Fistulagram #4: The Balloon Ride Nobody Asks For

Tomorrow morning, Tuesday, September 8th, I get to experience something that has become a recurring event in my dialysis journey:

Fistulagram #4.

If you’ve never heard of a fistulagram, you’re not alone. It’s a procedure where a doctor injects contrast dye into your dialysis access (my AV graft), takes X-ray images to see how blood is flowing, and if they find a narrowing, they inflate a tiny balloon inside the blood vessel to open it back up.

Think of it as calling Roto-Rooter… but for your bloodstream.

The goal is simple: improve blood flow so dialysis can do a better job cleaning my blood three times a week.

Now here’s the part that usually gets people’s attention…

I don’t use anesthesia.

I don’t take pain medication.

Why?

Because I want to drive myself home afterward and get on with my day.

That doesn’t mean you don’t feel anything.

When they inflate that balloon…

Oh, I know it’s there.

You can actually feel the pressure as it expands inside your arm. It’s one of the strangest sensations I’ve ever experienced. It isn’t unbearable, but it’s definitely one of those moments where you think:

“Yep… that’s happening inside my arm.”

My instructions are the usual pre-procedure fun:

• 🚫 No food after midnight.

• 🚫 No drinking after midnight.

• ⏰ Arrive at the hospital at 6:30 AM for a 7:30 AM procedure.

• 🩺 About 30 minutes for the procedure itself.

• ⏳ Another 30 minutes getting prepped and recovering before heading home.

And yes…

If I accidentally eat after midnight…

I’ll turn into a Gremlin.

(Okay, maybe not medically accurate… but it makes following the instructions a little more entertaining.)

Hopefully this will improve the flow through my graft and make dialysis treatments run more efficiently.

I’ll let everyone know tomorrow how Fistulagram #4 goes. Hopefully the balloon and I will continue our strange little friendship… and hopefully it’ll be a while before we’re reunited again.

Hospital Coffee: Apparently It’s Not Just for Drinking

Unfortunately, my mother is back in the hospital. She’s been there since last Sunday, but thankfully, she’s doing a little better every day.

Today I walked into her room and immediately smelled coffee.

Not just coffee—the room smelled like somebody had opened a tiny artisanal café next to her hospital bed.

So naturally, I asked her:

“Did you get coffee?”

“No.”

Okay…

Then I spotted this.

A coffee filter filled with a giant pile of dry ground coffee sitting on the counter.

Apparently, this is hospital-grade Febreze.

And I’ve actually seen hospitals do this before. Instead of spraying a bunch of chemical air fresheners around patients, they use coffee grounds to help fight unpleasant odors.

And considering some of the things that can happen in a hospital room…

that coffee has a very important job.

Forget Starbucks.

This is Stinkbucks.

☕ No espresso machine.
☕ No steamed milk.
☕ No $7 caramel macchiato.
☕ Just a mountain of Folgers standing between you and whatever happened five minutes ago.

And really, hospitals could probably make this even cheaper.

Go to Costco. Buy the biggest, cheapest can of ground coffee available. You don't even need actual coffee filters. Throw some grounds on a couple of paper towels and suddenly:

Room 312 has notes of Colombian roast with subtle undertones of “we're not going to discuss what happened in here.”

It works.

Instead of walking into a hospital room and immediately thinking, “Dear God, what IS that smell?”

I walk in thinking:

“Ooooooh… is there a coffee shop nearby?”

There isn't.

That's just the hospital fighting stink with breakfast.

And now I have a completely different concern:

If I stay here long enough smelling coffee…

someone better bring me a donut. 🍩☕😂

I Thought I Was Supposed to Be My True Self? Another Adventure on The Tinder

After approximately 2 billion swipes left (nope) and right (why not?), I finally got another match on the Tinder.

Her profile name?

"Hopeful."

Well, that's already one more hopeful person than I expected to find on the Tinder.

Hopeful is a straight, 5'8" woman who describes herself as:

"Down to earth, laid back woman that is looking for something real..."

Excellent.

She also wants:

"Someone that can be just there true self, no lies, no games no drama just your true self no matter what and I will be the same!"

