LAMSONACARE

Lamsonacare

By:

Charles Lamson

Day 1 (Thursday - March 27, 2014):

I have a pressure sore on my ass. It is infected. I am very sick---septic, they call it. I am a gimp in a wheelchair. I have been partying too much - too many late nights fueled by booze, crack and general all around hard living. But I have fun. Fuck it. What else am I going to do? I am a gimp in a wheelchair. A few of the things I enjoy in this life anymore are getting drugged and liquored up and doing my stupid chemical fueled little chat show on the internet. However, do to my life of debauchery, my show will be on hiatus for a couple months while I lay in bed and wait for my ass to heal. This should be a good opportunity to detox as well. This is a good chance to let my liver go back down to its normal size.

I am admitted to a hospital in St. Louis, Missouri. The hospital is called Missouri Baptist, but everybody around here calls it “Mobap” for short. I am in pretty bad shape. In the emergency room they tell me my white blood cell count is 25 (25 of what? I do not know). Whereas, the normal human has a white blood cell count of 10 to 15. So, immediately they start pumping antibiotics into me, and prepare to admit me into the hospital.

I have lived in St. Charles, Missouri my whole life. St. Charles is a suburb of St. Louis, located right across the Missouri River to the north of St. Louis, but coincidentally, I was actually born in St. Louis in a hospital almost right next door to Missouri Baptist. The name of that hospital is St. John’s. There is a lot of stuff named after saints around here. It is heavy duty Jesuit territory. My name is Charles Thomas Lamson and this story is a chronicle of my magical mystical journey through the healing process.

I have a doctor that I have had since I was a teenager. I am 45 now and the asshole looks younger than I do, but he is an extremely nice guy and knows me quite well, literally inside and out. He comes to visit me in my room at the end of the day, which is cool because I am sure he was working hard all day doing doctor stuff. He tells me he is going out of town for a week, but that his doctor buddies at this hospital would fix me up. And he says he will be by again in the morning to check on me. His name is Dr. David Ban, all around good guy.

So, they start me off on these hardcore intravenous antibiotics to treat the infection. The Doc tells me he is having one of his plastic surgeon buddies come take a look at my ass, to see if they can patch it up.  

My sister is named Kay Meeks. She is my big sister. She is three years older than I am. We are pretty close. After I am settled in my room and all that, she calls me. She tells me she is going to contact a few of my friends on Facebook to let them know where I am at, because the last time I pull something like this, I just vanish without telling anyone, and they get very worried.

A few years back, I break my leg, and do not tell any of my friends because I am horrible at remembering phone numbers, unless they are the easy kind to remember---with repeating digits and whatnot.

Day 2 (Friday - March 28, 2014):

Doctor Ban, as true to his word, visits me this morning and once again reminds me he is going away for a week, but he reassures me they are going to surgically patch up my ass. However, first the plan is to get the nasty infection under control. He assures me that his friends and associates will be checking in on me throughout the week to make sure I am doing okay.

My mom brings me to the emergency room on day one. She visits me today on day two. I tell her I am a little concerned about not being able to contact my friends, because they might think I just kind of disappeared again and get worried about what happened to me. One time I did that, and they literally called all the hospitals in the area until they found me, and surprised me with a call. My rationale was I probably was not going to be in the hospital that long, so it was not even worth the time to let them know where I was.

But I digress. My point is, my mom said she left a post on Facebook, as did my sister. She said she was contacted by Robb Revere, asking for the number I could be reached at. Robb Revere is the owner of Revere Radio Network---one of the radio stations my show is on. He is a cool guy. Coincidentally, while my mom is telling me this, I get a call on my room phone, and it is Revere just sending his best wishes. That is pretty cool. It lifts my spirits somewhat just knowing I have a listening audience that gives a damn.

That night I get three more calls from my three friends Tony, Tom and Keith. Tom gets my sister’s message on Facebook and calls me. He tells Tony and Keith and they call as well. This also lifts my spirits.

I am in a lot of pain. Due to my disability, I get a lot of weird pain and muscle spasms in my lower body. Usually the only thing that alleviates it at home is just simply getting out of bed and moving around, having some coffee and tylenol, and of course, booze and weed always helps.

The conundrum is, the more I stay in bed, the more my muscles lock up and tighten up, the muscle spasms increase. With this sore on my ass, I am to be on bedrest for six to eight weeks. This will be fun. Plus, due to the pain and the infection, my blood pressure is through the roof, which is even more troubling, because my blood pressure is usually low. This worries me and the nurses. Tomorrow, I plan to ask the doctor for some medication to alleviate this somewhat.

The doctor gives the go-ahead to let physical-therapy get me out of bed for a half-hour at a time. I think it is a little premature because I am still very weak from infection, and the sore on my ass hurts like hell, but I am a tough bastard, so I do it. The transfer from the bed to my chair is difficult and cumbersome, because I am so physically fucked up and I am hooked up to IV tubes and pee tubes, and I am wearing a crappy gown that keeps catching on stuff. It hurts like hell sitting on my asswound, but I can bear it for a half hour. Despite the pain, it feels good to be out of bed and sitting up.

We then take a stroll through the halls. One of the therapists follows, pushing my IV pole. Once again, despite the pain, it does wonders for both my physical and mental well-being, just to be up and moving around, and taking a stroll through the hallways---if only for a half-hour.

Day 3 (Saturday - March 29, 2014):

I still have a lot of pain and spasms and crazy high blood pressure, but I am starting to feel a little less sick. I guess all the antibiotics they are pumping into me are starting to work.

I meet the lady who is filling in for Doctor Ban.  Though somewhat older, she is a cute little

Asian-American lady with a pleasant personality and smile. I do not remember her name. I am still sick. I tell her of my concerns, so she prescribes ativan, baclofen and vicodin. I am not quite sure what the ativan or xanax or whatever it is, is about. I guess, she thinks the high blood pressure has something to do with anxiety, and maybe she is right. The cocktail does seem to bring my blood pressure down, and it is kind of a mellow buzz, so fuck it. I am not complaining. Regardless, the medicine seems to help.

I meet the surgeon who is to work on my ass today too. She also is a middle-aged lady, but also rather cute in her own kind of weird and quirky way. Her name is Dr. Tadjalli. She has a very faint accent. I think she might be Israeli or something. I like her. She seems very nice, but also a little weird and eccentric, in a funny and cute kind of way, like a lot of uber-intelligent people seem to be. It is almost like her brain is working too fast for her to get out of her mouth what she wants to say. So she kind of pauses a lot and stares into space, while she is thinking of the next thing she wants to say.

However, she gives me good news. She says she is going to operate on my ass on Monday. She says it will be a two-step procedure. She says the first step will be to simply go in and cut all the infected tissue out of there. I think they call that a debridement, I guess. I do not know. It is some kind of fancy doctor word. She says the second part will be to close up the wound with what they call a “skin flap.” That is where they take a piece of skin from one part of your body and put it over the wounded area. From what Doctor Ban tells me, I think I wait weeks before they even think about closing it up, so they get the infection under control first. So, I am happy and excited by this news.

Day 4 (Sunday - March 30, 2014):

I am depressed. I should know by now not to believe fucking doctors. Doctor Tadjalli, the plastic-surgeon, comes by today. She changes her mind. She says she is still doing the first part of the surgery. She is going to cut out all the infected stuff, but she is not doing the second part. She is not closing it up with a skin-flap.

She tells me it is because I smoke, and with my crazy and wacky lifestyle, it is not conducive to the success of the surgery. This is bullshit!

The best I can tell, she does not want to do it because I am on Medicaid, or higher-ups give her the orders. I have run into this before, in the past, with doctors and surgeons. They tell me all these great medical procedures they are going to do for me, and then never do it. They just keep setting up appointments, and literally make you wait for years, waiting for you to die, or just keep putting it off until you end up half dead somewhere, where there is another more charitable-minded surgeon willing to take up the case.

What bothers me the most is the dishonesty. If you are not going to do the procedure, do not tell me you are going to do it, or make up bullshit reasons why you are not doing it. Do not blow smoke up my ass. Do not piss down my back and tell me it is raining.

At least she still does the first part tomorrow. She says she cuts all the infected stuff out of there, then puts a wound vac on it, which speeds up the healing process of the open wound.

As the day goes on, I am less depressed, because I hear good things about this “wound-vac.” It really does speed up healing. I know from past experience, that even if I do get the skin flap, I still have to lay in bed for six to eight weeks while the new skin heals, and takes hold, before I can actually sit on it. But with the wound-vac, it is basically the same time frame. I still have to stay in bed for six to eight weeks. So it is about the same.

At least Dr. Tadjalli goes right to work tomorrow, and they put a wound-vac on it. I went through this process before. They literally left me hanging for a year and a half. They kept promising they would do surgery or put a wound-vac on it, but never did.

So I stay in bed and have an open wound for a year and a half, until it gets infected, and I end up almost not alive from infection. By mixture of coincidence and by matter of necessity, I go to a different hospital close to home.

The name of this hospital is Saint Joseph’s. They take pity on me. They treat the infection. Here, I meet a more philanthropic and compassionate plastic surgeon, who without hesitation closes up the wound for me. To this day, it holds just fine. No problems there whatsoever. The sore I have now is on a different part of my ass.

