medicine

Wine versus wart remover—a confusing antithesis unless you live at LBHQ

Although I didn’t officially label it, yesterday was Day One of my involuntary dry-out. Today is Day Two of darkness, horror, and hopelessness.

When you’re alcohol-less and forlorn, it’s very hard to look outside yourself and find anything of interest. My on-again-off-again girlfriend Dolly pointed this out.

When my mum read yesterday’s post she agreed. She said it was unimaginably self-centered to make a quiz intended for public health all about oneself without providing any additional value to readers. She said I was bad for blogging and worse for addicts seeking actual information.

If I’d had a buzz this would have killed it. I didn’t have one, so I found some wart remover and started sniffing it.

“Do not recommend that to your followers,” my mum said.

“My followers are intelligent. I don’t have to tell them not to inhale wart remover.”

“So why do I need to tell you?”

“You don’t. It’s obviously only something one does when one doesn’t have a good bottle of wine,” I said. “Here, I’ll look it up. That way you don’t have to feel bad about not teaching me previously of the dangers.”

I like the way, right under the warning about that very wide trajectory from headaches to death, there are friendly wart-remover ads. Nice!

Cha-Cha links to related questions too, mostly for the judgment-challenged.

I like knowing that there are other people out there doing the same stupid shit I do—just usually not on purpose.

Wart removers contain salicylates and other acids that, when inhaled copiously, can:

  • arrest breathing
  • irritate the eyes, ears, and throat
  • cause the kidneys to fail
  • give you a rash
  • make you puke
  • make you dizzy, drowsy, convulsive, hyperactive and feverish; and—for those who succeed in gaining nirvana this way—cause hallucinations.

If you present in ER after huffing your Dr. Scholl’s, expect a battery of detox protocols, including intubation. OMG!

Luckily my mum had already used up most of the (no-name) wart remover on a hideous-looking middle-finger wart that had persisted for three years and is threatening to make a comeback. I didn’t have any sort of party on the fumes. I just felt forlorn afterwards.

And that’s my public service announcement for today: Day Two of the Dry-Out. No huffing wart remover. It won’t solve any problems.

20 tell-tale symptoms you’re in an alcoholic abyss

This week my parents announced a drying-out period of indefinite length, initiated (in their case) for budgetary reasons and (in my case) because they are sadists.

Oh, there may have been some financial grounds. Most Canadian families spend 1.8% of their monthly budget on liquor, and my parents see this area as “trimmable.” Obscenely, they want to trim to below 1%. And just to ensure they reach the target, they’re not buying any booze right now. OMG!

After I spent an afternoon fruitlessly tweeting to various booze producers in BC, a very dark sadness came over me. I tried to cheer up by watching Dexter murder somebody, but I was preoccupied. Symptoms were creeping over me.

Holy crap, my fellow inebriates, have you ever tried to dry out before? If the idea fills you with as much horror as it does me, you might want to do this quiz.

Alcohol Withdrawal Quiz

  1. Do you get the shakes?
  2. Do you feel anxious?
  3. Do you feel nervous or jumpy?
  4. Do you get irritated or easily excited?

Maybe it’s just the DTs talking, but these four questions seem to ask the same thing, to which the answer is Yes, damn it. But let’s qualify things. I live in a house where any minute I might get ambushed by kids. They might slap a leash on me or chain me to a bed. They might give me a bath. They might introduce me to the next-door neighbor’s dogs. Liquored-up or not, I live in a state of constant anxiety.

  1. Do you feel depressed or fatigued?
  2. Do you have difficulty thinking clearly?
  3. Do you experience rapid emotional changes?

Yes to all four. But these are drying-out answers, not the usual answers, when everything is in boozy equilibrium. How can anyone be fatigued when they have 18 hours a day to sleep off benders? How can anyone be depressed with a fresh influx of alcohol? As for thinking clearly, did I ever, people? Just read one or two blog posts and you’ll see the answer is no. And yes, damn it, some profound emotional changes might ensue when you cut an animal off from the only thing it ever consumes.

  1. Do you get a headache?
  2. Do your face or hands sweat?
  3. Do you experience nausea or vomiting?
  4. Do you have trouble sleeping?
  5. Do you experience a rapid heart rate?
  6. Does your skin feel clammy?
  7. Are your hands tremulous?
  8. Does your body make involuntary movements?

These questions assume a different physiology from my own peculiar one. Do I get headaches? Sometimes I’m not even aware I have a head. I’m kind of like the tree that falls down in the forest when nobody’s listening. What am I doing when nobody’s around? Probably staring at the wall and/or getting my 18 hours of sleep (with my eyes open, they tell me).