First, I believe we're looking for their true self.

But this is the Tinder, not the SATs. I'm not grading anyone.

More importantly:

Great! Imma be my true self.

Because I don't know how to be Matt Damon.

Her profile also provides some important intelligence. She doesn't like receiving nude selfies—which seems like an extremely reasonable policy—works out sometimes, smokes, which I don't, and drinks on special occasions.

Fine.

So I start the conversation:

"Good evening, Hopeful!"

I had a sneaking suspicion her parents didn't look at their newborn daughter and say, "She's beautiful. Let's name her Hopeful."

Turns out I was correct.

Her name is Chrissy.

We start chatting. I throw in some humor. She seems to like it.

Excellent.

I tell her that I think I'm actually funnier in person.

Also excellent.

We're talking about what we're doing Thursday. I mention some completely innocuous stuff about my day. Nobody has attempted to sell cryptocurrency to anyone. Nobody claims to be conducting "market research" in Augusta.

We're making progress!

Then I mention my sobriety.

Record scratch.

The conversation takes a turn.

She asks:

"So is that you drink now or no"

I explain that no, I don't drink. I've been sober for a little over 17 years.

But I also explain that I don't care if other people drink—as long as they're responsible about it.

I'm sober.

I'm not the Soup Nazi.

NO CHARDONNAY FOR YOU!

Drink your wine. Have your cocktail. Order a beer.

I'm not going to leap across the table and slap a margarita out of your hand.

This conversation happened Thursday at around 4:30 p.m.

I sent a few more messages afterward.

I even asked if she'd like to talk on the phone, since her profile said that's her preferred method of communication.

And then...

Crickets.

Not even Tinder crickets.

Those crickets have probably unmatched me too.

Which leaves me slightly confused.

Wait a minute, Chrissy.

I thought you wanted someone who could be:

"Just their true self."

That's exactly what I did!

I didn't lie.

I didn't play games.

I didn't create drama.

I didn't pretend to drink.

I didn't pretend to be Matt Damon.

I showed up as my true self, just like the advertisement requested.

Apparently there were terms and conditions.

And here's what really makes me laugh:

Her profile says she drinks "on special occasions."

Is having someone who drinks booze really that important when you only drink sometimes yourself?

Maybe there's an annual Cabernet Festival I don't know about.

Maybe Valentine's Day requires tequila.

Maybe I'm supposed to hold the wine glass while she drinks it.

I have questions.

Of course, maybe she just got busy. Maybe she'll respond eventually. Maybe she met somebody else. That's dating.

But if the sobriety conversation is what killed it, that's pretty funny.

Because after dealing with fake profiles, scammers, crypto investors, mysterious 6'6" women named Hamit, and everything else I've encountered on the Tinder, I finally did exactly what a profile asked:

I was my true self.

And apparently my true self got left on read.

Maybe next time I'll try being Matt Damon.

Pumpkin Spice in August? Krispy Kreme, We Need to Talk.

I live in the Low Country, where today’s high was 95 degrees with approximately 99% humidity.

Did it actually feel like 120 degrees? Maybe not according to science. According to the amount I was sweating? Absolutely.

Tomorrow, we get to do it all over again. The forecast calls for 94°F — about 34.4°C — with a heat advisory.

So naturally, this is the perfect time for...

PUMPKIN SPICE.

Wait. What?!?!??!

I received an email today from Krispy Kreme. And before anyone starts judging me, I don't go there that often. I apparently maintain enough of a relationship with Krispy Kreme that they know how to find me when they have important doughnut-related news.

The email announced some limited-time flavors.

Café Mocha. Okay. Chocolate icing, coffee-flavored buttercream swirl. I'm listening.

Maple Cheesecake. I like maple. I like cheesecake. This relationship has potential.

Biscoff Cookie Butter. Yum. No further questions.

And then...

Pumpkin Spice Cake.

Excuse me?

IT IS AUGUST 11.

Can we please slow down?

What's the rush?

Is pumpkin spice really that addictive? Are there people sitting around in July checking their calendars and whispering, "Just a few more weeks..."?

I don't understand the draw.

We've spent years complaining that teenagers are growing up too quickly.

