Tuesday, April 15, 2008 Bautista: Rude Awakening By Sam Bautista Tea Leaf Reader
I'M WRITING this piece at home. Not because of some perverted reason to make those left behind in the office share in my suffering but because there really is no other choice.
I woke up Sunday morning at 3 a.m. That's right 3 a.m.! Not because that is the normal time I wake up, in fact it is six hours from the usual.
I woke up in excruciating pain. It felt like someone was cut off my right foot off using a rusty and dull saw before using a pair of pliers to casually yank off those pieces which do not want to follow.
Surely a tiger was able to creep into my bedroom and decided to gnaw on my foot while waiting for me to wake up and then finish me off with its sharp claws and teeth.
Then I popped open my eyes and wonder of wonders, there was no tiger, there was no saw and here were no pliers. But the pain persisted.
Curious I told myself. I drank my medicines and although my foot has been reacting rather strangely for the past weeks, it couldn't be my old nemesis returning to punishing me for my excesses.
But in truth it was my old nemesis -- gout! Out with a vengeance this time because I haven't left this much pain in over three years.
Sure I get the usual tingling and dull throb every now and then but this morning's pain could only be described as an entire US marine contingent attacking my foot with every modern piece of military hardware they could lay their hands on.
A thousand milligrams of mefenamic acid later I was able to go back to sleep, long enough to ease the redness out of the eyes.
Moments before drifting off to sleep, I swore for the umpteenth time never to drink another drop of alcohol or taste another spoonful of papaitan, or sample a bowl of beans -- of whatever color and way of cooking.
This vow I know will last only as long as the pain exists. The moment it has receded to the point I can take measured steps again, the old Sam will be gulping down beer after beer and wolfing down every sumptuous bowl of pig, goat, cow or chicken innards dish I could find as well as spooning down the beans with wanton abandon.
C'est la vie! That's life, or so the French say.
Actually the French kings of old were knew gout very well. It was once called the ailment of the affluent because it is brought about by a combination of too much good food, excellent wine and no exercise.
Much like my life today, except that the food is actually fat laden, salty and high in protein, the wine rough gin made drinkable with copious quantities of water, and … no exercise!
The funny thing about the French kings was that even when their feet were so swollen with gout and their primitive doctors applying salves made from all sorts of nasty stuff, the kings would stay in their luxurious goose-down beds feasting on everything modern age doctors say is the cause of this ailment.
Anyway, when I reawakened some three hours later I still had the spirit of going to the office to work but as soon as my right foot hit the floor boards, I knew there would be no walking for me today much less making the long journey to the office.
So I borrowed a technique I learned from one of my old publishers -- long distance management. A text to three people explained why I won't be in the office, another to ask a man on his day-off to sub for me, still one more to the layout artist so he could start things rolling.
And now, knowing a scheduled columnist might not be up to it -- again -- I'm writing this painful piece. I'll send it via email a little later… thank God for technology, it makes this long-distance management thing plausible.
The true test of course is when I would know whether the things I tried to long distance manage actually did happen.
