This event occurred over two years ago. – JDW
As the world awaited the election of a new pope, I stroll into the All Saints Surgery Center and am immediately struck in the face by Fox “News” on all the flat-screen TVs.
I don’t even trust Fox’s weather reports.
Not nervous, but wondering why the place is named All Saints. As if a single saint was insufficient.
A twenty-five dollar co-pay and a brief wait later – spent reading Hot Rod magazine – I am laying on a padded gurney in a pre-warmed backless gown.
Soon to be covered by a heated blanket and a number of cold rubber circles attached to long wires plugged into a big machine. Surgical ambiance.
An gorgeous young RN, who looks like she should be working at Hooter’s, presses up against me as she takes my blood pressure.
Which she says is slightly elevated. Well, yeah, of course.
“Thank you for bringing your veins this morning, ” she says, as she sticks a large needle into my hand.
I am greeted in the operating room by my surgeon and another masked man wearing a visitor’s badge.
“I am telling you right now,” I tell them right then, “I am not signing a release for the Discovery Channel.”
That’s the last thing I remember.
Car waiting just outside the door. Wearing my brown Scooby-Doo pajamas with a secular holiday print, I am wheeled to the curb.
Seems rather dramatic and I am disappointed TMZ is not lurking nearby.
* * *
Next day, after serving me coffee, making me breakfast and propping my pillows and making sure I had the remote, the wife goes back to work.
Finally I can get some peace and quiet.
A man can only take so much “Can I do anything for you?”
Followed shortly by “Are you okay?”
Concluded by “I don’t want to hover. I know you hate it when I hover. I love you.”
I know she loves me.
But nonetheless I decline an offer of a mid-afternoon bowl of bear claw ice cream.
Purchased as a post-surgery pain-killer.
Must not get fat, must not get fat, must not get fat.
To be honest, the wife was doubtlessly happy to return to her job.
Probably easier than taking care of me.
Which I began to suspect, when she said, “Don’t make me go all Kathy Bates on you.”
Not much later, I begin to sneeze, possibly announcing a cold’s arrival.
I suspect a breeze up my gown.
And I am still shaking off the effects of the anesthesia.
Except for an erection lasting more than four hours, I seem to be suffering from most of the possible side effects of Cialis.
Then there’s the boot. Oh, my God, the boot.
55 days to go….
No exercise for eight weeks, they said. Turns out you can spin bike quite nicely with a surgical boot and fused toes.