A Short Small Tether to Reality

I was scared. Like a middle-aged dog skittling across the floor in any direction but the ready-or-not bathtub, I was dipping and diving away from the entrance at St. Anthony's. "Oh no, you don't," as my friend tried to maneuver me closer to "our" destination, "I'm not goin' in there to get carved up like a chicken, hmmmm, MMMMM." But even my skuttlin' came to a halt and, finally, in baby-steps, I made my way up to the entrance and the entrance, it opened automatically, it being ne of THOSE doors that are even friendlier than You.

I signed God-Knows-What more papers, waited a minute or two and was asked to "come this way, Mrs. Morgan," by a pretty dark khaired young girl. Anymore there are only young girls. The entrance RN looked like she was in Senior High. The anesthesiologist looked like he had just performed particularly well on his cellor at the local Junior High graduation. And there was Dr. Meeks, looking....well, grim. Thus far, this situation had cost Olympic Medical Personnel a bit more than $5,000.00 and that may not make for the best doctor/patient relationship. He thanked me for the card I sent, which told how him how grateful I was that he had "made this call".....even though 1) I wasn't actually all that gratful at all and 2) this surgeon hadn't been a part of that call. He had been educated and silenced and rolled over by the anesthesiologist who was NOT here today. So Dr. Meeks was on his best behavior around me and I was......well, let's say I felt as if I had "some capital" in this sutation. "Member ol' Georgie-Boy Bush and his "capital"?
Yeah.
I had some of that, myself.
And I liked it.
So, once again, I got out of my clothes, which were covered with a big slowly pulsating sheet, one of my fingers socketed into a monitor which keeps tabs of your oxygen levels from moment to moment, and now a catheter exquistely pushed up inside my by-now horrified uretha, yes, the very one that called 911 at least twenty times that very Thursday morning, with a little screamy voice, rasping out, "Get me out of here! Get me out of here! I do NOT want to proceed with this procedure any longer any further!" Alas, the little screamy voice was not loud enough to be heard.

The fourteen year old kid who was the anesthesiologist was named Dr. Week. So now we had Dr. Meeks and Dr. Week. I asked where Dr. Wong was, but nobody was ready to get or give a joke at 5-something in the morning. Perhaps the entire staff there at St. Holy Tony's, which is what the other hospitals in King and Kistap call them, were so used to jokes about Dr. Wong's name that they just learned to blink three times and keep on going, I don't know. Anyway, every staff member blinked three times and, after answering some more pretty funny questions, I was brought up to the OR and my friend was politely shown the way away.

Two minutes later, they told me I had undergone six and a half hours of surgery and I could wake up now and chew some ice chips. Were they kidding? Was this the best they could do in terms of practical jokes? You know how they do it. "Come on," I said, "don't kid me. Have you done the damn surgery or not? What's real? Am I alive?"

"Sure you're alive," I heard somebody's nearly recognizable voice. "Who are you?"
"Al," I said, "that IS the question." "Don't give them any more than they ask, I though. They're Catholic. They could be spies. "Kay? Kay! DR. MORGAN!" one male voice rang out. "es?" I answered meekly, "that would be me, but....."
No 'but's" about it," I recognized Dr. Meek's voice. "We are done,Kay (they like to say your name during these most stressful times} "it's one thirty, everything went well. As soon as we are able to take your vitals one more time, we'll wheel you down to your room."

"You intend to deal with my mother's womb?" I asked, incredulously. "Well, good luck. I don't think you'll get far."

But they did. Their idea of reality and my idea of reality was entirely different. Finally they rolled me down to my room with the view of the next building and a great TV screen and legs pads that went in and out, pumping warm oxygen around my lower leg muscles so that they would be assured I would not have a blood clot on THEIR watch, and I went to sleep again. A half hour later and I was calling people right and left, saying, "Hey! I love you! Wanna come on up and see my ______s? Wanna come on up and take a load of my ______s? But of course it was the end of a Thursday, a nice quiet Thursday with pastel butterflies on the sheets and a couple of monitors into which I was hooked. I thought to myself: I could travel down this path of life and never turn back. This is as good as it gets.

