Math problems

My teenage daughter recently complained about learning math. But one day she will have to book airline tickets online, I told her, and differential equations might come in handy.

“Take this workshop that I’m attending in Dayton while you’re on spring break with your friend in Mexico,” I said. “What’s the cheapest way to get there?”

“Use frequent flyer miles,” she suggested.

I would. Except United doesn’t fly direct from Boston to anywhere in Ohio. And I’m not connecting through United’s Chicago hub during any month when snow could cancel flights. I would rather have a colonoscopy than sleep on an airline terminal floor.

So I logged onto Expedia. The cheapest flight to Dayton cost $101. But it leaves at 5 a.m.

We live three hours from Boston. So I would have to get up at midnight to make that flight, I reminded her. The last time I got up at midnight, I was in labor.

“Stay at that airport hotel,” she suggested, “the one where you can park for free.”

OK, I thought. Add $250 for the hotel. But subtract $150 saved on airport parking.

I toggled back to Expedia and clicked on the $101 flight. Session expired. I re-entered the destination and date information. The flight had gone up to $343.

In the old days, I told her, I would have called a travel agent, given her my travel dates, and she would have found the least expensive airfare. I then would have picked up the ticket — with its delicate carbon paper that stained fingertips and shirt cuffs murder-scene red — and paid the travel agent with a check. Once on board, smiling flight attendants would have passed out steaming towels with tongs, mixed free mini bottles of Seagram’s 7 with 7-Up or popped open some Cold Duck, and served at least one hot meal in a pre-molded tray, so the pasta primavera didn’t mix with the fruit cup in turbulence.

Now you practically need to do a statistical regression analysis to find the best deal online — and on an airline that doesn’t charge extra for the oxygen on board or have a coin slot on the toilet door.

Samoa Air even charges by weight. Your weight!

I finally found a flight leaving Boston at noon and clicked “select.” It connected through Atlanta and had gone up to $841. And something resembling a clown car rented for $30 a day. Plus $14.45 in taxes and fees.

“Now add it all up,” I told my daughter.

She looked at the list of numbers, then looked up and asked, “Can I buy a new bikini for Mexico?”

Where's our snow?!

Dear Valued Customer,

Thank you for your recent order of two feet of Fluffy Snow — the premium item in our Winter Weather package.

At this time, this item is on backorder until Winter 2017. Our supplier has been overwhelmed with orders from California, Utah, and Colorado — as well as other parts of the world. We had hoped to speed delivery to you in February but have been unable to locate another supplier of Winter Weather.

In its place, we have sent to you — free of charge — two inches of rain followed by freezing temperatures. We hope you are enjoying the express and timely delivery of our Crap Winter Weather package! It is sure to fill your reservoirs and flood your basements.

In late March, we are offering a special Mud Season package for our lowest price ever. It includes one foot of Heavy Snow, topped by a glistening wintry mix (to seal it all in!), and then a week of sub-freezing temperatures to ensure that it sticks around when you want it most!

Order now, and we’ll also deliver Snow Flurries in May at no extra charge!

Or select our El Nino package and receive a rainy July as a special bonus.

Sincerely,

Your Friends at Climate Control

Sponsored by:

Eli Lilly & Company, makers of Prozac.

Starbucks. Try our Nosnowpuccino: Two shots of espresso and a shot of whiskey, topped with wintry mix whipped cream.

And

Mother Nature. “I don’t have to explain myself. I said no.”

Spontaneous combustion

I had a hot flash.

A fucking hot flash.

A full on Jack-Jack Attack, except with no super powers attached. (Whoever created the Pixar film The Incredibles back in 2004 got the various characters’ super powers mixed up. Baby Jack-Jack shouldn’t be the one who can spontaneously combust. That talent should belong to his middle-aged mother, ElastiGirl.)

I felt like I was melting.

Suggestions to just dress in layers or run outside for a few minutes are not helpful. Because unless those layers include all my skin, or by outside, they mean the South Pole, nothing helps.

I consulted Google.

To ease hot flashes, one site suggested taking black cohosh, which I found in pill form at the local health food store. I tried it for awhile. It seems to lose potency over time. Like catnip.