But this is why I know Tadjalli is blowing smoke up my ass about her reasons for not closing it up. I suspect it is insurance reasons. Missouri Baptist is more of a high-end type hospital. I suspect the administration does not want to pay for some Medicaid loser to lay around there for six to eight weeks to heal, when they can just patch me up, stabilize me and send me to a more long term type place that is more non for profit and conducive to people on Medicaid, like St. Joseph’s Hospital.

But like I say, at least they go right to work and do something. They are actually planning for my next place to go to---the more long term place---which is a lot more than they do in the past. Here, they basically just treat the infection and let me go home with an open wound, not using a wound-vac, just so I end up half dead with infection.

Day 5 (Monday - March 31, 2014):

Today is surgery day. I know I have a long period of bed-rest ahead of me, so to keep my upper body strength while laying in bed, on Friday, my mom brings weights from home. I work out with these from bed throughout the weekend. This helps not only my physical strength. It also helps my mood a lot. Because even working out from bed, it feels like I do something. It feels good to work my muscles. It feels good to get my blood pumping. It feels good to get my mind off all the bullshit and just focus on the rhythmic motion of the pumping of the weight. It feels good to release the endorphins whilst working out, even from bed---endorphins released by physical exertion. These endorphins are nature’s antidepressants.

I have a long wait. Surgery is scheduled for two PM, which sucks, because I cannot eat or drink anything since twelve AM in the morning up until the surgery. It is something to do with the anesthesia. I guess they do not want you to puke, or whatever, while you have that weird tube down your throat.

Later that day:

There is unexpected good news. They call me down to surgery at 10:30 AM, which is good, because I do not have to wait around all day to get it done.

They take me down to pre-op. Tadjalli pops her head in to say hi before surgery. I am rather shocked by how different her personality is in the operating area. She is happy and excited and animated - almost jubilant. I guess she really loves her job. She is in her realm.

I find a lot of surgeons are like that. They are kind of mellow and subdued outside the operating room, but in the OR, they are like giddy school girls. They cannot wait to start cutting on people. To each his own I guess.

They come into pre-op and shoot me up with some nice relaxing dope. Then they wheel me into the OR, and put me to sleep. I wake up an hour or so later, and they shoot me up with more good dope for the pain. Finally, they wheel me up to my room in my bed. Viola! The surgery is complete.

To my surprise, my aunt Kay, my mom’s sister, is there in my room waiting with my mom. They are very close. I think she came more to support my mom, but that is cool. I like my aunt Kay. it is good to see her.

They tell me tomorrow, the GI guy is consulting me to see about giving me a colostomy bag. Everyone seems to think this is a good idea since I have problems with skin breakdown on my ass the last four or five years, and being incontinent, sitting in shit is very bad for skin breakdown.

By the way I feel the difference immediately from the surgery. Its like she cut a huge chunk of evil matter out of my ass. Right away, I notice there is less pain even after surgery and I even physically feel better.

Day 6 (Tuesday - April 1, 2014):

I meet another full of shit dick doctor today. He is an asshole. He is the dickhead GI doctor who is supposed to give me the colostomy surgery, but he says he cannot do it for some bullshit reason. He says it is more trouble than it is worth, which is bullshit. Even the other doctors try to talk him into it. It is a simple procedure.

Once again he just does not want to do it because I am on Medicaid and he knows I am not there long. So he stalls until I am shipped off to the other place, and then it becomes somebody else’s problem.

I cope with the stress of dealing with these lying assholes with the aid of this cool therapy channel I discover on the hospital TV in my room. It is very soothing. It is nothing but ocean vistas, mountains and streams and nature and stuff. It is cool. This channel is all I watch the whole time I am here. It helps take my mind off the shit-storm going on around me.

I have an idea to make a movie of my whole hospital stay while I am laid up. I figure this will keep me busy and may even be kind of fun and therapeutic for me while I am healing. So my mom says she will pick up a camera for me. The idea of Lamsonacare the movie is born.

Day 7 (Wednesday - April 2, 2014):`

I lay around healing. I wake up. I have breakfast. I read some cheesy sci-fi novel. The name of the book is The Retrieval Artist. The Retrieval Artist is a book about these detectives who solve crime and live in domes on the moon. It is good. I like it.

I spend a lot of time lifting weights in bed. I watch that therapy channel non-stop with the oceans and rivers and mountains and soft jazz. I find it soothing.

Another asshole doctor comes by today. He pisses me off. He is a motherfucker. They are starting to consider a more long-term place to send me. So this asshole doctor, an infectious disease person, tells me, “You’re going to a nursing home.” He is a grade-A asshole. This motherfucker looks like fucking Orville Reddenbacher---stupid fucking bow tie, glasses, fucked up curly hair, and all.

He asks me, “Have you ever been to a nursing home?” Now I am pissed off, because I have let cocksuckers like him talk me into going to one of those shithole nursing homes in the past. I am on Medicaid, so of course it was some shithole state-run nursing home. Those places are two notches below prison. They take in the shittiest of the shit as their “patients.” It is a refuge for elderly hobos and fucking degenerates. The name of this shithole they sent me to in the past is Rancho Manor. It is located in Hazlewood Missouri - a suburb of St. Louis.

I get absolutely no physical therapy at this place. A lot of days they do not even get me out of bed. So, I have to yell at the administration to even get help out of bed, so I can do therapy on my own. Because it turns out being on Medicaid, I am not even allowed in their therapy room for legal insurance-type reasons. Only people with Medicare get therapy, and this was the only reason I went there in the first place, to get therapy and build up my strength after a long illness, so I could go back home. They totally fuckin lied to me to get me in there.

At the hospital, they did treat my infection and closed up my wound, but they did not want to keep me there any longer, so that I could actually get physical therapy, and build up my strength enough, so I could get in and out of bed on my own; so I could go back home. So they totally fucking lied to me, and sold me on the fact that this Rancho Manor place was some sort of physical therapy Shangri La, where their staff of happy hardworking physical therapists were going to whip me into shape, and help me build up my strength, so I could go back home, which, once again, was total bullshit.

On the days they actually did help me get out of bed. I had to do all my own therapy, which was not that big of a deal because even though I am a gimp in a wheelchair, I have always been kind of religious about lifting weights. So I knew what I had to do to build up strength, but I was lucky. Many people do not have that knowledge.

I did not see a fucking therapist the whole time I was there. Mom brought weights from home. So I basically worked out every day and did laps around that place in my wheelchair. And when my mom showed up she would assist me doing transfers in and out of bed, over and over again, just to get the form down.

So after about five weeks, no thanks at all to those cocksuckers, I was strong enough to go back home. And this is where shit gets even weirder. I live by myself so the agreement with these assholes was I would stay there long enough to get strong enough to be able to do my own transfers in and out of bed without assistance, which, like I said, after five weeks, this goal was achieved.

The first roommate I had there was okay. He was a stroke victim so he basically spent all day and night in bed. Needless to say, he also got absolutely no fuckin therapy whatsoever. But when I got stronger and more active they decided it was time for me to go to the wing where the more high-functioning people were.

So they roomed me up with this fucking pervy asshole with a head injury. The guy wanted to fuck me. The last night he got really pervy and gave it a pretty good try. Thankfully, I got through that night with my asshole intact but I sure as fuck slept with one eye open that night. And to top things off people were stealing shit from me the whole time, left and right. They stole stupid shit; my clothes, hats, socks, whatever was not nailed down.

Fortunately, by that point, I had built up my strength enough to transfer in and out of bed by myself, unassisted. So I told myself, “This is the last night I spend here.” So I ran it by the doctor. He was cool with it. I ran it by the head nurse and she was cool with it. I ran it by the administration, the people who actually ran the business, and they were complete and utter fucking dicks.

I remember that fucking cunt lady laughing at me condescendingly and telling me “Oh no! You can’t just leave. There’s a process we go through. All this paperwork,” or some shit like that.

And I was like, “Bulllshit! The doctor said I could go. The head nurse said I could go. I’m not staying here another night.” All my stuff was already packed and my ride was already there.

She just laughed some more in her cunty and smarmy way, like she was dealing with just another brain damaged mental defective or dementia patient she was used to dealing with. That cunt. When she tried to protest some more in her cunty, haughty and arrogant way, I just said “I’m not staying here another night. People are stealing from me. Its not safe, and the guy you roomed me up with is wanting to make me his bitch.”

She just laughed some more like I was fucked in the head and it was all some funny joke. But that was it. I was out of there. If there is one good thing I can say about that hellhole, it is that it was so fucking horrible, it definitely inspired me to train and get strong, so that I could get the fuck out of there as soon as fucking possible.

So this is why I start working out with weights from bed on my own almost since day one in this hospital stay, because in my experience if you are going to spend a prolonged period of time in bed in a long hospital stay, and you are waiting on therapists to come by and build up your strength, or maintain your strength, while you are laying in bed, you just might end up in a state-run nursing home, getting fucked in the ass by your pervy brain-damaged roommate.

