TEST, TEST, testing 1 2 3 . . .

Ah, the sweet serenade of modern medicine — that glorious ballet of clicks, passwords, and privacy disclaimers nobody reads. Log in, verify your existence three different ways, and congratulations! You’ve unlocked the privilege of viewing your slow biological decline in high definition. The Retinas Doctor’s patient portal: where your medical misery gets archived for posterity. Truly, the internet at its noblest.

So, yes, the three-hour office visit. Necessary, apparently. Twelve tests, eight procedures, and a dazzling five-minute encounter with the ophthalmological deity herself — the Wonder Woman of the cornea. She swept in like a caffeinated oracle, skimmed my chart with divine indifference, and bestowed upon me the great gift of, “We’ll schedule a follow-up.” I nearly wept.

Today, my eye hurts. Or maybe it’s my soul, staging a protest. Hard to know these days. Ever since they confirmed something might be wrong, every twitch feels like a countdown. It’s psychosomatic déjà vu — anxiety cosplaying as symptoms, and I’m the captive audience.

Next stop on the Medical Mystery Tour: Election Day. Nothing says civic duty like voting for the lesser evil in the morning and getting your ocular nerve scanned in the afternoon. On the docket: Dilated Exam, Anterior Segment Photos OU, OCT Macula OU, Fundus Photos OU, A-Scan OD, B-Scan OD, and—because why stop there—a UBM OD. I know what a photo is, but I couldn’t pick my fundus out of a lineup. Still, if someone’s photographing it, I’ll try to look photogenic. Say “cheese,” inner eyeball.

Somewhere in the administrative ether, a PET scan is allegedly being scheduled. My doctor insists it’ll happen “before the next appointment.” I, on the other hand, believe in unicorns, prompt medical scheduling, and other fine myths of the modern world.

And finally, a formatting update: I’m changing the tag font. Something cleaner. Something that screams existential resignation with a hint of class. Helvetica, maybe. The font of quiet panic, corporate emails, and medical records that will outlive us all.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Eating an Elephant

(A Cynical Field Report from the Frontlines of Modern Medicine)

Well, today was the big day — my grand audience with the fancy doctor. Two-hour drive, plenty of time to contemplate mortality and bad radio. I arrived early, naturally, only to begin the sacred ritual of waiting — the medical world’s favorite form of foreplay.

First came the five-page “new patient” paperwork. I half expected a question about my childhood trauma or whether I’ve accepted the inevitability of death.

Then came the eye pictures, courtesy of the biggest Nikon camera I’ve ever seen — thing looked like it could spot a tick on the moon. After that, the usual alphabet soup test: E, F, P, T, O, Z. I’m starting to think it’s less about vision and more about memorization.

Back to the waiting room — the holding pen of the soon-to-be-diagnosed. Twenty minutes later, I was injected with contrast dye. The nurse, all smiles, warned me it’d make my pee glow like radioactive lemonade. She wasn’t lying. Then another twenty minutes of waiting, presumably to let my soul marinate in fluorescent regret.

Eyes dilated next. I hate that part — it’s like being flash-banged by life itself. More pictures. More pressure checks. More poking and prodding to confirm that, yes, I do in fact have eyeballs. Finally, I get ushered into the real chamber — where the doctor, the high priestess of this fluorescent temple, will deliver the verdict. But first, another ultrasound of the eyeball, because who doesn’t love a little ocular sonar with their existential dread?

Then came the news: melanoma. Probably. Ninety-five percent sure, give or take a small miracle. Could also be the encore performance of my previous cancer. The doc, calm as a monk, ordered a PET scan — apparently to decide whether I’m growing new cancer or just recycling old stock.

If it’s melanoma, she’s my gal. If not, I get handed off to a different oncologist — like a defective product in a cosmic customer service exchange. Either way, I suppose I should start pricing eye patches. Nothing says “mystery and trauma” like looking perpetually ready to board a pirate ship.

It’s a lot to process. The kind of news that makes your brain stall out, like a cheap car in rush-hour traffic. So I told myself what everyone tells themselves when staring down something too big to swallow: One bite at a time.

Eating an elephant — one forkful of absurdity after another.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

The Georgetown Debacle, Part Deux: Or, the Round Rock Rally

After the first round of “Let’s Play Telephone with My Sanity,” I demanded a confirmation email.

A paper trail — because in this world, trust is just a quaint superstition.