On another site, menopause was described as a “very common” condition with “over 3 million cases annually.” As if it were a disease.

Why hasn’t more research been done on this “epidemic”? And where’s the CDC when you need them?

If the rulers of the world had been afflicted with hot flashes, the king’s coffers would have been spent on finding a cure. Members of Parliament surely would not have worn those powdered wigs. Nor those heavy robes. And Ben Franklin would likely have spent his experimental years not flying kites in thunderstorms but instead trying to find out why he felt like ripping off his waistcoat and breeches and diving into the Schuylkill.

And let’s for a moment imagine Donald Trump having a hot flash …

Alas, it’s just us womenfolk who go through “the change.” And short of taking replacement hormones or antidepressants, there doesn’t seem to be much we can do.

I did find this (laughable) list though on WebMD.

Avoid:

•      Stress (yeah, right)
•      Caffeine (ha)
•      Alcohol (haha)
•      Spicy foods (so is this why older people like cottage cheese?)
•      Tight clothing (this I can do)
•      Heat (o-kayyyyy)
•      Cigarette smoke

·      This is my list:

•      Sleep naked.
•        Don’t workout. It only makes you sweat more.
•      Move to a cool climate. Newfoundland is nice. And it doesn’t have snakes.

Or, as I’ve done lately, just ride it out. Risk factors of suffering through a hot flash do not include death. Just a little BO.

Oh shit ...

So I asked my friends on Facebook: Which is worse — a root canal or colonoscopy?

Most said root canal — but one friend conceded that it’s “a toss up,” with the root canal most likely costing a lot more.

Only two thought a colonoscopy would be worse, and one of them commented, “Usually one is not fortunate enough to get to pick the procedure.”

True, although I did essentially “pick” to have a colonoscopy — after a couple years of goading from my doctor.

I’ve never had either procedure but by tomorrow afternoon, will be able to report on the latter. The worst, I’ve heard — and what I’m dreading — is the prep. Why voluntarily bring on diarrhea? Can’t we just wait until we catch a bad stomach bug, then ring up proctologist and request an immediate colonoscopy?

Since there’s no backing out now, I am thankful for my Facebook friends who put it in perspective:

“Think about how short lived the discomfort is! Two days later it is just a memory.”

And my friend Mary, who commented, “Both not the most fun, but I'll take either one over open heart surgery.”

Then there’s this to look forward to: “The best part is after the colonoscopy when they give you heated blankets and food.”

Who knew? Something to look forward to?

Post-Colonoscopy

Well, that was a whole lot of no fun. 

The prep or the recovery.

The things they DON’T tell you before a colonoscopy — like expect to freeze to death as your gut experiences repeated flash floods. And your butt is going to feel as if you were sitting in sulfuric acid. 

Then don’t expect to get any sleep — because who can relax and fall sleep with the threat of bowel matter gushing from your anus?

Also, you have to get up at 1 AM to start round two (yes, there’s a round two). For the next 3 hours, your gut will discharge every little particle left clinging to the intestinal walls. 

Then, just as you start to doze off, shivering despite wearing a down vest and lying under a down comforter, you have to get up and get to the hospital, where you check in — and hope to god that you are there on the right day.

I don’t remember a thing about the procedure. I think they gave me enough anesthesia to sedate a 300-lb constipated man. I barely came-to in the recovery room, and then felt ill when I finally did wake up.

Apparently the doctor came in and talked to me, but I have no recollection.

Despite nausea and a really painful gut, they didn't let me linger. No-sir-ree, they shooed me right out of there. Maybe they had other patients needing a recovery room bed — like airplanes waiting on the tarmac for a gate?

I wobbled to car, then into the house and collapsed into bed. I have no idea how long I slept. I was queasy all day. And despite not eating for 24 hours, had no appetite. Weight loss plan? 

Oh, and to add to the indignity, I still have liquid shit coming out of me. Make it stop! 

I can’t believe that I volunteered for this. But the doctor did find one polyp, so I guess it’s good I had it done. He told Andy it was small and probably benign and that I could come back in 10 years.

Yeah, maybe I’ll stretch that to 20.

Pardon sentence structure. I’m not supposed to operate heavy machinery for 24 hours. That might include a laptop, no? 

