Do Cyborgs Dream of Hybrid Sheep?

I was going to go without an image, but here is a hybrid Shaun the sheep for illustrative purposes.

A few days ago our kid woke up from a nightmare where a squirrel bit my wife’s face and we couldn’t help her. I’m sure it was real gruesome. Squirrels are beasts. If mail carriers didn’t exist, those rodents would be our dog’s arch nemeses. (That means, until the mail is stopped due to covid-19, you’re still on the hook, Marlon the Mailman.) My wife took notes and went to the internet to decipher what the squirrel dream may have meant. As she processed the information, I came to the realization that I can no longer recall my own dreams. For real.

I used to have vivid dreams. When I was about my daughter’s age, I had a dream about attending Space Camp. (At one time, I think a trip to Space Camp was a grand prize for completing the obstacle course on the television show Double Dare.) That dream was AWESOME. I escaped earth’s gravitational pull aboard a space shuttle and even went for an emergency space walk to fix an invaluable scientific instrument. It felt so real that as soon as I awoke, I wrote the whole thing down so I wouldn’t forget. Then I threw that piece of paper in the trash because I felt so embarrassed about it. Who writes down their dreams and takes notes like that? I’m not a weirdo. 

In my initial post, I mentioned drifting in and out of reality at the time of the accident. I didn’t share the dreams that accompanied the immediate aftermath, but I had truly bizarre Kafkaesque imagery happening in my brain. Here are some in no particular order:

I’m on a football field. (I’ve never played football except in grade school before school and at recess. Two-hand touch. A first down was achieved by two forward passes in a set of downs.) In this dream the coach is firing up the team and I’m on board. I’m ready to run through a wall to win the big game! Next thing I know, someone is using a stapler to attach a gladiator-like chest plate to my torso. Testosterone!

The accident occurred January 14, so the NFL was in the midst of the playoffs. Also, I woke to a lot of staple holes all over my body from when they were piecing me back together after the surgeries. We even kept some of the staples and they are now adhered to some scrapbook pages. Want to see them?

My wife and I are in the desert. There’s no color. Only black and white. It’s much like an episode of The Twilight Zone. We happen upon a town. It’s empty. As we approach the buildings, I begin to realize that something is off. As I get closer, I observe that the buildings are one-sided structures that are supported by 2x4s, like on the set of an old movie or high school play. A fake facade. A car salesman appears and asks if we are ready to sign the papers for the new car. Why are we buying a car? Ours is nearly brand-new. What’s wrong with ours?

In the real world, the car, which happens to be white, is nearly paid off with barely any mileage. My brain telling me we need a car now because our’s is toast, but that can’t really be true, or can it?

Now, I find myself in a diner. As I squint my eyes looking out the dingy, dust-covered window blinds, I can tell that it is winter outside. The ground is covered in snow and the sky is a dark blue. The sun has already set. I’m sitting at a table with my siblings. There’s a toy train that goes around a track which lines the wall inside the restaurant near the ceiling. No one says a word.

It was winter outside. I like trains. We still don’t say much to each other as a family. 

“Do you believe in God?” a voice asks me. 

“What?” I answer. 

I can’t see anything. It’s not dark or light. It’s a void. I don’t know where the voice is coming from. 

“I said, do you believe in God?” the voice repeats. 

Without hesitation I say, “no, not your God.” 

Yeah, I don’t believe in a deity with a staff wearing a flowing robe looking all Gandalf, sitting upon a throne at the controls pushing buttons and pulling levers as alarms sound and lights flash. A power, yes, but, no, not in our likeness. That's not to say I don't find solace in attending church either, because I do at times. I just have a complicated relationship with religion.

I’m sure I’ve had dreams since the hospital, but I can’t recall any of them. It probably has to do with the traumatic brain injury. Except for events that transpired during the accident, my long term memory is intact, but my short term leaves something to be desired. For instance, I often find myself watching television and I’ll fall into a trance and realize I have no clue what I’ve been watching for the past hour. However, impactful events remain, such as getting married, our daughter’s birth, friendships, etc.

Dreams, for me, are my mind’s free creative entertainment that I never see coming and I’m afraid I never will again. How do I pursue a dream if I never have anymore? Perhaps I am now a replicant. Until next time, stay away from other humans like it is a real game of life and death.

I'm Back, Again.

This clip has very little to do with the text below, but I've read that photos and videos in a blog post help drive up traffic, whatever that means. Anyway, it's a LEGO land shark that our kid built. 