So this brings us back to Dr. Orville Reddenbacher Shitfuck Asshole. First off, when he says I will probably go to a nursing home. It is totally not even his decision. He does not make that call. He is just saying this to fuck with me---to fuck up my day, just to be an asshole. In my experience, some people are just like this. They enjoy saying ignorant shit to people, just to be mean.

So then when Doctor Orville Reddenfucker follows this up with, “Have you ever been to a nursing home, Mr. Lamson?” I am pissed.

I say “Yeah I have. I let assholes like you talk me into going into Rancho Manor. It was a fuckin’ shithole. Those places are unsafe. They don’t make you better. I know you’re going to try to sell it like its some great place, but the fact is I’m on Medcaid, so it’ll be some state run shithole, that’s two notches below below prison and three notches below a fuckin nut ward.”

When he tries to say something else, I cut him off. “I’m not going to a fucking nursing home! I’ll go home first, and take my chances.”

So he says, “You may not be able to get a wound-vac at home.”

So I say, “I don’t give a shit! I’ll rip this fucking thing off right now, and go home, and take my chances, before I go to one of those shitholes. Its not worth getting raped.”

Doctor Orville Shitfuck lea

Day 8 (Thursday - April 3, 2014):

I feel a lot better today than I did last Thursday, which is when I am admitted into this hospital. The therapists come by. The doctor says it is okay for me to sit in my chair for a half hour at a time. So, they help me transfer into my chair, which goes pretty smooth this time, because I feel a lot stronger, and I am now used to this bed. By this, I mean I am now familiar with what rails and stuff to grab to help me sit up and transfer and the weird way this air cushion gives. My mattress at home is a lot harder. So I transfer pretty much unassisted today. The therapists are happy.

My ass hurts but it feels good to sit up and be out of bed and to take a stroll through the halls, just to get out of the room for awhile and get out of my head.

The social worker comes by and tells me they are trying to find a longer term care facility for me to go to. I raise concern about my contempt for state-run nursing homes. She assures me these longer term facilities are basically like hospitals, they are just for longer term patients. She says there are two such facilities in the St. Louis area and they may be all full. So, they might not even take me, but she says she will talk to them and we will see what happens. One of the places is called Kindred, the other is called Select. These are great names.

The pain and spasms and muscle stiffness and tightness are making me very grouchy today. So I am already pretty irritable when Dr. Orville Shittenfucker comes in my room. He can see I am not in a good mood. I tell him to leave me alone. I need to be left alone. He leaves. When I suffer, I hate people standing there watching me like it is some sort of fucked up show, Especially, Doctor Asshole.

So after I kind of straighten myself out, I watch the therapy channel, I take some drugs. I fall asleep.

Day 9 (Friday - April 4, 2014):

My mom brings me this very cool new Sony camcorder to make my Lamsonacare movie with. It is very cool. I like it. It takes me awhile to learn how to use it, but I finally figure out at least how to record with it. I record my first little installment of Lamsonacare, the movie, which, by the way, the reader can see on Youtube. Just look up Lamsonacare or Charles Lamson on Youtube.

A lady comes to my room. She is a representative of one of these long-term care facilities the social worker tells me about yesterday. This lady represents a place called Kindred, and says they have a bed there for me, if I am interested. I am. She says it is is like a little hospital inside a hospital. Apparently, they have their own little wing of a hospital called St. John’s. This is coincidental in two ways. First, the hospital is located almost right next door to Missouri Baptist, which is where I am at right now. Second, St. John’s is actually where I was born---where young baby Lamson came into the world.

So I am thinking for this Lamsonacare movie I am making about my stay in the hospital, this could be a whole full circle ironic twist kind of thing. So I tell her okay I will go to this place. I am supposed to be taken there tomorrow via ambulance since I am stuck in this bed until my ass wound is healed.

The therapists come by to get me out of bed again. Right about the same time another lady shows up just as I get up into my chair. She is very attractive. It turns out she is also a representative of one of these long term care type facilities---the place called Select. I ask her if she did not hear I am already going to that Kindred place at St. John’s, but she says it is my choice.

So we talk, and it turns out this Select place is located inside St. Joseph’s Hospital. St. Joseph’s is in St. Charles, right down the road from where I live. All my friends and family are from St. Charles. So I figure this is great. It is alot more convenient. I can even just take the bus home, when I am released. Plus, I am already familiar with the staff and stuff. I have been to this place before. So, I decide to go there. I go there tomorrow.

The therapists are waiting there the whole time while we have our little chat. The Select representative lady leaves. On with the fucking physical therapy! I take a stroll through the hallways again. It is very refreshing. I am feeling good about all this. I am in a good mood.

To make matters better, since I was hurting and so miserable yesterday, they adjust my medication. so not only am I feeling less pain now, but I also have a pleasant and laid-back buzz going on. I am not even that disturbed when I see Doctor Orville Buttfucker come into my room. He is actually being nice. He asks me if I am having a better day, because the day before I was miserable and grouchy and told him to leave me alone as soon as he enters my room.

He goes on to tell me they are sending me to a longer term care facility tomorrow and I tell him I know, that I have already talked to the social worker and the different reps about it already. I cannot believe how nice Doctor O.R. is being today. I find it is that way a lot of times with asshole bully types. If you act like a fucking asshole toward them, they tend to actually be nice.

I guess because he knows how I feel about going to a nursing home, he starts very nicely explaining to me the difference between going to a nursing home and one of these long term care facilities. I let him know I know the difference, and that I am cool with going to this Select place. We are actually being civil to each other.

Doctor O keeps being pleasant as he goes on to explain how he viewed the CAT scans of my lower body. Suffice it to say, for a crippled guy, I have been around a lot, and done a lot of stuff. I  put my body through a lot of shit. I live hard. There is a lot of damage down there---broken legs, broken hip, steel rod in my right femur.

So he starts to lecture me, but in a nice way. He basically concludes the lecture by saying, “You can probably stick around a while longer (by this, I assume he means staying in the land of the living), but you have to make some changes. You’re not 25 anymore.”

He then tells me before I go to this new place, since I’m on antibiotics for an extended period of time, until April 23rd, I have to have a pick line put in, which is basically an industrial IV from hell. It is a whole surgical procedure where they take this catheter and insert it surgically under your clavicle and then thread it in up this huge vein in your neck.

I have had the process done before, and the assholes like to tell you it does not hurt at all. You do not even have to be put to sleep. All they need is local anaesthetic and you do not feel a thing. All of this is bullshit, of course. It hurts like hell, and you can feel the creepy sensation of this tube going up the main artery in your neck.

So they take me down to another floor to do this procedure and I voice my concerns to the doctor. I ask him if there is any way I can get some sort of sedation for the procedure. He says yes, but since I had already eaten and stuff that day, we reschedule for tomorrow, but I cannot eat or drink anything after midnight.

So I go back to my room. I eat dinner. I read. I watch the therapy channel. I get doped up. I go to sleep.

Day 10 (Saturday - April 5, 2014):

They take me down to get that pickline installed. They shoot me up full of good dope. I do not fall asleep during the procedure. However, I am so high, I do not really give a shit what is going on. I am so high, I actually enjoy the procedure. I am disappointed when it is over.  

I go back to my room and wait for the ambulance to take me to Select at St. Joseph’s Hospital in St. Charles, Missouri. I shoot my second little installment of Lamsonacare. I am still learning how to work this new camera. I have lunch. I read. I watch the therapy channel. I wait. While I wait, the wound people take off my wound-vac, because it is a whole system with an electric pump and everything, and St. Joseph’s has their own. So, they put on a regular bandage in preparation for my trip over there.

About three in the afternoon, the EMTs arrive. They load me up into the ambulance. We take a trip to St. Charles, Missouri---St. Joseph’s hospital. This is my new home. Yay!

We arrive at St. Joseph’s. They take me to my new room. The people here seem nice. The tech guy is named Greg. I forget the nurse’s name. Right away though, I like Greg. He seems like a pleasant guy.

After I get settled in, they start the intake process, which means they ask me millions of questions about my medical history. However, aside from the obvious cripple guy issues and the infections, I do not have any health problems. So the monotonous part comes when they start asking me about diabetes, heart conditions,  allergies, blah blah blah, and I just have to keep answering, “No no no no no no no…” You get the picture.

So after that shit, I take out my camera to record another installment of Lamsonacare.  This episode is a short one. I spend so much time learning how to use the camera, I already fill up the memory card, and the only way to free up some memory, unless I want to delete it, is to import these files to a computer, which I do not have in the hospital with me.

So, I call Mom and ask her to bring her laptop so I can keep this Lamsonacare money machine rolling. She comes up with a better idea. Since I am not blowing money while I am in the hospital, we decide to take some money out of my account and get the cheapest laptop we can find that I can play with while I am in the hospital. But I also need the computer to operate the editing software that comes with the camera. So, it looks like I have to put the filming of Lamsonacare on hiatus for a couple days.