I made fast friends with every nurse who was assigned to me. One nurse even suggeted (NOT my suggestion THIS time, folks) that we order a bottle of wine, which was often done, she said, but first we would have to get Mr. Meek's permission. Now, about this part of the equation, I knew it was a wrong call. I KNEW that man did not have the sense of humor to be even remoted amused by such a suggestion, much less, MUCH LESS - - than THIS suggestion. Oh, Jesus, oh Jesus, and they were seriously making a CASE for it. Damn. What kind of hurly-gurly pole dancers WERE my new care-takers?

"It's okay,"" I kep saying to my disappointed staff, "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe he wants some, himself."

"But I WOKE HIM UP!" cried the little blond haired nurse, "and he didn't sound none too happy about it!"

So I woke up each morning in spite of my morthpine drip and my muscle relaxcent pills and my crazy hair which looked to be desperately trying to climb its way off my poot head and onto any other poor soul being wheeled down the corridor.

They brought me roast beef (too salty), with roasted fresh vegetable,s (yum, jum) - but I just did not feel like eating. About one o'clock a.m. I asked for and received within three minutes, a fresh ham and cheese sandwhich and a diet Sprite. It was the best ham and cheese I've ever had and believe you me, I've had many.

I was beginning to think of this place as a kind of nifty motel. I had not as yet felt any surgery-type pain and I remember thinking how thoughtful that was of "them" - - to be me in an existential position of NO-Pain. WHAT A GOOD DEAL! When I was finished with my delicious sandwich, I paid attention to my thoughts, which went something like :God [or Someone else] must have my address. Because I had not felt one iota of pain. Because I was still there and my parents and one of my grandparents had been dead and gone at this (my) point in (their/my) life and wadn't that good! Because It is good to meet nurses and hear about their lives {their fainting goats, their wonderful little phrases they brought from whatever town or culture they sprang from, how many dimples in their faces, what their husbands say, what their husbands don't say)...

"Oh, honey....." I remember that. I remember I just kept saying, "oh, honey......."

So when I got done with my "....and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever, amen," I was plenty calm. Because that is a long song, enough to live a semblance of a life inside of, and here I was, this old and saying it right and left, thirty seconds here and thirty seconds there. Shouldn't I be saing souls instead of lying in this lumpy bed and listening to my "head-voice" lumber out the words to this most beautiful song? "Ah, go get 'em, kid," I heard one of my patient's voices coming through to me, "Go get 'em. Enjoy it. Let those voices PUUURRRRR."

I let them voices purr.

The next day was Friday. My friend had brought me a rose and an.......I'm not sure. Maybe a home-grown orchid? I received a couple of cards. I did NOT choose to be given the Last rites" earlier yesterday by the chaplain. I decided to take my mother's and father's words to heart on that one: 'If they come to give you your last rites, DON'T SAY YES! They are not necessarily ON YOUR SIDE! You never know! Tell 'em you got your own set of brand new last rites and you gonna apply them to yo Own Self! And then, if you can,.....RUN!"" So I did.

My father actually did run. From the American army medic quarters in New Guinea to the middle of the jungle where we slumped down to die beside a tree. THAT was what my father felt about the last rites, it went like, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I have never questioned his decision in this matter, although I'm sure it would have been intersting and, Who knows, it might have saved him his life. KEEP YOUR EARS OPEN AND YOUR MIND ON RED ALERT, said my Mama. I can hear her now. There she is, over there, in the big stuffed white leather chair. She's doin' that thing with her eyes and she's movin' her head right to left, right to left, waving me along. Come here. Go away. Come on over here. Go on, get out of here. She was a high maintenance woman and they say I am too, although I never once woulda thunk itto myself..

Nope, not even onct.