Sinful living has consequences

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The other night, I spent a few hours in a sports bar in a breast-themed casino discussing politics, philosophy and life in general with some old Air Force buddies. That may be the most macho sentence I've ever been able to truthfully type. Of course, they weren't really my Air Force buddies. I've never been involved in anything more militaristic than Le Leche League. They were my friend Ben's buddies. I was just tagging along.

Near the end of the night, Ben related the tale of his medical woes.

He's teaching his first year of public school and is discovering one of the lesser-discussed tribulations of teaching: exposure to every infectious disease known to man. He's spent a lot of time in doctors' offices this year, and on one of those trips for a cold he couldn't shake, a chest X-ray revealed he had bronchitis, which was treated with Cipro.

Oh yeah, and they noticed a black spot on his lung. That's never a good sign. It turns out he has emphysema.

In short, emphysema is the loss of elasticity and destruction of key parts of the lungs usually due to exposure to toxic chemicals, in Ben's case years of smoking.

Basically, breathing becomes increasingly difficult. Ben's doctor told him that he could quit smoking now, or look forward to hauling around an oxygen tank for the rest of his life.

So Ben quit cold turkey, not an easy thing to do, as any smoker will tell you.

Two months later, he gets a call telling him that the doctor needs to discuss some of his other lab results. His liver enzymes are high, which could be anything or nothing, but maybe cancer.

Now that she has his attention, he goes in for more tests, some blood work and an ultrasound. Two things become readily apparent; Ben isn't pregnant and he likes getting ultrasounds.

"It's really relaxing, and lubricant is involved," he told me.

"I recommend just getting an ultrasound every month as a way to blow off steam."

Ben briefly pondered the logistics of setting up an ultrasound parlor to compete with the scores of massage parlors in town.

The upshot of the ultrasound was that there was some odd stuff going on in his guts and he needed to see a gastroenterologist.

Also, he couldn't drink until they found out what's wrong with his liver. Having given up two of his three favorite things in just a few months, Ben was not a happy fellow, and absolutely no fun to be around.

The gastroenterologist told him it could be anything from tuberculosis to multiple sclerosis to mono, so he goes in for more tests.

Heck, at this point it could have been blood loss from all the tests.

It turns out he has a fatty liver, something you normally see only in obese people. Since Ben isn't and wasn't, this confused him. Apparently fatty liver happens sometimes, even to those who are not of Louie Anderson's proportions.

Also, his cholesterol is off, his HDLs are too low and his LDLs are too high, but unfortunately a lot of us can say that.

Finally, Ben got the first good news (other than that he wasn't pregnant) in the whole fiasco. He gets a prescription. For red wine. That's a piece of doctor's advice he'll gladly follow.

What's the moral to this story? I'm not sure. The wages of sin are death? Nah, a little much for the situation. But obviously, as if you didn't know, overindulging in drink, greasy food and smoking have repercussions. Although I'm not sure red wine counts as a repercussion.

Maybe it's simply that if you're going to hang out with your old Air Force buddies, you'd better have a good story as to why you're drinking red wine instead of brewskis and shots.

Actually, the real moral may be that there's money to be made, once the legal and technical hurdles are cleared, in ultrasound parlors.

F. Andrew Taylor is a Las Vegas freelance writer. His column appears twice monthly. Contact him at fandrewt@cox.net.