Cat Scans are incredibly peaceful.

Today started as any other work/prep for work day for me, anxiety over the new job, dealing with film cameras, I've rarely if ever used, and a feeling that I might be in the wrong business. So I got up, got my gear together, took Mr. Cupcakes out for his morning poop, and got on the road to the camera rental house.

As I got to the rental house I had a strange, tingling sensation in my left hand, not in my arm, in my hand. I told the other guys there what was going on. Before I go on I will add that two years ago I thought I had diabetes because my circulation in my hands were bad. I looked up my symptoms on the internet, the best place for any and all medical advice, and that's what they said, or that I would have to have my fingers cut off. Anyway, the day after that discovery I watched three Ingmar Bergman films in a row (these are good films if you want to just eat ice cream and walk around the room). Except that I didn't get through the third film. At the climax I began tasting metal in my mouth and I couldn't breath, so like any red blooded American I jumped in a cold shower, didn't really help because I thought I was dying. It went on for a good solid two minutes of heavy breathing, life evaluating, shower water drinking, will writing panic. I was okay, but the next day I went ot the doctor and he gave me Lexapro (an awful drug) and told me I suffered from depression and General Anxiety Disorder. Now, that you see what thinking of dying or diseases does to me, let's get back to July 26th, 2007.

"Is your speech slurring at all?" Ramon asked me. In my brain, "It could be. Is it? I don't think so, yeah, it probably is." Out of my mouth, "You tell me. I don't think it is." Ramon, "Do you you exercise?" Brain, "I should do better. I don't ever really exercise." My mouth, "Yeah, I play tennis, a little." Brain, "Two weeks ago, today. We are gaining weight by the minute, Ramon."

As the exchange with Ramon goes on I can feel my brain begin to turn on me. Brain, "It's time to hyperventilate, Hugh, it's time to make a fool of yourself, Hugh." I excuse myself from the room, go outside, do some stretches, anything to make the ants stop running over my hands. They don't stop, they get worse, so I go back in the building and sit down at one of the computers. Google this for fun one day, type in "Tingling in left hand" and see what comes up. One of the first pages that I click on a lady says, "If my hand is tingling and I smell burnt toast, does that mean I'm having a stroke?" Brain, "Was that a whiff of Sunbeam you just smelled, Hugh?" Me, "I think it was. Was it?" Now my brain and body go into the whole keep it under control, GET OUT OF HERE! phase of what could be a terribly embarassing moment for all of us, and so I went to the hospital.

In the car on the way to the hospital, I called my wife, because I think if her husband is going to die in a hot car in traffic she should know where he is going, and where the body could possibly be found (Collier Rd. in front of the Mcdonald's). And she told me to stop at the grocery store or the pharmacy and check my blood pressure. Brain, "That's a great idea. That will make you feel a lot better." So, I went in to the pharmacy, sat down at the machine, stuck my arm in and waited for a machine to tell me I'm alright. There is a STOP button on those machines that they tell you to push if you feel faint, I was sure I was going to faint so I kept a finger over the button and just hoped that when I fainted or died that I didn't soil the underoos and ruin everyones day at Eckerd's. This is when things went south, I looked at the numbers on the screen and their corresponding numbers on Above Average, Too High, Perfect, and my blood pressure was in the range of Bobby Knight playing the Blue Devils in the Sahara. Off the charts. I just knew that my heart was going to explode and shoot all over the greeting cards or onto the front stoop of Stooge's bar & Grill. So I bolted, went straight to the car and to the hospital. I tried to sing and make myself feel better, but it didn't really work.

I'm now in the emergency room in front of the velvet rope, the guy that runs the desk, if you tell him your chest hurts or that you have "tingling in left hand", or smell burnt toast, you get in the VIP. The sorry sucker named Daryl that kept introducing himself to everyone and who only wanted a sandwich would have to wait for Neurotic Boy to get out. I got an EKG within six minutes in which a lady put sticky things all over my chest and legs and then hooked up a squid with a computer attached to it to my body. Here is an exchange between she and I. She examines my really hairy chest, her, "These things are going to hurt when I pull them off." Me, "Yeah, I was never really into the shaving my chest thing." Her, "Me, neither." huh? I'm still shaking like Ted Kennedy when she pokes me with the needle to get blood, but after the EKG, it was smooth sailing. "Nothing is wrong with your heart." Phewww. Me, "Alright let's do that cat scan."

The CAT scan machine is set up in a room that needs a waterfall and the "The Blue Danube" playing all the time. The machine looked like I would be put into it and shot out the other side into some foreign land (ala Stargate). So I laid on the table, the techincian boomed me up to about three feet off the ground, he straightened my head out and told me not to move. I closed my eyes and in the silent room, a small, low hum began. I saw the red light pass by my eyes and was very grateful I didn't open them at that point because my curiosity was at it's highest. The noise gradually got louder, and I began to imagine the machine taking my brain apart and putting it back together in all the right places. I was so still and at peace that at one point I thought I was dead, I moved a finger and swallowed to confirm that I wasn't. I focused on the sound and the machine and I got lost. I had no idea how high off the ground I was or what the contraption was doing. I didn't want this to end. I also tried not to think of anything while it was scanning my brain because what if that showed up on the scan, what would that mean? And I think they should invent a faster scanner because at that point my brain was off, completely off, all I could think about was how to take the technology of the CAT scan machine and make a thrill ride you could put in your living room because at some points it felt like I was going at least ten miles an hour floating over a stream.

After the CAT scan was done, I got my papers, was told I may have slept on the arm funny, or that I had Carpel Tunnell, and was told I could go. I walked to my car, not realizing that if you go to the emergency room and drive yourself, you get free valet service, so I parked in a normal deck that you have to pay for, at....the....hospital. I pull up at the ticket booth and I tell the lady that I was in hte ER, she doesn't believe me, and says I owe her four dollars. "Cash or check,"she asks. "Neither," I say. "Here's an envelope you can use to mail the money to us." She hands me the envelope, and I throw it in the backseat. If I had only known about the valet. And why does my throat always feel swollen? And