Sure enough, Google Calendar chirps up like an overeager intern: “You have a new appointment!” Great. Except it’s for today at 2 PM.

Excuse me, what in the Kafkaesque hell is this? That’s not what I was told. So I dial up the Office of Administrative Chaos and speak to whatever intern, automaton, or demon picks up the phone.

They confirm that I’m actually supposed to appear in Round Rock at 10 AM tomorrow. Lovely. Another day, another town, another absurd pilgrimage to the altar of Bureaucratic Miscommunication. At least I can sleep in — you know, until my regular 5 AM wake-up, that wild luxury of modern life.

I start crunching numbers like a broke accountant on speed: ten extra miles, twenty extra minutes, and approximately one metric ton of irritation.

Since my “paper trail” still resembled a ghost story, I reached out through the patient portal — the digital confessional where messages go to die — to double-check. Mentioned the rogue calendar entry, too. And lo, confirmation arrives! With a side of passive-aggressive gaslighting: “You must’ve entered it wrong.”

Ah yes, of course. I, the humble fool, somehow managed to create an entirely different appointment in an entirely different city, on an entirely different day, while napping in a moving vehicle.

A feat of multitasking so divine, even the tech gods at Google would bow in awe. But sure. It’s me. Always me. Because heaven forbid anyone else makes a mistake in this shining temple of incompetence.

I may not always like the truth. But I absolutely despise a lie.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

The Georgetown Debacle

 

It was a dark and stormy night.
Okay, fine — not stormy. Just dark. The kind of dark that makes your alarm clock look smug, glowing red in the void like it knows it’s about to ruin your day.

Zero-dark-thirty. That unholy hour when only raccoons, existential dread, and people with bad life choices are awake. I stumbled out of bed to prep for a glamorous 72-mile expedition to Georgetown — a mystical land that exists entirely to test one’s patience and gas mileage.

Because nothing says “living the dream” like getting on I-35, the highway that doubles as both a transportation route and a psychological experiment in human suffering.

I crunched the numbers: leave by 7, arrive by 8:30. Perfect. That gave me enough buffer for traffic, apocalypse, or an impromptu midlife crisis. Dew on the windshield, defroster howling, coffee strong enough to dissolve enamel — I was ready.

Then, eighteen miles in, the phone rings.
That’s never the prelude to good news.

“Shit happens,” I sigh, which could honestly be engraved on humanity’s tombstone. “Just tell me what fresh nonsense this is. Spare me the song and dance.”

At first, it’s a “need to reschedule.” Mild annoyance. Manageable. Then the excuses start multiplying like unmedicated rabbits:

• The machine’s down.
• Actually, the test is only at the Round Rock office.
• And apparently, the doctor can only perform his sacred rituals within a 10-mile radius of that one building.

Sure. And I only write best when Mercury’s in retrograde and my Wi-Fi’s crying.

Look, if you’re running multiple clinics, maybe consider equipping them with, oh I don’t know — the same equipment. Otherwise, you’re just running a franchise of disappointment.

So I inhale deeply, choke down my rage smoothie, and agree to the change. “Email me the new details,” I say — the words of a man who still, against all reason, believes in basic competence.

We U-turn and head back to the compound. An hour later, I check my inbox. Nothing. No email. No confirmation. Just digital tumbleweeds rolling through the wasteland of my trust.

So now I have an appointment... somewhere... at some time... with someone. What could possibly go wrong?

Ah yes, professionalism — that delicate blend of chaos, confusion, and customer service so bad it makes you question the concept of civilization itself.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

T-Minus One: The Eyeball Chronicles

The worst part about medical mysteries isn't the poking and prodding—it's the waiting game. 

 Nothing says "your day is about to get interesting" quite like being referred to someone whose business card probably reads "Premier Ocular Oncologist" in fancy lettering.

My brain immediately started writing checks my anxiety couldn't cash. 

Dr. Google, that quack with a medical degree from the University of Wikipedia, became my new best friend. Pro tip: Never, and I mean NEVER, google medical terms at 2 AM. According to the internet, I have condition that might mean I need to start planning a funeral and pick out a nice casket. 

Tomorrow's agenda includes Round Two of "Let's Shine Bright Lights in Your Eyeball." The per-appointment phone call was like getting a preview of coming attractions: "Eye exam, dilation's, imaging—basically everything we did last time, but with more enthusiasm!" I'm not complaining though. I want these folks to have more data than NASA's mission control. 