I take time to scan the TV channels at this new place to see if they have that soothing therapy channel that they had at Missouri Baptist. They do not. The closest thing I can find as far as soothing quality goes is this channel where they show a live shot of the hospital chapel twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week. This is a Catholic hospital. So, I guess the more devout patients like to turn on this channel while they pray. I guess this is the purpose of this channel, because the chapel is always empty. Aside from a few stragglers coming in to pray, there is never anyone in there. I guess that is why I find it soothing. The silence and all the religious symbols have a calming effect. Even though I am not a religious guy, I appreciate things that are soothing and calming, especially in times like this. Plus, I figure the more soothed and calm I am, the more it aids the healing process.

Day 11 (Sunday - April 6, 2014):

Nothing happens today. I lay around. I relax. I read my sci-fi book about detectives that solve crime on the moon. I order eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, cottage cheese, milk and an apple for breakfast. This is the same thing I order every morning. They say protein is good for the healing of the wound. I take drugs, a sweet xanax and vicodin cocktail.

My sister visits. She is busy with a new job. So, this is the first time she visits me since I am hospitalized. It is a fun visit. We both have the same fucked up sense of humor, so we both have a few laughs making fun of stuff. Then my mom shows up, surprising us both. We have a nice family visit.

I am annoyed that I cannot film my stupid movie for a few days while I wait to get a computer in here to work with my camera. Technical problems. What can you do? So I keep myself occupied going back and forth between dozing and reading all day.

I order a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, fries, cottage cheese, milk, an apple  and a protein-enriched nutritional supplement drink for lunch. I order the same for dinner. I kill the rest of the day lifting weights from bed, doing drugs, dozing and reading, until I fall asleep for the night.

Day 12 (Monday - April 7, 2014):

Once again, at this new place, thanks to my history as a dirty filthy disease carrier who has had MRSA in the past, I get my own private room with a bed right by the window. It is not the best view in the world. It is just a view of the roof of another building. But it is a window and the light shines in and I can stare out and look at the sky, which I often do.

Mom comes by with a big surprise. She got me a new laptop. It is pretty cool, but since it is a Google Chrome Book, it cannot help me for my purposes. It will not let me download the stuff to import files and edit with this new camera. So mom says she will get a Windows operating system to install on this laptop. Another day of no filming of Lamsonacare. Oh well. I figure there will be plenty of time to get footage for this groundbreaking documentary.

Two therapists come by. They come to get me out of bed and into my chair for a limited amount of time.

My mom brings electric clippers from home the day before. I shave my beard.

So after I am done shaving, it is time for me to get back into bed, because I am only allowed to sit up for a half hour at a time.

Right after the shaving, St. Joseph’s wound doctor and her two nurse assistants come to check out my wound.

The two therapists are still there. They stay because they want to see what the doctor’s recommendation  will be regarding my physical and occupational therapy. They actually argue a little with her because standing orders from Missouri Baptist say I can get in my chair for a half hour at a time, but Doctor DaValle says, “No.” She wants me to completely stay off my ass wound, which I do not have a problem with, because I actually was a little skeptical of letting  therapy get me up on my asswound so soon after surgery. In my experience, the only way to heal these pressure sores is to completely stay off them until they heal.

My main attending physician who is overseeing my case comes in to see me. Her name is Doctor Latha Myla. She is a very nice, pretty little Indian lady. She is very pleasant. She is always smiling and always seems genuinely pleased to see me. I have met her before in a previous stay here. She is a nice lady and a good doctor. She seems to actually care. I am proud to have her as a member of the Lamsonacare team.

My infectious disease specialist doctor at this new place pays me a visit. Right away, I like this guy way better than Doctor Orville Assenfucker. This new guy is named Doctor Young. He is a very pleasant guy with twinkly eyes and a nice smile. He also seems to actually like and care about his patients, which is refreshing after some of the fucking self-righteous, snobby asshole doctors I have dealt with. I am pleased to also have Doctor Young as part of the Lamsonacare team of medical professionals.

Overall, I am impressed with the whole Lamsonacare team I have met today. They all seem to be caring, compassionate, conscientious and competent healthcare professionals. It has been a good day. I get doped up and drift off to sleep in a pleasant drug-induced haze.

Day 13 (Tuesday - April 8, 2014):

I wake up. I order breakfast. I read until it comes. I eat my eggs, bacon, sausage and toast. I drink my milk. I read my sci-fi novel.

My mom comes by with what she thinks is a Windows OS, but it is actually Microsoft Office, which even though I cannot use on my Chromebook---because it does not have a Windows OS---it is not a total loss. It is a good program to have---for my purposes---for my desktop at home. She says again she will bring by a Windows OS tomorrow. Once again, I need a Windows OS for my new Sony camcorder so I can download the proper editing software, and so I can import files from the camera so I can free up memory, because my memory card on the camera is full.

I am no computer genius, but I am starting to suspect that this Chromebook is so simplistic that it is really not meant for this kind of thing. I am even starting to think from all the messing around I have done with this, that Chromebook is not even meant for a Windows OS.

But still, I like the Chromebook. It is good for all the fun stuff like this word processing program, for example, and Facebook and Youtube and e-mail and browsing and stuff like that. You just cannot download a lot of stuff, except for their specially approved apps, a lot of which are actually pretty cool.

But anyway, this gives me the idea that even without the camera, I can still keep filming Lamsonacare, using Youtube. Then when my little journey is over, I can have a series of Lamsonacare episodes on Youtube and put all the footage together, then edit it down into a two or three hour documentary.

So, not much goes on for the rest of the day. I order the same thing for lunch and dinner. I order a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, fries, cottage cheese, milk and my protein supplement drink. This stuff is called Juven. It is supposed to be great for healing wounds.

I spend the rest of the night reading and thinking up ideas for my Lamsonacare movie. I take a vicodin and xanax cocktail and fall asleep.

Later that day:

So, I start to feel better. It was the day from hell. Once again, this is Lamsonacare, One Gimp’s journey through the fucking healing process. So, I decide I have to film the good with the bad. Without these bad parts mixed in what good is it? You must have the drama, the passion, the love, the loss, the sorrow, the redemption. Blah blah blah.

It is kind of  funny. I was talking to Rob from Jersey---a fan of my radio show--- and he was watching my clip from yesterday, and he tells me I am like the Les Straub of hospitals. Although Les Straub always says it is important in survival situations to get a fire going. In survival situations, a good fire always lifts your spirits. However I recommend not to try this in the hospital. I did, and the staff got very upset with me. So I say, “What’s wrong with you guys? Don’t you watch Survivorman? I’m in a survival situation! I was just trying to lift my spirits!” So I am promptly escorted to the psych ward. Fucking fascists!

Day 16 (Friday - April 11, 2014):

I return from the psych-ward.

Man, this is stupid. Another day in the fucking hospital. I look like shit. My teeth look horrible. My mouth tastes like shit. My nose looks crooked. Lamsonacare---one gimp’s journey through the healing process. I am Charles Lamson. Coming at you, from a shitty fucking hospital!

I have a white pillow, a blue mattress and a yellow and green hospital gown.

Holy shit! I look pale. I look like fucking Dracula! Man, I just lost all skin color. All that aside, I am feeling a lot better than I did last night.

I do this surgery in a couple hours. So that is fun. Sarcasm aside, it might actually be fun, because they usually get me very high first with this drug. So that is always pretty kick-ass. Then, they knock me out. Then they do surgery. Then I wake up. Then I am in pain. Then they give me good drugs for the pain. It is a party. I look forward to this.

So, they are preparing me for surgery. They give me two bottles. It tastes like lemon-flavored shit, or like deer urine. I was in a bad state yesterday. I shit a lot. I puke a lot. It also induces vomiting, so I puke and shit all day long.

Day 17 (Saturday - April 12, 2014):

Roughly four weeks left. I am in a hospital bed right down the street from my apartment. It is about a ten minute ride through town.

My homies call earlier.

I just want to point out I got a call from Beebopskeebop from Florida yesterday. He is a regular listener to my talkshow on www.revereradionetwork.com. He seems like a cool guy. The name of the show is The Rant. It is a global broadcast, twenty-five million listeners worldwide. The show broadcasts Monday through Friiday from two to four Central Time. I do another radio show Sunday evening on www.flagshipradio.com, five to seven PM Central. It is called The Lamson Experiment.

Later That Day:

I have the colostomy surgery. I am now a transhuman cyborg that shits in a bag. Yesterday, after surgery, they put me on a liquid diet. I have not eaten in three days. I am famished. The beef broth is fantastic, and the jello is marvelous. After three days without food, it tastes good.

Well now I get to move on to solid liquids. God knows what kind of Orwellian double-speak diet that is.

By the way, I have an awesome room all to myself, with a great view of the sunrise. There are some pretty kick-ass views though from this hospital. It is right on the Missouri River.

They are making me stay in bed. For awhile, they were saying it was okay to get up a little. But now, they are saying no, those bastards.

St. Joseph’s is a Catholic hospital so there is a lot of religious symbolism and crosses and shit on the wall. Whatever works, right?

I would like to point out, The name of the show and book/manifesto is Lamsonacare, collectively. I was being sarcastic whilst naming the show. This is neither meant to be an indictment of, or pro, any kind of stupid healtcare system. This is just one Gimpy-American’s journey through the magical and mystical healing process.`

Day 18 (Sunday - April 13, 2014):

Another day of Lamsonacare. My wound-vac is beeping. Day eighteen in the hospital. They have discontinued my antibiotics. They said I was going to be on them unil the twenty-third. So, maybe it is just a computer error. Who the fuck knows? I do not know. Everything is up in the air right now.

