My girlfriend CJ hosts a pot-luck breakfast and then has Santa show up for a chat with each kid and lots of pictures, but he’s not actually there for breakfast. So I went to pickup Kira yesterday morning to take her to Breakfast with Santa, as I do every year.

But of course – even after discussing it ad nauseam all week AND him shopping the night before for a new holiday outfit – everyone was sound asleep when I got there. Good thing I got there early. Little darling takes her shower (by herself don’tchaknow) and gets ready to go… adding the unfortunate hair accessory of her own free will.

The rest of the photo set are here, or just click the pic above. She had a great time, though there were way too many kids for her comfort. Once a major chunk cleared out she fit right in.

Then we went back to my house. Unfortunately. Ginnie’s fucking son of a bitch piece of shit old fart dog tends to piss all over my house when he doesn’t get outside often enough. Sometimes we find the spots and sometimes we don’t. All of the don’t spots have added up so much so that I can’t sit in the living room any more. Wanda the Witch’s Wonder Nose™ picks up even the slightest odors and she stops being able to breathe. Period.

So Kira and I opted for a nap while (after I was breathless from screaming obscenities at her) Ginnie attempted to clean the living room carpet.

FAIL

So yeah, it’s slightly damp and cool in Arizona this week and that makes it much worse for me. All that and cleaning solvent too! By late evening, even trapped in my bedroom (where the dog isn’t allowed) I can’t control the wheezing. So I made Ginnie take me to the VA hospital before I – you know – died.

When I go into the emergency room anywhere with an asthma attack certain things always happen:

• I always get right in: no triage – no waiting room.
• I always get a breathing treatment immediately.
• Sometimes I’m sent to get chest X-ray, last night they came to me.
• Usually they take blood samples. Sometimes I get an IV for meds.
• Sometimes there is a second or third breathing treatment.
• I almost always leave with prednisone and an antibiotic.

Last night the Doctor (or highest medical on the food chain – nobody tells you who they are) got froggy and ordered an Arterial Blood Gas. Let me tell you, you NEVER want one of those.

First of all, the wonderfully nice but inept nurse butchered my left arm trying to put in the IV before moving to my right wrist – which I HATE because then there’s never any comfortable rest for your hand. Then the respiratory guy (with 15 years experience he’s never had any trouble *rolleyes*) comes down for the ABG from hell. Okay, they have to dig in and find an artery – I get that – but dig is the operative word here. First he tried my left wrist. I tried not to scream too loudly and kept my language non-personal. When that didn’t work he moved to my right arm and I got a little more personal.

I really don’t know if his mother was a bitch or a whore but he certainly was the son of one. And he fucked his mother frequently. So that’s when he gave up and called in reinforcements.

Look, I’m not afraid of needles. On a good day I breeze right through this shit. But as tense as every muscle in my body was after struggling to breathe my blood vessels were apparently just as tense. Oh well.

Reinforcement Tom/Ray/Bob/Some short name popped in and managed to get the ABG out of my arm without too much time or discomfort. I offered to blow him as thanks but he declined. I did tell him to flag my chart so they’d call him if I ever needed to do this again.

By the time it was all over and done I looked like I’d been through a war.