Question 9 did make me curious about whether wild bears are supposed to sweat. Like dogs, they lack sweat glands except on their noses and tongues, so they suffer during the summer, seeking out streams and shady areas, not to mention panting. The more civilized ones pour a gin & tonic, unless their parents have decided to be assholes.

Tenderheart Bear

The family would be very surprised to find bear vomit around the house, although my friend Scarybear insists he leaves his scat out in the garden and that when the kids dig in the flower beds, that’s what they’re handling. I don’t know if Scary’s delusional about this or not, but he also thinks the Earth is reversing its magnetic field this week. Neither of us is clammy unless we get thrown in the toilet, and if I said we had hearts, well, you might equate us with Care Bears and want to exterminate us.

Involuntary movements are the norm at LBHQ. Most of what we bears are involved in is involuntary.

  1. Do you become confused?
  2. Do you have hallucinations?

Ahh, back to the brain. “Become” confused? That would imply having not been confused in the past. So the answer is no.

I have plenty of hallucinations and even get accused of having them when I’m not. I’m hoping Fluffy is a hallucination.

  1. Do you feel like you have a fever?
  2. Do you experience convulsions?

Back to physiology. Anyone with a coat of fur would be feverish in the summer. Next. Convulsions are another story. I have to keep those somewhat contained. If I spent the day going into convulsions my parents might decide I was too unwholesome for the kids.

  1. Do you have blackouts or memory loss?

Wha??

And the results. If you haven’t guessed, you get one point for each yes. Add ’em up and you’ve got your score.

What an awesome score!

And if you got 3 or more, welcome to the Pleasuredome.

Why the world’s first human-to-animal hand transplant hasn’t happened yet

My Fellow Inebriates,

None of the Opposably Thumbed had time (they said) to do my typing yesterday, hence the drunken photos. This got me thinking about hand transplants. Has anyone ever grafted a human hand onto an animal’s wrist? There must be a doctor somewhere out who’s done it.

Jean-Michel Dubernard led the international team of physicians who performed the world’s first hand transplant in September 1998 on New Zealander Clint Hallam, who’d lost his hand years before in a sawing accident. The procedure gained popularity and next thing you know, people all over the world were getting new hands. And although Hallam ended up having his new hand amputated because of rejection issues, other patients have since received successful transplantations.

“The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success.”

—Bruce Feirstein

Who wouldn’t want a face transplant?

My parents do their best not to be superstitious, but when I told my mum I was going to contact Dr. Dubernard about getting me some opposable thumbs, she said I was tempting fate. She said I should have some sensitivity about the seriousness of being without hands instead of pestering professionals who would never respond anyway.

She may be right. For one thing, Dubernard’s probably retired by now. For another, he’s had his share of past controversy. He weathered a shitstorm after it emerged that Clint Hallam was an ex-con who’d lost his hand in prison, and again when he was accused of performing a face transplant without following proper ethical and legal guidelines just because he wanted to be the first dude to do the procedure.

“I am pessimistic about the human race because it is too ingenious for its own good.”

—E.B. White

And would I even fit the criteria?

  • Patients must undergo an evaluation and be approved by a committee. OMG! How would I hold up under such scrutiny? I’ve never even had a job interview.
  • Patients must be 18-65. I’m 6, but in bear years. Maybe they would waive this requirement.
  • Patients must be in good health. OMG! Maybe they won’t look at my liver.
  • Patients must have already amputated their hands below the elbow. OMFG! You mean I have to do this myself? Or get a friend to do it? OMG, who would do it for me? Maybe Scarybear.
  • Patients must understand the risks involved. Well, isn’t that what this post is all about?

A Scarybear face transplant. Who wouldn’t want that?

And what about the donor? I hadn’t really thought about where my new hands might come from.

  • The donor has to be brain-dead.
  • The donor’s family has to give consent. That might be tricky.
  • The donor has to match the recipient’s gender, blood type, and viral status. OMG! Probably species, too, although the criteria don’t say so particularly.

Reading this sort of freaked me out, people. It seems like a pretty drastic way to get myself some thumbs. And then—here’s the part I hadn’t thought about—the hands don’t even work that well anyway! At least not right away. They need to be rehabbed; the recipient has to do physio and take anti-rejection drugs, like, forever, which was poor old Clint’s falling-down—apparently he didn’t keep up with the meds.

“Creative people see Prometheus in a mirror, never Pandora.”

—David Brin

After reading all this stuff, I needed a drink. But nobody would open a bottle. So I tweeted everybody I thought might have booze, thinking that if a new, exotic elixir arrived at LBHQ then my parents would feel compelled to crack it open ASAP.

But apparently the world is a much crueler place than I ever knew.