught sight of me and gasped. She immediately summoned the doctor, who came out, felt the glands in my neck, looked at my throat, and told Angela to take me directly to the hospital.
The next couple of days are rather hazy. I was admitted to the hospital, where I had a fever that spiked at 104 degrees. I lost consciousness frequently, and when I was awake I was not always completely aware of my surroundings. I was hooked to an IV and fluids were pumped into me at a rapid pace, and yet I did not seem to be inclined to pee. And throughout it all, the cement truck refused to move from my chest.
When my fever broke and I returned to complete awareness, I was informed that I had contracted pneumonia. To make matters worse, the pneumonia was both viral and bacterial in nature, and I likely picked up other fun little infections along the way. I had been moved to intensive care. My kidneys were threatening to shut down because of the fever, so I had a catheter inserted where I never wish to have a catheter inserted ever again. I had more tubes and wires running from me than an 8th grade science experiment.
I spent two more days in the hospital, where I began to regain my strength. I was so sick that Maribel actually took time off from her basketball team to come and see me. My parents visited daily. Angela and Colette rarely left my side. Angela was clearly exhausted. Colette was a saint, bringing me things to drink, fluffing my pillows, and shooing away people when I wanted to sleep.
At last I was allowed to go home, but my energy was slow to return. I spent my first two days there mostly in bed, sleeping. As my appetite returned, I would be alternately famished and close to nauseous, so I had to eat small amounts frequently throughout the day. I was not able to do anything for work beyond occasionally checking my email. It was another week before I was close to normal. So, naturally, I am now swamped with three weeks worth of chores that I was forced to neglect while I was recuperating.
I am now back to normal, or as normal as an imaginary spanko can be. I am able to resume my writing, and so shall be again providing fairly regular updates to this little journal. Before I fell ill, Bernie was able to collect on her bet to spank me after Maribel’s basketball team lost to the Big State University, as I described in my last entries. Fear not, a recap of that spanking will be coming shortly.
So fear not, my friends. I am not dead, nor am I hanging up my keyboard. Fantastic Spanking will continue, and I will still be regaling you with tales of my imaginary life and spankings. It may take me a bit longer to get caught up, but I will still be here.
Being sick sucks. Now that I’m well, I once again feel fantastic.
The days after the new year were beyond hectic. Here in the Midwest, we received approximately 75 inches of snow. The temperatures fell to something close to absolute zero (for those of you who don’t know, the definition of absolute zero is minus 275 degrees Celsius or minus 460 degrees Fahrenheit). I bundled up to snow-blow the driveway and the walks. The snow-blower picked up a rock or chunk of ice, which it threw hard enough to break a window on the guest house. So I had to repair that in the frigid weather. Within days, the temperatures had risen to 60 degrees, bringing torrential rains and causing all that snow to melt. This caused my yard to begin to flood since many of the idiots … or rather … residents of the area had chosen to fill in the ditches that are supposed to carry the water to the reservoir. I became quite concerned that both of the structures on my homestead would become swamped and un-livable. After talking to an engineer, Bernie and a couple of her colleagues were kind enough to help me put out some sandbags to keep the water at bay. While we were successful at preventing water damage, the work was very strenuous and left me drained.
The water receded and the temperatures fell, but I could not shake the feeling of fatigue. To make matters worse, I seemed to have acquired a cold, with a head clogged with snot and my throat burning like I had swallowed fire. Nothing seemed to help the symptoms. The discomfort then migrated to my chest, and I developed a cough. The cough became so bad that I Angela was wanted to cover my face with tape so that my eyeballs would not pop out. I felt like there was a cement truck parked on my chest.
Being a man, I was determined to not seek help and let the infection run its course. However, when the cement truck arrived, I made an appointment to see my doctor the next day. The next day I woke up and, somehow, felt even worse. I was freezing and boiling hot at the same time. Angela insisted on driving me to the doctor. She had to help me walk into his office. As I was checking in, his nurse caught sight of me and gasped. She immediately summoned the doctor, who came out, felt the glands in my neck, looked at my throat, and told Angela to take me directly to the hospital.
The next couple of days are rather hazy. I was admitted to the hospital, where I had a fever that spiked at 104 degrees. I lost consciousness frequently, and when I was awake I was not always completely aware of my surroundings. I was hooked to an IV and fluids were pumped into me at a rapid pace, and yet I did not seem to be inclined to pee. And throughout it all, the cement truck refused to move from my chest.When my fever broke and I returned to complete awareness, I was informed that I had contracted pneumonia. To make matters worse, the pneumonia was both viral and bacterial in nature, and I likely picked up other fun little infections along the way. I had been moved to intensive care. My kidneys were threatening to shut down because of the fever, so I had a catheter inserted where I never wish to have a catheter inserted ever again. I had more tubes and wires running from me than an 8th grade science experiment.
I spent two more days in the hospital, where I began to regain my strength. I was so sick that Maribel actually took time off from her basketball team to come and see me. My parents visited daily. Angela and Colette rarely left my side. Angela was clearly exhausted. Colette was a saint, bringing me things to drink, fluffing my pillows, and shooing away people when I wanted to sleep.
At last I was allowed to go home, but my energy was slow to return. I spent my first two days there mostly in bed, sleeping. As my appetite returned, I would be alternately famished and close to nauseous, so I had to eat small amounts frequently throughout the day. I was not able to do anything for work beyond occasionally checking my email. It was another week before I was close to normal. So, naturally, I am now swamped with three weeks worth of chores that I was forced to neglect while I was recuperating.
I am now back to normal, or as normal as an imaginary spanko can be. I am able to resume my writing, and so shall be again providing fairly regular updates to this little journal. Before I fell ill, Bernie was able to collect on her bet to spank me after Maribel’s basketball team lost to the Big State University, as I described in my last entries. Fear not, a recap of that spanking will be coming shortly.
So fear not, my friends. I am not dead, nor am I hanging up my keyboard. Fantastic Spanking will continue, and I will still be regaling you with tales of my imaginary life and spankings. It may take me a bit longer to get caught up, but I will still be here.
Being sick sucks. Now that I’m well, I once again feel fantastic.
