morning of 5/27/2015 about 8 am
Reality: <OK, if ya say so; your story...>
I'm drifting back to sleep after being up for an hour or so. I'm watching the “House” episode where the Aussie doc gets stabbed. I have a sore and raw place on my upper back near the cyst that the dermatologist told me just a couple months ago was nothing to worry about.
The dream:
I'm in a hospital emergency room to have something on my back checked out. <Da Tea Party?> I'm in the waiting room. We're all told we have to move for some reason to another place in the hospital. <ECF software update?> To get there we have to go up a couple floors on escalators that are not running, so they are like regular stairs. <Yepper, gotta put in some effort to reach a higher level; especially when da 'powers' fail ya.>
I brought my motor scooter into the emergency room with me for some reason, probably because I was afraid it would get stolen if I left it outside. <Yepper, I'm scared of da IRS also.> I debate whether to leave it in the ER or take it with me to the new location we've been told to go to. I decide to try and see if I can wrestle the scooter up the stairs. I find that I am able to negotiate it up the stairs, with difficulty, by lifting the front wheel up onto each step. Then someone comes along behind me and lifts up the back of the scooter, making it much easier. <Ah ha, da Porchers prevail!> They have the end which is not only lower but heavier too, but they handle it fairly easily. <We try...>
In the new location in the hospital, the scooter is no longer a part of the dream.
I'm on my back on a gurney that has open spaces in the support surface. <Note above 'power' failure> A nurse or doc asks me how I'm doing and I say the gurney is not supporting me properly. He or she adjusts the wide strips of support material, which are able to slide on the side rails of the gurney, until I'm being properly supported. <Was dat adjustment from da left to right, or derriere to tète?>
A doctor or two and a nurse or two briefly examine my back, maybe do a biopsy or something, and go away. They return shortly. A couple of them are talking to each other but not loud enough for me to hear. Still, I know they're saying something about me. I ask “what is it?” and a doctor who has an uncanny resemblance to the Aussie doc in “House” (accent too) looks into my eyes for a second, as if determining whether to tell me.
Aussie doc then tells me: “Your back is fine, nothing to worry about. The strange thing is there was a 2 year old who died from an infection that you got from a mosquito. You fought it off fine but the 2 year old could not.” <OK, dat one is fer you to ponder...>
I said: “Well, I guess I can't have any fun, since the FBI now has my DNA profile.” <Sure ya can! You're on da porch NOW!>
Aussie doc smiles wryly and kindly and says "that's right, mate". ------end of dream------
. The trick is very broad shoulders and very thin wicks in the channels. Thin as in 1/4 the width of the shoulders, at most. I make my first cut to half way in on each shoulder. Then I cut 1/2 of the remaining shoulder off. (Sounds like orthopedic surgery, doesn't it!