I turned the stimulator on after two weeks because my pain increased and it was making me cranky. Turns out that I do find much needed relief from the device. It’s only been a few minutes since I flipped the switch, but I already feel sensations in my calf and I’m feeling better. I’m hoping the temperature of my leg and foot will rise, because it’s been colder than normal. That’s really all I have for now as far as DRG updates. 

***Continue reading at your own risk***

I changed dispensaries today because I wasn’t satisfied with the selection at the Ottawa location and I traveled to Morris and picked up some kushy Bubba Fett. What can I say? I’m a geek for Mandalorians. I didn’t even have to leave the car, since I’m a medical card patient. Fancy. 

The shelter-in-place order hasn’t changed my routine very much, if at all. I’m still walking daily and I have to say, it’s exciting that there’s nobody around. I like to imagine I’m the lone survivor as I walk around a post-nuclear war torn city with my dog. Obviously, we are talking neutron bomb here, since the buildings are still intact. So not quite A Boy and His Dog, but definitely still on the Fallout side. I so need to find a Brotherhood of Steel suit and take out some raiders occupying a supermarket trying to hoard that tasty Cram. Speaking of, I went to the grocery store this morning for my weekly visit and it seems like things are finally calming down there. This week they had eggs and they erected sneeze guards made of plexiglass in front of the cashiers stations, so that was new. I say we should explore utilizing scuba diver suits, including flippers, next to protect ourselves from the virus.

LEGO World is coming along nicely and I’d like to add that it is badass and nearing completion. It was supposed to take years to finish, but it’s a period of self-isolation and I’m an addict. For real, I learned that I’m prone to addictions when I got the results of my neuropsychological evaluation a couple years ago after the accident. I was also told not to drink, which I’ve cut back on quite a bit.

Screen time is up everywhere and I'm no exception. I purchased a new battery for my phone a couple months ago and I’m already draining the battery at a rapid pace while catching up on current events in realtime. Yesterday, I began reading my third book of the year. I should get back to that. Reading is good. Tonight, I think we will begin watching Tiger King. I met and photographed this exotic cat guy in Lockport in 2014 (below). He brought a tiger cub to a bar and someone called the cops on him. He couldn't understand why. I wonder if this show is similar to genius brains like that? We shall soon see. Until next time. 

P.S. My foot is warm again and the pain has dulled since I began writing this post. Radical!

John Basile, owner of the Big Run Wolf Ranch, plays with a tiger cub inside his kitchen on March 27, 2014. Basile was charged with two misdemeanors for bringing the cub to a Lockport bar on February 16, 2014.

Shutdown

Sorry folks, park's closed.

A week ago before bed on Mario Day (Mar10), I had a thought, what would happen if I turned off my DRG stimulator for a day? So, without much more thought, I did. The following day, I walked the most I've walked since my accident. 7.3 miles to be exact. To be honest, I didn't notice much of a difference. Sure, it was more sensitive and my pain increased, but for the most part I felt good. 

I decided to keep going and at the moment, the stimulator is still off. That's an entire week. I've walked an average of 3.4 miles since I started this experiment. My toes feel like they are in a vice at times and the temperature of the CRPS affected foot is about seven degrees cooler than the 'good' one, but really, I think I could survive without the stimulator, which is good to know in light of the current world we are living in. And if you're interested, with the stimulator off, I'd say on the pain scale that I'm sitting at about a constant three with a little fluctuation.

Since my last post I've pretty much given up thinking about going down to that clinic in Arkansas. In fact, my mole that was relaying information to me from the inside has gone silent. It's been two days since I had my last message delivered and I still haven't had any response. I hope all is well and she didn't have to swallow the cyanide pill. Gulp.

This COVID-19 is something, huh? With the parks now closed, I am walking around the neighborhood more and I can't believe the amount of Fireball that is consumed here in Ottawa, Illinois. I was only joking when I decided I'd start keeping track of how many empty bottles I saw during my daily walks. It's been 70 days and I've found 187 empty bottles of Fireball. I am probably going to hold off collecting more bottles I find, because that would be one of the stupidest things to get sick over. I did wear one of those blue nitrile gloves today while collecting, but I don't want to deplete my supply. Especially when I may have to use the gloves for frontier surgery in the near future since the hospitals will become overcrowded because people are selfish and need to eat at Bob Evans like the governor of West Virginia has decreed.