Back at Casa de Chaos,AKA Pete’s Forest Compound, life trudges on with its usual brand of controlled mayhem. Saturday featured the annual "Great Honey Heist of 2025," where Hunting buddy Josh and I successfully liberated 59 pounds of liquid gold from my buzzing tenants. They seemed less than thrilled about the eviction notice, but the honey tastes like heaven's breakfast syrup, so we're calling it even. And I only got stung once. 

Sunday was cleanup day in the honey room, which looked like a crime scene from CSI: Sticky Edition. Note to self: honey has the supernatural ability to teleport itself onto every surface within a three-meter radius. 

In a burst of DIY genius (or stupidity—the jury's still out), I decided to install a repurposed AC fan in the shop. Because apparently, I subscribe to the "No Project Complete Without Bloodshed" philosophy. Cue the jig saw versus pinky finger death match. Score: Jig saw 1, Pinky 0. The thing went right up the middle of my little finger like it was auditioning for a horror movie. The bleeding was impressive—I could've started my own blood bank. When the iodine hit, I'm pretty sure my casual comments became profane. Thank goodness for super glue, the duct tape of the medical world, and enough actual tape to mummify a small pharaoh. 

Today's mission: mow the Forest Compound before it officially needs baling. While it’s been drier than my sense of humor lately, I've been running irrigation like I'm trying to recreate the Amazon rainforest. Gotta get it looking respectable on the off chance my upcoming treatment turns me into a temporary couch potato. 

Here's what the medical detectives have uncovered so far: 

Base Eye Exam: Right eye went from 20/20 to 20/70 in a month. Apparently, my eyeball decided to take early retirement without consulting me first. 

Slit Lamp Exam: Posterior vitreous detachment (sounds like my eye is having commitment issues) 

Fundus Exam: Inferior chorioretinal mass. I'm choosing to be offended that anything about me is labeled "inferior." Couldn't it be a "premium" or "deluxe" mass? Where's the quality control here?  Also didn't even know I had a fundus that could be examined.

So until noon tomorrow, my brain will be hosting its own little anxiety Olympics, complete with worst-case scenario gymnastics and catastrophic thinking marathons. The unknown is scary, but ignorance is bliss—and right now, I'm living in a blissful fog of medical confusion. 

Stay tuned for the next thrilling episode of "Adventures in Eyeball Land." 

P.S. - If anyone needs me, I'll be googling "how to become a pirate" just in case I need a career change that accommodates potential monocular vision. 

                   

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Trouble With Party Crashers

The party never ends! It's 2025, and guess who's maybe trying to RSVP again?

That bastard charlie. Yeah, it’s been a while—but he just can’t take a hint.

Now I get why we say “I’m a survivor, not cured.” charlie (and I will not capitalize his name—he doesn’t deserve the grammatical dignity) is always hiding in the shadows like a bad sequel no one asked for. charlie II: The Eyeball Strikes Back.

Too early to say what’s up for sure, but I’ve got an appointment Tuesday with the fancy eye cancer doc in Austin. Real VIP vibes.

Here’s how this latest rollercoaster started: about 30 days ago, I was dealing with some serious back pain. I go to the doc, who by the way is a great guy, sharp dresser—and he tells me I’ve got degenerative back issues. So yeah, it’s official: I am degenerate. Street cred unlocked.

He prescribes me Gabapentin, which is a stellar nerve-blocker. Within two days I’m strutting around like a pain-free rooster. It seems like a miracle. Life’s good.

Then a week in, my right eye starts acting up like it’s auditioning for its own drama series. Can’t focus right, some bright spots, and a little vision loss in the top-left corner of my sight. I check in with the doc and guess what? Gabapentin has a known side hustle messing with eyesight.

So we start tapering the meds—down from 900mg to 600mg. Pain? Still good. Vision? Not great. Drop to 300mg—still fuzzy. Basically I can walk fine, but I’m walking into walls.

So I book an eye appointment. I describe the weirdness, get an exam, and we discover a fun fact: my glasses prescription is totally off. 90 days ago my right eye’s cylinder was -1.00, and now it’s +0.75. That’s not a small shift—that’s a plot twist. Something changed big time, and recently.

Doc looks deeper and spots a possible retinal detachment. Not definite, but enough to hit the "uh-oh" button. I get bumped up to a retina specialist. This doc checks me out and says, “Well, it’s not a detached retina—but I still don’t like what I’m seeing.” Never good to hear a doc say something like that.