A week later …

Noooooooooooo!

That small polyp that the doctor removed during my colonoscopy, the biopsy showed that it was benign. But it was a sessile serrated polyp and its “risk for future development of colorectal cancer is unclear,” read the letter from my doctor.

I googled sessile serrated polyp, and it doesn’t make for good bedtime reading.

It’s a premalignant lesion caused (I believe) by a genetic mutation and is a precursor to colon cancer. Not a lot is known about them, other than that they aren’t all that common and that they can lead to colon cancer.

This is all that I’ve been able to decipher from a few medical papers that contain phrases like “CpG island methylation” and “epigenetic inactivation of the mismatch repair gene MLH1 resulting in microsatellite instability.”

Doctors should know that laypeople are going to google their medical conditions and include warnings to their patients. Like DO NOT USE GOOGLE WHEN LOOKING FOR MEDICAL ADVICE.

Particularly if it’s a skin condition. Because those photos are terrifying.

And what’s with the doctor sending me a five-sentence note containing the word “unclear”? And one of those sentences wasn’t even complete.

For the price he’s charging, could he at least reassure me that the polyp was small, there was only one, and give me some statistics from others who have had one small sessile serrated polyp removed? Perhaps via a phone call?

I feel like I have a time bomb ticking in my gut. And if it’s a genetic mutation, it’s not like eating more fiber will help.

Now I have to have another colonoscopy in 5 years, not 10.

The fuzzy mega colon plush toy that I bought at Philadelphia’s medical Mütter Museum is mocking me. 

Crap.

Cecil, the Sessile Serrated Polyp

I have named the polyp removed during my colonoscopy. It’s name is Cecil. It makes it seem less scary.

Channeling Dr. Seuss this election season ...

Every Trump Down in Trumpville

Liked elections a lot...

But the Yous, who lived elsewhere, really did NOT!

The Yous hated elections! The whole election season!

Do you have to ask why? Everyone knows the reason.

The candidates’ heads weren’t screwed on just right.

And possibly too, their toupees were too tight.

But I think that the most likely reason of all,

May have been that their hearts were too small.

Whatever the reason, their hearts or their ‘toups,’

The Yous stood through the election, hating the whole group.

From Trump to Rubio to Carson and Cruz.

From Jeb Bush to Christie, and Hillary too.

None of them could stand them, not one single You.

But staring down from Vermont, with a big frumpy frown,

Was a gruff white-haired man who liked the Yous’ middle-class town.

He promised to hold those Wall Streeters accountable.

And make the income and wealth gap less insurmountable.

"There are tough times ahead!" he emphatically said,

"With the division of income, how are you Yous even fed?"

From up in his penthouse, his brain nervously spinning,

Trump growled, "I MUST find some way to stop Bernie from winning!"

For the Yous were starting to prod and to poke,

And to consider Trump’s campaign quite a big joke.

"Why, months and months I've put up with it now!"

"I MUST stop him from winning! But HOW?"

Then he got an idea! An awful idea!

The Trump got A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!

"I know just what to do!" Trump sneered with a groan.

“I’ll tell them about my small $1 million loan.”

And he chuckled, and clucked, "What a great Trumpy trick!"

"With such a great story, how can they think I’m a dick?"

“I’ll buy this election. My fortune is great.”

“And I’ll be the financial king of these United States!”

“I’ll deport everyone who came here too late.”

“It’ll be just like firing them, a mere act of fate.”

But the Yous laughed even harder at the great Trumpy Trump.

And his polls started crashing way down to the dump.

Without Bernie or Hillary lifting a finger.

Trump’s campaign would hopefully not linger.

As Trump looked around, at the Yous tall and small,

He realized that perhaps he had misjudged them all.

They don’t want a candidate who acts like a jerk.

They would rather have one who puts them back to work.

Tho it’s hard to imagine him negotiating with Merkel,

Or facing the Syrians and Putin, that jerk-l.

The Yous were happy that Bernie had entered the race.

For he truly wants to make the country a better place.

But as the calendar turns to 2016, and the election grows near,

We realize that really our one greatest fear …

Is that the GOP might still elect that man Trump.

Who’s only one letter removed from a ‘rump.’

– P. Shinn