I give another shout out to Zeebopskeebop. I am very high on pharmaceutical drugs during today’s Lamsonacare Youtube clip. He called me on Friday. I have never really talked to him that much in Revere chat---Revere Radio has their own chatroom---but on the phone, he was a steamy cauldron of masuline passion. It was a cool conversation, but I cut it short.

Day 19 (Monday - April 14, 2014):

They kick me out of my cool private MRSA room. Those fuckers. I have a new roommate. His name is Terry. During the filming of my Youtube clip of Lamsonacare, I have to tell Terry I am doing a Youtube clip, and that I am not going insane, because there is a curtain between us.

Day 20 (Tuesday - April 15, 2014):

I am getting used to the new room. They kicked me out of my private room yesterday. I have a cool new roommate though. His name is Terry. I am waiting for my asswound to heal. I stay in bed until then. I think it is three more weeks. It is maybe a month. I do not know.

When they discontinue the antibiotics the other day, it is a mistake---a computer glitch. They put me back on them until April twenty-third.

They are talking about surgically closing my asswound. I believe it when I see it. A lot of doctors are fucking liars. You cannot believe a fucking word they say. Cynicism is a major component in Lamsonacare.

I tried using Mom’s laptop. It did not work out so good. Back to Chromebook!

I am more energetic than I was yesterday.

Day 21 (Wednesday - April 16, 2014):

My new roommate is a gun fanatic. He is not so much a second amendment type. He is more of a collector of very old guns. Old guns are his thing---the ones in the spaghetti western movies. I am talking vintage Clint Eastwood shit.

Aunt Kay calls.

Aunt Kay visits.. I read. I work out. I go to bed.

Day 22 (Thursday - April 17, 2014):

There is nothing to report.

Day 23 (Friday - April 18, 2014):

I look tired and dopey. I am tired and dopey. Yesterday, I bum out. I think it is a getting to me. The laying in bed.

Les Straub says survival is about moving forward. It is about going home. So that is what I think about. I go home to my apartment. I have a big huge stiff drink. I know that sounds homoerotic and gay, but it is the truth. Whiskey and water is my strength. The hope of one day again feeling her sweet brown warmth flow through my body in her liquid embrace is the only thing keeping me going at this point. I love you Lady Whiskey, my sweet brown mistress.

I am sipping that mofo. I smoke some pot. I do some other various chemicals---illegal chemicals---and just fucking chill and relax. I get back to my radio show, that I do Monday through Friday, two to four Central PM, and on Sunday afternoon from  three to five PM Central. The one on Monday through Friday is The Rant. The one on Sunday evening is called The Lamson Experiment. The Rant is on at least two different networks.

It is a global broadcast, with twenty-five million listeners worldwide. The Rant is on www.revereradionetwork.com  and www.flagshipradio.com - The Lamson Experiment is exclusively on www.flagshipradio.com, for now. I highly recommend both of those stations and those two shows, in particular. By the way, you can find tons of free archives of the old shows at Revere Radio. Check it out! I command thee!

As far as breaking Lamsonacare developments that are happening; things are progressing very slowly. They allow me to sit on my ass now for limited periods of time on the side of my bed. Yay! So That is fucking exciting!

I still work out a lot from bed. This does a good job of keeping my upper body strength. Tthe newest development is they tell me sometime soon, I can get up in my chair again for limited amounts of time, which should be cool, because that way l can move around and go outside of this room and look at things other than the four walls surrounding me.

Yesterday, I bum out, because I am tired. I have trouble sleeping the last couple days, even though I am tired. I lie here staring at the ceiling. I am too tired to read. I lay here all day, staring like an idiot.

Yesterday, my good friend, Tom, calls. He is supposed to come up today, or sometime this weekend. I am not quite sure when.

I got pretty good sleep though last night. I take a valium, hydrocodone cocktail. and the shit puts me right to sleep. So, that is beautiful.

I am on a valium and xanax cocktail now. They give me the xanax so I do not get all keyed up and act like an asshole. I admit I do not mind taking it. It is soothing.

This is kind of a shitty situation the whole way around.

Day 24 (Saturday - April 19, 2014):

This is day twenty-four of my saga. It is The Year of Our Lord 2014. I just got a new nicotine patch.

I have two cups of coffee. I do an episode of Lamsonacare. I write a story as well, alongside all these Youtube clips. All these clips are part of a movie. I put it all together and edit it down to make a stupid fucking documentary at some point.

Later That Day:

I am in pain. I am a big wussy.`I am about to ask for drugs, but I do this first. I get some Xanax on top of it. It is a fucking party. It is party time in room 127, at St. Joseph’s Hospital, in St. Charles, Missouri, in the beautiful heartland of these good old United States of America, right at the confluence of the Mighty Mississippi and the Majestic Missouri Rivers.

Day 25 (Sunday - April 20, 2014):

Happy Easter! Which I am sure everyone knows celebrates the time when Our Lord chased the snakes out of Ireland. Then The Lord and his 12 Irish drinking buddies went to an Irish pub to celebrate, and they got very drunk like Irishmen.

Oh yeah, also, it is the day that celebrates colorful eggs and bunnies made out of chocolate. Happy Easter to one! Happy Easter to all! And to all a good night!

Day 26 (Monday - April 21, 2014):

Nothing to report.

Day 27 (Tuesday - April 22, 2014):

Alright! There is big fucking news on day twenty-seven. I sit now. I am out of bed. I am up in my chair. This is a big development, a big step forward. Tomorrow is the last day of IV antibiotics. It is still a little sore sitting on the asswound, but it feels good to get out of bed.

Day 28 (Wednesday - April 23, 2014):

I cannot film myself taking a tour around the hospital like I wanted to. There are privacy laws. It is not so much for the staff, but it is illegal to film another patient in the hospital.

Day 29 (Thursday - April 24, 2014):

Today is the twenty-ninth day of my struggle.

Day 30 (Friday - April 25, 2014):

Doctor Parikh is an asshole.

***

After spending like a month in bed, now that I am up in the chair, I have found a little window with a view of the river. It faces southeast, so in the morning, the sun shines in there like a solarium. The sun feels good. After spending that long without it, the sun is like heroin.

Day 31 (Saturday - April 26, 2014):

I get out of bed. Mom helps me because none of the therapists are here on the weekend. She brings some lease papers for me to sign. It is that time of year to renew the lease on my apartment. I get housing assistance so my rent is pretty low. This year it has gone up one dollar from $126 to $127 a month. That is not too bad.

Tom visits. It is good to see him. We plan for me to take a bus down to Memphis as soon as my ass is healed. We go to Beale Street. I bring my harmonica. I get a cup and panhandle on Beale Street. I film it all. We make a movie of the whole adventure.

Doctor Shapiro comes by to have a look at the wound, I guess to see what he is dealing with come surgery time on Monday. He seems upbeat and says the wound looks nice and healthy and clean and says everything should go well on Monday.

For a surgeon, he is a pretty pleasant guy. He is even nice to the nurses.

Day 32 (Sunday - April 27, 2014):

I do not know what is wrong. I cannot get my Youtube to work right. I am having trouble posting my videos. Both yesterday and today. So Lamsonacare the movie or Youtube series or whatever the hell it is will have to be on hiatus a few days until I figure out this little snafu. Regardless, my day is pretty good. I get out of bed and stroll around in my wheelchair which is even more precious now because tomorrow they put a skin flap on my ass wound. so I will have to stay off that for four to six weeks while the new skin takes hold. So surgery is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. So after midnight tonight I am NPO. That is medical talk for no food or liquids until after surgery. I try to see it in a spiritual light. Like a fast. Like Muslim during Ramadan. But I am not looking forward to a day with no meds.

By the way, this is totally random, but they have the most excellent coffee on this floor. Mixed with my morning valium, baclofen and vicodin, it is an awesome buzz, not as good as pot but one must make do with what one has available.

Day 33 (Monday - April 23, 2014):

Day three of no video coverage of Lamsonacare. Hope the bugs get worked out by tomorrow. Today is surgery day. Earlier I was miserable. No food, no liquids but most horribly no pain meds and my surgery is not scheduled till late afternoon so I hurt like a mofo but I try to be stoic and caveman like about it but my nurse sees through my clever disguise and asks me what is wrong.  I tell her I am hurting but I cannot take anything because of the NPO. She tells me I can have pain pills. That is good to me.

Day 34 (Tuesday April 24, 2014):

Boring.

Day 35 (Wednesday April 25, 2014):

Nothing to report.

Day 37 (Thursday April 26, 2014):

A lot of shit to report ladies and gentlemen. Donna Van Meter and TL called last night. TL is my friend from London. Donna is the program director at Flagshipradio.com. I like TL. He turned me on to the traditional Irish folk singer Luke Kelly, for which I am eternally grateful. I enjoy luke Kelly.