Cue eyeball ultrasound. No, not the baby kind. No heartbeat, no gender reveal. Just one eye with what appears to be a suspicious little mass. Basically, my eyeball has a baby bump. Not ideal.

So now we wait for the next appointment —Tuesday— with the top-tier eyeball expert to figure out what this mass is and what we’re doing about it. In the meantime, I’m browsing pirate costumes. If I need an eye patch, I’m going full Jack Sparrow. Might even demand people call me “Captain.”

Listen, I hate charlie. Always have. Always will. He ruins lives and doesn’t even send a warning text. But here’s the thing—this time, I’m stronger. I’ve done this dance before, and I’m ready.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

And if they don’t? I’ll make them. Even if I’ve got to do it one-eyed.

Thoughts and Musings of a Renaissance man II

For Amber and Paul, stay tough

Eagles may soar, but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines

Ever wonder what you call a pocket calculator at a nudist camp.

Why are there interstate highways in Hawaii?

Why do “fat chance”, and “slim chance”, mean the same thing?

Why do we drive on parkways, and park on driveways?

Why does “slow down”, and “slow up”, mean the same thing?

Just think how much deeper the ocean would be, if sponges didn’t live there.

 If it is tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?

How do you tell when you run out of invisible ink?

Ambition is a poor excuse, for not having enough sense to be lazy!

If the #2 pencil is the most popular, why is it still # 2?

If it’s zero degrees outside today, and it’s suppose to be twice as cold tomorrow, how cold is it going to be?

When two airplanes almost collide, why do they call it a near miss? It sounds like a near hit to me!

Why is abbreviated, such a long word?

Why doesn’t Tarzan have a beard?

Why is it that night falls, but day breaks?

Why it is the third hand on the watch called a second hand?

If you try to fail, and succeed, which have you done?

If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?

Why isn’t 11 pronounced, onety one?

Why do overlook, and oversee, mean opposite things?

If man evolved from monkeys, and apes, why do we still have monkeys and apes?

What do you do when you see an endangered wild animal eating an endangered plant?

Any connection between your reality and mine is purely coincidental.

Would a fly without wings be called a “walk?”

Why do people who know the least, know it the loudest?

My friends, we have only two things to worry about: That things will never get back to normal, and that they already have.

If all the world is a stage, where is the audience sitting?

Analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog -few people are interested and the frog dies!

Some day we will all look back at this, laugh nervously, and change the subject.

Why do we put suits in garment bags, and garments in a suitcase?

Why do we wash bath towels? Aren’t we clean when we use them?

Jack Handy: “ It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at them.”

If a kid says “why is it raining?” I think a good thing to tell him is, “God is crying?” If he asks why, tell him, “It is probably because of something you did!”

Why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle?

Why do they call it a TV set, when you only have one?

Christmas oxymoron: what other time of the year, do you sit in front of a dead tree eating candy from your socks?

Quantum Mechanics: The dreams stuff is made of.

For Sale: Parachute. Only used once, never opened, small stain.

Boycott shampoo! Demand the real POO!

Why is the word big, so small and the word little, so big?

Before they invented drawing boards, what did they go back to?

Why are there 5 syllables in the word monosyllabic?

If vegetarians eat vegetables, what do humanitarians eat?

Tell a man there are 400 billion stars, and he’ll believe you. Tell him a bench has wet paint, and he has to touch it.

And the battle continues . . 

immitis pugnae manet

10 – X, Not my shirt size

10 – X, No not my shirt size. After all, I am a svelte studdly little over 200 lb hunk of a man.  No, the 10X is a reference to the center bullseye.  The X count is the tie breaker, the number of more centered 10 ring scores.

Now, what the hell does this mean?  Three years ago when I was sick and weak, I reflected on things I hadn’t done or should have done. AKA the bucket list.

One of those items was competitive shooting. Back in my Marine Corp days I was a pretty good shooter.  I actually won several Marine Corps Reserve championships, both as an individual or a team shooter.  But then the unit I transferred to didn’t field a team so I stopped shooting.

Fast forward to two years ago, I was on the mend and I decided to start shooting again.  WOW! I was appalled at how bad my pistol shooting had fallen to. The first match I shot I was definitely in the marksman class, two levels below where I used to be. 

