Some Weeks

 

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Ramblings of a Retired Mind

Some Weeks

In my retired life, the weeks often pass with predictable regularity. A text reminder tells me it’s garbage day, so it must be Tuesday. When I finish brushing my teeth and see my pillbox is empty, I know it’s Sunday—time to refill it again.

Most weeks go by like this: small routines, simple markers of time. Yet each day still brings something new—a fresh idea to write about, a new book to start, or a grandchild who needs a ride home from school.

But the past few weeks? Anything but ordinary. So unusual, in fact, that I sometimes wonder if they really happened.

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The Mini Cooper Incident

It all started about six weeks ago when I decided to clean my beloved Mini Cooper convertible. During the winter, I keep it in the garage with the top down—mostly so I can track where dust, dirt, and stray candy wrappers (thanks to my grandchildren) have settled.

One day, I spotted a wrapper poking out from under the back seat and decided to retrieve it. For reasons that now escape me, I thought it would be smart to stand on the driver’s seat, lean over the back, and lift the bottom of the rear seat. I quickly learned that the back seat of a Mini Cooper does not lift.

Channeling my inner Cirque du Soleil performer, I twisted myself into a position that would have impressed no one—and promptly fell out of the open car door onto the garage floor. My foot caught the seat belt on the way down, adding a bit of flair to my dismount. Naturally, I threw out my hands to break the fall.

The result? My left little finger took the full brunt of the impact.

Relieved that I hadn’t broken a hip, I focused on my throbbing finger, which was already swelling. My wife took one look and said, “It doesn’t look broken. Ice it and see how it is tomorrow.”

I did as instructed—after all, wisdom in marriage begins with the words, “Yes, dear.”

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The Finger Fiasco

By morning, my finger had doubled in size and sported a large hematoma. My wife took one look and sent me straight to the walk-in clinic.

The receptionist asked what happened. When I described my impromptu acrobatic act, she grimaced and said, “Oh yeah, that’s a bad one.”

After X-rays, the doctor informed me that I’d fractured the top part of my finger in two places. He refused to drain the hematoma, citing infection risk, and told me to keep it taped and take ibuprofen.

Two days later, still in pain, I returned for a second opinion—hoping someone would agree to drain it. The second doctor didn’t. I went home with a new prescription for pain meds and an appreciation for just how stubborn swelling can be.

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Three Seconds of Gone

The following week, I headed to Missoula for my annual carotid artery ultrasound. I’ve had some plaque buildup over the years, so my doctors like to keep an eye on things. I’ve been seeing the same technician, Matt, for three years and was perfectly comfortable—until I wasn’t.

As Matt scanned my left artery, I suddenly felt faint. My eyes closed, and for three seconds, my heart stopped. When I came to, I heard Matt calling my name:

“Bob, are you all right? We lost you there.”

Dizzy, confused, and terrified, I asked, “Did I die for three seconds?”

A nurse rushed in, checked my vitals, and had me lie still. As I sat up a few minutes later, I felt a sharp headache on top of my head. Then I heard her say, “Bob, you’re bleeding.”

I looked down and saw a small puddle on the floor—my hematoma had chosen that exact moment to burst. The nurse quickly wrapped my finger and made me lie back down.

The consensus was that too much pressure on the artery had disrupted my heart rhythm, causing my blood pressure to spike and drop rapidly—leading both to my brief blackout and my finger’s dramatic self-draining.

To say it was unsettling would be an understatement.

When I got home, I shared the story with my wife, who immediately announced that I was never going to a doctor’s appointment alone again.

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The Famous Finger

The next day, I met my new primary care doctor—my usual one having taken a year off to work in New Zealand. After reviewing my history and medications, he assured me that aside from a slight murmur, my heart was strong. He believed my episode was just an unfortunate coincidence of pressure and positioning.

“Now, let’s see this famous finger I’ve heard about,” he said with a grin.

I removed the gauze, and he confirmed it would take another couple of weeks to heal. Then he asked, “Have your fingernails always looked like this—flat, with little cracks?”

When I said yes, he ordered blood tests to check for vitamin deficiencies or autoimmune issues. No doctor had ever asked about my fingernails before.

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An Unexpected Discovery

A week later, the results were in. My platelet count was low—apparently not a new development—but what caught my attention was the positive test for dsDNA antibodies, a marker for autoimmune diseases like Lupus or Psoriatic Arthritis.

It was a complete surprise. Then I remembered that my sister has fibromyalgia, and my mother passed away from Crohn’s disease—both autoimmune conditions. My doctor explained that our next step would be a visit to a rheumatologist for a full evaluation.

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Some Thoughts on Time

Since that day, I’ve found myself thinking more about mortality. We all go eventually; no one gets out alive. My thoughts wander to the things I’ll leave undone—a book I meant to read, a story half-finished, a task left waiting.

Some weeks are exciting. Others are uneventful. But as long as the weeks keep coming, I intend to enjoy the ride—no matter how thrilling or mundane.

This is the one life I’ve been blessed with, and I plan to make the most of it.

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Thanks for reading.
If you’ve ever had a week that made you question reality—or just reminded you how fragile (and funny) life can be—I’d love to hear about it in the comments.