Anyway, they called last night and it was great to hear from them. There is beeping in my roommates area now! I think it is a code blue! Sweet Baby Jesus!

I just had a funny joke on the tip of my tongue but I forgot what it was.

I ask them if it was a code blue. They say no.

There are a lot of code blues in here. I am around death twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week at this hospital. It is a struggle for survival, ladies and gentlemen. I am on the shitlist of the Obamacare Death Panels, but through sheer force of my own goddamn cunning, will and wit, I have managed to avoid the icy touch of the Obama death panels. Code blues are going off to the left and the right of me.

I am wearing a shirt. It is an Anheiser-Busch work shirt. It has a slogan on it. The slogan is, “Making friends is our business.” That is fucking catchy. It is a white, polo-style shirt, with blue lettering. There is a blue stripe on the collar. Making friends is my business.

Day 38 (Friday April 27, 2014):

This is the thirty-eighth day of my stay in the hospital. Last night, Doctor Parikh tells me I am going home. Doctor Parikh is a motherfucking, piece-of-shit asshole. He comes in and asks me with a big smile, “How would you like to go home?”

I tell him I would like to go home immediately, as soon as possible. He say’s, “You can leave now!” Again with the big smile, like he is offering me some kind of great deal. He says he can let me go home, then he would try to put me on his list for surgery. He says the whole procedure could be done outpatient, which is impossible for a skin flap surgery. But I am getting ahead of myself.

At first, I let him sucker me, but only for a minute, but even in that minute I knew something was wrong. He was not doing some kind thing letting me out. He was doing what a lot of doctors have done to me in the past. He was trying to give me the heave-ho, treating the infection but then sending me home with a hole in my ass so it gets infected again.

A nurse comes in. I tell her I do not want Parikh. I want a second opinion. Right that minute, she calls Doctor Shapiro. It is Friday night. Shapiro said he would be happy to perform the surgery on Monday. Fuck you, Doctor Parikkh, you piece of shit cocksucker! He just wants me to go back home with an open wound that knows will get infected. Fuck it. Then it will just be somebody else’s problem.

I have dealt with two-faced pricks like him for years. They spend years treating the infection rather than just close the wound. They spent a year and a half doing this before, years back. Shapiro finally closed it. And again, he has come to my rescue. He is Batman.

Day 39 (Saturday April 29, 2014):

I was on hiatus for two days. I did get my ass-surgery. The asswound is closed now. There is a further development---it looks like I need a shave. Not long ago, i woke up. So, it should only be thirty more days of hell.

Day 40 (Sunday April 30, 2014):

On the seventh day of June, which is a Friday, I ride the Megabus from St. Louis to Memphis. I return Sunday morning. The plan is to meet with Tom, Keith, Snakeman and get a hotel on, or close, to Beale Street or whatever works. The plan is to sit on Beale Street playing my harmonica and panhandling, whilst filming all this on my cool new camera. So, I am there live, panhandling on Beale Street on Saturday, June 8, 2014, sometime during the day. I film it as part of a movie.

Day 41 (Monday May 1, 2014):

They shoot me up with drugs. The experience is weird.

I have a lump of fat on my head. This lump looks like a meat yamaka. Rob from Jersey says it looks like a jew horn, whatever the fuck that is. This lump is actually an alien implant. That is where Reptoids from The Planet Poptart put the device.

The High-Command of The Gamma Quadrant communicate to me, as well, through my alien implant. I have managed to somehow make my ugly lump of head fat work for me. It is as if my lump of head fat had a fatty brain of its own with its own agenda.

The Pleiadians are the ones who are controlling me. The Pleiadian Overlords want me to create Lamsonacare, and spread the benevolent core teachings of Lamsonacare.

There is stuff to report. I am leaving the hospital, within the next several days. I will stay at mom’s for twenty or so days, until my butt is healed. God help me.

Day 42 (Tuesday - May 2, 2014):

I fight off Obama’s Death Panels another day. Lamsonacare will never die, motherbitches!

Day 43 (Wednesday - May 3, 2014):

I am at my mom’s house now. There is a nice view from the window, and a good camera angle, with a mirror in background.

This is the exact same room I grew up in, which is kind of weird.

Day 44 - (Thursday - May 4, 2014):

I am reporting live, from my mom’s. There are no signs of any gunshots yet, but it is still early. My mother’s house is a rough place to stay. Carrying a piece at my mom’s is a must. There is alot of gun play. It is a very long story.

I look better, after being out of the hospital for a couple of days. Those places drain the life out of a man. There are antibiotic-resistant superbugs in these hospitals. The sooner one can get out of a place like this, the better off they are.

I plan on celebrating the past two nights. However, I am so tired both nights. I only have a sip or two. Then I fall asleep. I am more tired than I thought, I guess.

They give me seven days worth of medication. I wean off of it, because, aside from very occasional, recreational usage, when I am outside of the hospital, I do not like having these types of drugs around. So, I cut down. I experience mild withdrawal. It is nothing I cannot handle. Oh the drama unfolds!

Day 45 (Saturday - May 6, 2014):

I need alcohol! I am descending into depression. It is the withdrawal. I am weaning off the pills. So, I am god-damned edgy!

Day 46 (Sunday - May 7, 2014):

Nothing happens, except I somehow pass through a type of transdimensional timespace portal. The timespace event takes me back three days in Lamsonacare time but by the Gregorian Calender records, no such timespace fluctuations have happened. I investigate this further.

I go out of my mind. Everything is very quiet here. I know at the hospital, I constantly bitch about how noisy it is. There is a certain nervous tension in here. Obama’s Death Panels are on the prowel. Through my sheer cunning, I defeat Obama’s Death Panels again. I am in the belly of the beast of Obama’s Evil Socialized Death Machine. Every day is another struggle against the Death Panels. If it were not for Benjamin Fulford’s Magical One Thousand Ninjas, my ass would have been smoke a long time ago.

It is calm, quiet and peaceful. It is quiet. It is too quiet. I am getting quite bored and edgy. There are twenty-one days to go. The nurse comes today. God help me! They are at the front of The Obamacare Death Panels.

I am not quite sure what I am going to do with this writing. I pay attention to the word count and there are twenty-one days to go. So, this may be enough for a novel. So what will it be? A short story? An article? A paper? An essay? A manifesto? A novella? Who knows?

Or perhaps, I carry on with the narrative until it reaches minimal novel size at fifty thousand words. That makes Lamsonacare roughly the first third portion. So this gives me the idea to write a whole novel in three interconnecting parts. The novel is called Summer 2014. Part one is called Lamsonacare. Part 2 is called June. Part 3 is Conclusion. It will also all be filmed and put on Youtube daily, and this footage is edited down to a watchable length. So Summer 2014 is an awesome movie as well.

Regardless, there are twenty-one days left of Lamsonacare. There might be less. My ass is healing incredibly.

Day 48 - (Tuesday - May 9, 2014):

There are twenty days of Lamsonacare left. I cannot wait. The project was somewhat satisfying, but living through it was a pain in the ass, literally, pun intended, blah blah blah. The sooner it is over, the better. If I heal faster, this might happen.

Yesterday, the nurse comes over. She tells me my ass is wonderful. Life is beautiful. Everything is healing wonderfully.

It is very early in the morning. It is 5:27 AM. I live with two elderly people. I adapt to their ways. I go to bed at four PM. I wake up at four AM. This seems like a good plan, except last night I have a few drinks and I get drunk.

There are twenty days left---twenty days left. And that is the end of Lamsonacare, unless I get cancer or something.

I have been healing fast. I eat nutritional high-protein food. I take many high-quality nutrtional supplements. I lift weights every day in bed. I exercise with a green eight-pound weight all of the time.

Day 49 (Saturday - May 10, 2014):

All of the trees are a lot bigger now. These lush trees give the neighborhood a lot more of a wooded appearance. I like it. It was not like this when I was young. The subdivision was relatively young. The trees were small.

I shave today. My nose hairs are ugly. I eat breakfast. I work out. I write. I fantasize about the future. I plan excessively. I cannot wait to take the bus and train to places like Memphis, Texas, Florida, Mississippi, whatever. The world is my oyster.

Everything is just the fucking same all of the time! If you want me to feel better buy my Lamsonacare bumper stickers and coffee mugs. They make great Mothers’ Day gifts. All of the money made from sales of Lamsonacare merchandise will go directly to crack. Some of it will go up my arm---smoking crack, snorting coke and heroin. And I will be buying whores. So, if you want to give to that cause - buy the merchandise. Please, feel free. If not, that is fine too. Who cares?

I have nineteen more days. I am out of here. Lamsonacare is over. It is glorious. So look for me on Beale Street on Saturday, June the Eighth; leaving St. Louis at 2:45 PM. I arrive in Memphis at 8:15 PM. I Get a hotel close to the bus station. I plan on already being buzzed by the time I reach Memphis, because I plan to smuggle two small discrete flasks of whiskey on to the bus in my attache case. We go to the hotel and get more drunk. Saturday we refill all our flasks and head out. We get breakfast. We go to Beale Street. We go to a bar. We have a few drinks. We get a lot of film coverage of all this. I get a donation cup and panhandle while I play my harmonica. I film all that, of course. Hopefully I make some drinking money. We go to another bar. We drink more. We listen to good live music.