As I continued shooting more matches, the scores came up and with the first reclassification came around I was back in the Expert class.  Currently I am shooting scores right on the Master class cut off point.

Last month I shot the Texas state outdoor matches and did pretty darn good won two of the 16 individual matches and placed 2nd or 3rd in another 9.

This week I head to Ohio to shoot the national pistol championship matches, how good I do is going to be a factor of how well I can stay on target.  If the competition doesn’t get me rattled I think I can finish in the top 10%.  I will be shooting in the expert  class  but I have, and know, I can shoot Master class scores.

The question is, will I?  1199 miles 17 hours is the goggled maps prediction. I head out tomorrow about noon and hope to be there Sunday by noon. Regardless, I will have shot the National Pistol Championship matches and that’s a check mark. so the matches end a Sunday the 12th, I guess I will fess up to how I did after that.

dum vita est spes est

Roll Over, Play Dead, Good Dog,

Sometimes, most of the time, not.  Ziggy the wonder dawg got under foot last night. Literally, and of course I did my best impression of a swan dive, a dying swan.

Note to self, concrete patios are harder than the grass. Second note to self, glasses are not good shock absorbers.

Ziggy was unharmed, she even came over to check on me.  Luckily for me nothing broken so I guess it’s all OK.

dum vita est spes est

Warm wash, cool iron, NOT!!!

Did you ever notice the disturbing trend to idiot proof our society? I mean like really, who is going to use a lawn mower to trim the tops of hedges.  And I used to think normal sane people knew not to use electrical apparatus in the bath.

Now with clothing they might be on to something. I mean it!  Took me 40 years of doing laundry to figure out that washing everything in super hot water wasn’t the best of ideas.  Of course my son got a lot of new shirts.

I don’t quite understand the concept of a cool iron, near as I can tell mine has three settings, off, burn the hell out your bare skin, and instance scorch marks or melted cloth. Maybe a cool iron is one that looks good.  Of course if I was to say, “that iron looks good in your hands baby”, I might get said iron upside my head.

Any, the gist of the comment is that I looked at my key fob, that lil doohickey I use to unlock, lock, and start my truck with. And guess what?, unlike my fine Hawaiian shirts, there are no laundry instructions.

That’s right, nowhere does it caution on the proper means to wash one.  Turns out I did, just in the regular laundry load.  Of course when I took it out of the washer I knew better than to dry it. I remember what that can do to shirts, promotes wrinkles and such, and I didn’t want a wrinkled key fob.

Now fast forward to about 1AM.  I hear the truck locking itself, you know, two short beeps. And seeing as how I’m all snuggled up in bed, seems strange.  Wow there it goes again, maybe something/someone is robbing me, but at least they are locking up after themselves.

Shoot fire, I don’t even grab one of the many bang sticks or hand held hole punching devices at arm’s length. I just get up in my BVDs and wander out to the driveway to see what’s going on.

Beep Beep! Lock and unlock, only now I’m standing in the beams of the headlights in me BVDs. Guess I‘ll head back in the house.

Must have hurt’s it’s feelings, the  “ they’re breaking in to me!!!”. alarm commences to go off.  And seeing how my neighbor lady’s bedroom is right there about 10 feet away, I quickly realize I need to do something, like take the damn thing apart and take out the battery.

And just in case other neighbors haven’t been sufficiently warned, Ziggy the wonder dwag commences to run to and fro barking up a storm raising the alarm.

I went back in, locked the door and turned off the lights.

dum vita est spes est  

I hate charley

I do, I hate charley. That insidious bastard keeps popping up, My brother is now preparing for his battle. He is better prepared and just as anxious to kick charleys ass to the curb.

At least he saw what I had to do and that's helping a bit.  The battle is a personal thing that is not fought alone, but with the support and encouragement of friends, family and care givers.

As he will soon find out, Dr appointments are like seeds in a fertile field, they are going to sprout up everywhere.

But he is not going to be fighting this without a tremendous amount of support, I owe him big time for the support he gave me in my battle and now I get to pay it back.

After much consideration, he has decided the best way to chronical his trail and tribulations is with a blog. 

Visit it as it gets underway

 http://pvadamsupdates.blogspot.com/

charley has once again messed up, bro Paul is a former Marine and I do believe he is going to enjoy this fight, The ass kicking can begin.

Until this battle is won, I am putting my catch phrase on hold,

 Laissez les bon temps roulez will be back until then it's 

dum vita est spes est