Then retailers decided that apparently Christmas needs a three-month warmup, so the moment the last trick-or-treater leaves your driveway on Halloween, somebody starts playing Mariah Carey and putting inflatable reindeer on the lawn.

Now apparently fall doesn't even have to wait for summer to end.

We're skipping right over Labor Day.

We're ignoring the swimming pools.

We're pretending the beach isn't approximately the temperature of the surface of Mercury.

PUMPKIN. SPICE. IS. HERE.

Meanwhile, much of the country is dealing with heat advisories, and here in the Low Country I'm trying to determine whether I actually need to shower or whether standing outside for five minutes already counts.

I don't want a pumpkin patch.

I don't want a sweater.

I don't want to hear about crisp autumn air.

I WANT THE AIR CONDITIONER TO KEEP WORKING.

At this rate, the seasonal calendar is going to collapse completely. Pumpkin spice will arrive in June, Halloween candy will hit the shelves around Easter, and we'll be buying Christmas trees while we're still setting off Fourth of July fireworks.

Krispy Kreme, the Café Mocha looks good.

The Maple Cheesecake looks really good.

The Cookie Butter might actually get me through the door.

But Pumpkin Spice Cake?

It's 95 degrees outside.

Let the pumpkin sleep.

Its time will come.

One Billion Dollars, Bologna Pools, and the Evolution of the Fraternity Lottery Pool

Well...

We've done it.

Not won the Powerball.

We've evolved into a full-fledged financial institution.

The Powerball jackpot has officially reached $1 BILLION, with a one-time cash option of approximately $433.1 million before taxes.

Naturally, I already built another spreadsheet.

At this point, I should probably put "Lottery Pool CFO" on my LinkedIn profile.

It Started Innocently...

If memory serves, this whole adventure started about a month ago.

I suggested we throw a few bucks together.

Fast forward several drawings later, and we've played Powerball, Mega Millions, more Powerball, and then some more because apparently none of us learned anything.

I'd estimate our fraternity has now spent around $1,200–$1,500 chasing the dream.

That's enough money to buy a decent used car.

Instead, we own a growing collection of paper with numbers on them.

We've Become Spreadsheet People

This isn't just "buy some tickets."

No.

We've gone full corporate.

I've created spreadsheets showing:

• Jackpot odds.

• Prize probabilities.

• Estimated after-tax winnings.

• Per-person payouts.

• Cash option calculations.

• Different scenarios based on how many brothers are playing.

I don't think anyone has ever over-engineered losing the lottery quite like we have.

The Investment Committee Speaks

One thing I actually love is how the group operates.

We've had a few smaller wins.

Instead of everyone demanding their $4.37 immediately, the majority decided to let some of the winnings ride and buy more tickets.

Ladies and gentlemen...

We've accidentally invented a hedge fund.

A terrible hedge fund.

But a hedge fund nonetheless.

The $1 Billion Spreadsheet

Yes...

There's already a spreadsheet.

Of course there is.

It breaks down exactly what every fraternity brother would receive if we hit the jackpot based on the current pool.

The numbers are ridiculous.

The conversations are even better.

Responsible Financial Planning

People always ask what they'd do if they suddenly became rich.

Our discussions have not exactly been...

...traditional.

Ideas include:

• Building an in-ground swimming pool...

• ...and filling it entirely with bologna.

• Hiring someone whose only job is to tell us when Powerball reaches another billion.

• Buying matching golf carts just to drive to the mailbox.

• Renting a movie theater every Friday because deciding what to stream is exhausting.

• Purchasing a private island where absolutely no one is allowed to ask, "Can I borrow a little money?"

• Starting a charitable foundation dedicated to replacing every broken fraternity couch in America.

• Buying Harris Teeter stock just to thank the cashier who's watched me buy hundreds of dollars in lottery tickets without asking too many questions.

Will We Win?

Statistically?

Probably not.

But for the price of a few tickets, we've bought weeks of laughs, spreadsheets nobody asked for, Discord debates, ridiculous financial planning sessions, and enough jokes to last until the next drawing.

That's not a bad return on investment.

Although...

A billion dollars would still be nice.