Day 50 (Sunday - May 11, 2012):

It is day forty-six of Lamsonacare. There are eighteen days to go. I can not wait. I have to get out of bed. There are things I have to do. Today I will work out. I will write some. I might read. I will drink my dinner, until I fall asleep. There is a nice view from my room - the best I have had in my Lamsonacare experience so far.

Kay and Bill (my sister and brother-in-law) came over to Mom’s. Kay gets loaded. I get drunk too, but I hide it well, which is easy to do just laying in bed. I spend a good deal of the day working on Lamsonacare. It has become my life’s work. I live for Lamsonacare.

Day 51 (Monday - May 12, 2014):

I am a little annoyed. There has been a mix up with my order for my Revere Radio merchandise. The name of thhe company Robb Revere uses for this is called Zazzle. It is not their fault though. I have had a few recent address changes so there was some confusion as to where to send it. So today I contacted Zazzle and told them the correct address to send it to. Hopefully, that works. I should receive a response in 48 hours.

The post office is all fucked up. Some of my stuff is not delivered. Some stuff is stiill being sent to my apartment. Some stuff is comming  to my mom’s. It is a clusterfuck. It has been forty-seven days since I enter Missouri Bapptist Hospital with an infected ass wound. So by my count, I have seventeen more days of this mind-numbing hell, known as Lamsonacare.

It is 10:36 in the morning. I have to get the fuck out of here. It is one of those “one day at a time” type of deals.

As far as I know everyone else is getting their merchandise. I just have too many recent address changes. So it is fuucking everything up. Hopefully, it all gets cleared up soon. Maybe the post office is fucking with me, because I make their jobs harder by changing my address so much. Postal workers can be very spiteful.

Anyway I still try to get my Revere merchandise. I send Zazzle an email, so we shall see. My order is a coffee mug, a Revere Radio T-shirt, a Loup Radio hoodie and a Lamsonacare bumper sticker.

I get a message from my long-time homie going way back to kindergarten. His name is Tony Lippert. He says he is visiting on Saturday. Tony says he actually lives like three streets over. He catches me on Facebook.

Keith calls, regarding a marijuana purchase. So this actually happens as I write on my Chrome calendar organizer thing. I am become addicted to this organizer thing. I fiind my life seems a lot more exciting when everything is scheduled into tiny little boxes. So, if all gooes accordiing to plan, I receive my shipment between six and seven PM, according to my Gooogle Chrome Calender organizer.

There are seventeen more days, according to my calculations. I get another message on Facebook by someone claiming to be a long lost aunt. This person’s name is Linda. She seems weird. So, I do not respond.

Aside from that though, there is not a whole lot going on. Chris Razavi messages me yesterday saying they are praying for me. I am not sure who “They” are, but I appreciate it nonetheless. I can use all the help I can get right now. So, thanks to whoever those guys are.

It is almost booze time. My mom gets home soon, and when she does, I get some fucking gin.

So all the infection is gone. I am not sick anymore. I just cannot sit on my ass for seventeen more days, which makes it harder, because I have the energy of a healthy guy, but I have to lay in bed seventeen more days.

There is something that rubs me the wrong way with this long lost aunt person. The first thing she mentions to me is how she sees my video and she is unaware of how little I can actually move.

So it is like, “Really? I have never met you and the first thing you want to tell me is how feeble and gimpy I look? Thank you for pointing that out.”

Why don’t she just say, “Oh I had no idea you were such a gimpy motherfucker?” It is called mannners, Google it.

After that, I just start tuning her out, because she sends like twenty-five more messages, right after that.  So, long lost family or not, she seems a little batshit crazy. I have no idea who this person is.

So speaking of long lost family, my former roommate at the hospital and his wife grow up hanging out at Arcade Bowl.  Arcade Bowl is a bowling alley, obviously. It was owned by my third cousin, Jimmy. Anyway, I do not think it is much of a coincidence. St. Louis is not a large town, but they keep going on and on about it.

Day 52 (Monday - May 13, 2014):

Yesterday, my buddy, Keith, comes over. He gives me a litle bud. I expect more this evening. We shall see. I shall have to put that in my organizer. I just do.

Keith and I have a discussion about the Memphis trip. Instead of taking the bus, Keith brings up the idea of bringing the trailer, and taking the truck down there. Fuck it. It would be cheaper, gas-wise, and all-around. This way we do not have to smuggle flasks too.

I still like the bus idea though, as far as film-making purposes go. I think a bus experence would offer more interesting video foootage, for the Youtube clips and the documentary. It will make a pleasant travel documentary. I like the bus idea, and I plan on doing it in the near future.

This makes for some awesome foootage. The drive down there is scenic.

Day 53 (Tuesday - May 14, 2014):

It is day forty-nine of my struggle fighting the Obama Death Panels. There are sixteen days left until I rise like The Phoenix.

Here is the deal---yesterday, the nurse comes by. The doctor tells her he wants her to take all the sutures and shit out. Apparently there are several kinds of sutures and blah blah blah. Apparently, there are these really fancy kinds of sutures that only doctors can take out.

By the way, I am totally on the e-cigs now. I know everybody says they are just as dangerous as the regular cigs. To that, I say, Fuck you! Damn it! I like them! So eat my balls! I do not fucking give a shit! I just do not fucking care! That is the kind of fucking rebel that I am!

Anyway, so iit turns out that there are these certain kinds of sutures that only Doctor Shapiro can take out. He is not too happy about it. I guess he is mad because he thinks the nurse should be able to handle it.

So the nurse calls him while she is here and tells him, “Look, my higher ups say I’m not covered to take those sutures out. They will not let me do it.” She can take out the staples and stitches and these other kinds of sutures, but not these fancy surgeon sutures.

So anyway, he is pissed. Next Wednesday at 10:45 in the morning, I go in and see him so he can remove these sutures. It is all the fucking way in South County.

Day 54 (Wednesday - May 15, 2014):

It is a very stormy day. There is a lot of thunder and lightening. It disturbs me. It is upsetting. No, I am just joking.

Anyway, they say everything looks great. But I still have to wait, until I can actually sit on my ass again. It is not an easy thing. There are a lot of trials and tribulations.

I smoke pot. There are about sixteen more days until my glorious rise. We will see what happens. Next Wednesday I get some sutures taken out.

My prediction was that it is fifteen days from now until my rise. Some think this is pie-in-the-sky optimism. To them, I say, “F you man! F you!” I do not know. It might be a little bit longer.

My mom guest-stars in my Lamsonacare video today---guest starring Sharon Stone. I know it is a stupid joke but it is my mom’s actual real name. My step dad is a Stone. So it is kind of a joke, but it is also true!

Day 55 (Thursday - May 16):

Nothing happens.

Day 56 (Friday - May 17, 2014):

Today, there is more of the same.

Day 57 (Saturday - May 18, 2014):

Again, nothing happens.

Day 58 (Sunday - May 19, 2014):

I do not even know what day it is. I quit keeping count to be honest. I am starting to crack under the strain of the Obamacare Death Panel oppression! The Obamacare Death Panel bloodlust is relentless!

On my Youtube clips that accompany this writing, I start doing a creepy thing, where I just put down music and some weird text. It has just really been getting to me---the depression, the blah blah blah. It is really starting to get to me! Fuck it! If you do not have anything good to say, do not say anything at all.

This is probably the most bummed out I have been since I started doing this thing. I am detoxing from the hospital drugs. I am detoxing Charles Lamson-style. That  means weaning off the pills, and substituting with booze and marijuanna.

The hospital gives me seven days worth of meds. So I just cut them all in half---taking little bits at a time. I slowly wean myself off those bitches. That is the key.

Day 59 (Monday - May 20, 2014):

My shirt is driving me crazy. I do not know why. It just is. I have been laying in bed too long. I can not fucking get comfortable! It has been a long time since I first went into the hospital.

I know it seems like I am rambling. Lamsonacare is losing its luster. I am no longer doing it on a daily basis. When I do it, you can tell I have grown tired of this project. So, you may be asking, “Well, what’s wrong? The last couple Youtube clips you did post, were those stupid music videos, and it was just stock music. It is not even real fucking music!”

We have now merged with machines. The singularity is now!

There is stuff to report. There are big developments. Yesterday was a big clusterfuck! I go to the doctor. I get these fucking sutures taken out of my ass. This is a big development---a big step forward. It is a big, huge clusterfuck, but I get it taken care of.

My ass looks like a patchwork of farmland from an aerial view---diifferent squares of skin that have been salvaged from other parts of my body. This is not the first time. I have a million dollar ass.

I have a couple more weeks at least. Everytime I ask the doctor it gets longer. I quit making predictions. That was really starting to drive me crazy---when I am counting it day by day by day. It tends to make shit a lot more monotonous, I find. I find that if I just go into a drug and alcohol-induced haze for days on end. A fugue state, as they call it on Breaking Bad. If I can just do that days on end---for days at a fucking time, it seems to make things go by a lot faster, and a lot easier. If I could just somehow stay in that state twenty-four hours a day and day seven days a week, in a drug-and-alcohol-fueled cloud, and just forget everything, until it is time to rise, which, by the way, should not be too much longer, in June anyway, then everything would be so much easier.

It is taking longer than I expect, and that pisses me off to no end. My new strategy is to not pay attention day to day, and just stay high on drugs and liquored up, in a state of total confusion and discombobulation and disorientation. You know what I am trying to say.

The day of reckoning draws near, my friends. So we have that to look forward to. The end is nigh. The end of Lamsonacare.

This is day fifty-nine. My weird lazy eye is kicking in. That is something everyone wants to know. So, fuck it. What can you do? Right? This is another day at Mom’s.

I do not even know what fucking day this is. It is March the twenty-seventh, when I go to the hospital. Today is the twenty-fourth day of April. In a few days, it is two months since this endeavor, called Lamsonacare, begins, and it is a lot of fucking fun.

I am in a piss-poor mood right now. This eye drives me crazy. The good news is all the stitches are pulled out of my ass. It is pretty much ready to roll. I sit on it pretty soon. The doctor says to leave it up to the nurse’s discretion. I have no fucking idea, but I think it is soon.

All of the stitches are gone. All of the sutures are gone. All of the staples are gone, as well. There is just a little scar there. People are still wary about saying, “Yeah, go ahead and sit on it.” They just want to make sure it does not fuck up the surgery.

So right now, I am just waiting on the nurse to show up on Saturday. It is a couple more days, here in bed, over the weekend. I go to my Youtube channel. It is the most self-absorbed Youtube project of all time. It is just two months of me whining and bitching about a stupid pressure sore I have on my ass. (This is just a recap---just to get us up to speed.) It is me laying in the hospital, healing. It is one man’s journey through the magical and mystical healing process. It is almost over with. I am fucking glad about that.

If Lamsonacare were a living entity, I would just love to fucking kill it. I would love to meet it in a dark alley somewhere and just beat the shit out of it, because I am really growing weary of this project known as Lamsonacare. It is meant to be a satirical exploration---a documentary, as it were---documenting the healthcare system.

What is it like to be a gimp on Medicaid?  In a lot of instances, I have better fucking healthcare than a lot of people out there, even if it is just shitty Medicaid. You have to know how to talk to them the right way to get the right kind of treatment, blah blah blah. Woe is me.

My view outside is the same one I had as a boy. This is my boyhood room at Mom’s. Keeping track one fucking day at a time seems to make everything go slower. It is driving me crazy. It should not be too much fucking longer.

The nurse is coming over some day this week, and the doc says he will just leave it up to her discretion. All the stitches are out. It looks good.

I shall heal, then I shall begin the process of self-destruction all over again. So this is today’s report. The end is right around the fucking corner. Lamsonacare is almost over. There was a big gaping hole in my ass. They put a wound vac on it. They leave it like that for weeks. They finally close it up, surgically. I finally get all the stitches out from that. They just want it to heal up a little bit more before I sit on it. I do not want to fuck up the good doctor’s masterpiece, and who can blame him. It is a goddamn million dollar ass !

Day 64 (Saturday - May 25, 2014):

I do not know how much more of this I can take. I am completely uncomfortable. All this laying in bed. The view outside is a sunny beautiful day. There is a big beautiful green leafy tree. It is very tall. I have got to get out of this bed. The more I lay in this fucking bed. I just can not take it! It is driving me crazy!

Fuck!

Fuck!!!

The good news is some time this week I should be able to get up. Right now,  I think we are just being careful. I want to make sure this thing is completely healed up before I get up. The stitches are out, and its ready to roll.

I have to wait for this home health nurse to give me the go-ahead. I am looking at the camera, and there is a massive glare shining from my bald head. So that is how that Lamsonacare update goes. My own prediction was that on the twenty-eighth of May, I would be arising. It is looking like that actually might be a possibility. It is up to that stupid nurse. Well, she is not stupid. Why am I calling her stupid? I am a bastard! I am sorry nurse. It is nothing personal.

Lamsonacare is getting close to over. So what have we learned? Did we learn anything? The goal of this project was to document what it is like to be a crippled guy going thrugh the whole healthcare process on Medicaid. And that I did. It has been a two month long ordeal. I was going to make a big long movie about it, which I guess I kind of did in installments on Youtube. I was going to make a whole documentary about it. I just want to end this project and get back to my life. That is right. So I guess I am going to see that lady some time this week. I do not know what time. or day exactly. So unless I get cancer or something, Lamsonacare is over soon. That is funny. Cancer jokes are always funny.

I Wait. I am three days away from the day of my original prediction. I was pretty fucking close. Then I can get the fuck out of here. It has been nice. There is a gross fucking stain on my pillow from food. Eating in bed is just horrible. I get food all over myself. Where did we ever get the notion that breakfast in bed is somehow a good thing? It is fucking ridiculous. I can not wait to actually eat sitting up. Everything is winding up. There are no earth-shattering developments. I just have to wait a couple more days. Then, I go back home. I leave Mommy’s and go back to my little shit-hole apartment. It is pretty nice over here. Mom cooks. She makes me nice sandwiches. I just miss my little hovel. What can I say?

Day 67 (Tuesday - May 28, 2014):

It is another fantastic day.  It is marvelous! I am wearing my collar up on my polo shirt like some Ivy League prep-school son of a bitch. I have some big fucking developments going on here. I actually got out of bed today, for a limited amount of time. I think I am ready to roll. I actually went outside and felt sunlight. That was pretty fucking amazing. By the way, what are the bumps on my head? It is just weird and crappy skin, I guess. This high-def is just fucking with me too bad. I can see it all too clearly on cam.

It has been a two month ordeal. Since day one, I have been lifting weights and doing my own physical therapy. That is Lamsonacare. So, it would have been a lot worse if I had not been a lot more vigilant about exercise or what have you. Today, I go outside, and feel the sunlight on my skin. That was pretty cool. I got up twice today. Everything looks good. All systems are go. I should be going home pretty fucking soon.

Day 69 (Thursday - May 30, 2014):

I do not know what day it is. It is raining. I am sitting up again; a half hour, twice a day. Oh, look at that---a cocktail! My God! What treatment I receive at The Hotel Stone!

I am bored. I have been doing a lot of reading. I have been reading a series of novels. The author’s name is Christine Katherine Rusch. This series of novels is about cops in space. It is a sci-fi thing. To summarize: There are these domed civilizations on the moon and on Mars and the moons of Jupiter. It is named The Retrieval Artist Series. It is all about the cops and detectives in these domes. It is kind of like sci-fi CSI, or sci-fi meets CSI.

So, the big breaking news is I can actually sit up now. Today I feel a lot stronger sitting up. I am not nearly as dizzy or wobbly feeling. My body is starting to get used to that. It is a major step forward in Lamsonacare.

Hopefully, by next week, I sit up full time. It was a nice piece of artistic work done on my ass. Thank you Doctor Shapiro. I think it is good to go. My ass is really worthy of all that stupid attention.

Day 70 (Friday - May 31, 2014):

I am wearing the same shirt that I wore yesterday. I am tired. I did not sleep worth a shit last night. It is 12:58 PM. I have been letting the whole Lamsonacare project slide the last couple of weeks. We cannot have that, can we? There is an ugly lump of fat on my head. It looks like an alien implant.

The whole Lamsonacare project was in jeapordy. It was threatening to go off the rails. Out of sheer boredom, apathy and depression, I am smoking an electronic cigarette.

In sum:

They let me out of the hospital. I am staying at Mom’s. By the way, I do not want to make it sound like it is a terrible sentence or something. I love my mommy! But it is not like being at your own place.

There just was not anything to report here for awhile. I was laying in bed and doing nothing. I was waiting for them to pull the stitches out, and then waiting for them to tell me I can sit up.

It is Saturday. I have dark circles under my eyes. But I digress, yet again.

Yesterday, I sit up a half hour at a time. Today I graduate to an hour, so I should be going home soon. I do not lose too much strength laying in bed all that time. Like I mention numerous times in this piece, I have my own little physical rehab routine going the whole time. I have a little 8 lb. dumbell. You can do alot of exercises just laying in bed with an 8 lb. dumbell, even as gimpy as I am.

My muscles are still geting used to being in a verticle position. I feel like somebody beat the crap out of me---a good old fashoned beat down.

I should be going home next week.

Day 72 (Sunday - June 2, 2014):

Lamsonacare - The Finale

I am back home, at my apartment. That is the way she goes! I have an archaic piece of crap camera. My buddy Rich is here. Rich is also known as “The Rumbler.”

This is the last entry---the touching and gripping finale. What is there to say? This has been a big, exciting and emotional journey for us all. There were moments when we laughed and moments when we cried. There were moments when we commited heinous crimes against humanity.

We are having a little party, and filming the last episode, whilst we get fucked up on crack, whiskey and weed. I am on the verge of hyperventalating, but in a good way. I want to thank all the well-wishers out there---everyone who watched the videos on Youtube. By the way, if you want to watch the daily video clips that go along with this epic tale, it is all on Youtube. Just look up Lamsonacare on the Charles Lamson Channel at Youtube.