Gutless Bastard
My friend Sandy wrote recently saying that she’d just had her appendix pulled. She said the pain was up there, but nothing compared to a couple of C-sections she’d been through. Amen. I got nothin’ to try to trump that.
But it reminded me of a thing that happened a few years ago – when my own appendix revolted – that was going to leave me forever unless I wrote it down.
You’re not going to get the whole appendicitis-pain-not-knowing-finally-go-to-the-doctor-almost-burst story. It’s fabulous, really, but stories of medical ailment are like break up stories: good for the first few paragraphs. Then you know what happened. You know who got dumped; you know who cheated; you know whose private bits are too scary – whatever. You don’t want to know more.
But my story is really best near the end.
Drugged quite sufficiently, I went into the O.R. and had a great conversation with a guy who had been a medic in Bosnia. We had a lot in common. At least the morphine analog he’d squirted into my I.V. left me believing that he and I had a lot to talk about. We’d be friends some day. But he left me there, flaccid, gowned, not really caring…really.
Jimmy the surgeon asked me soon after what I’d like to hear on the stereo in the O.R. I pulled ‘Zydeco’ from some odd corner of my mind, intent on stumping the utterly cool young surgeon. Sho nuff, son-of-a-bitch pops in plain ol’ coon-ass Looosiana Zydeco something or other, and out I went.
Next thing I know I’m being wheeled along. My eyes open, the fluorescent lights are streaming past the faces of two exceedingly cute nurses. And instantly I have to vomit. “OhshitI’mgonnabesick…” and I tilt my head and the feeling just as instantly goes away.
I roll my head back and look at Cute Nurse Left and she smiles. “Chemistry is good.” She’d injected something into the I.V. that killed the first attack.
I have no more than five seconds to assess my situation: I am wearing a flowered gown (I remember this from admission), thus virtually naked; I feel like a flounder; I’ve been eviscerated; I’ve almost vomited on a cute nurse; I’m just not feelin’ sexy.
Cute Nurse Right catches my gaze, and smiles as we maneuver through a doorway.
“This may not be the best time to ask you this. But are you from West Seattle?”
I was simply not prepared. “I am.”
“I thought so – I’ve seen you at the grocery store!”
Humiliation…complete.
But it reminded me of a thing that happened a few years ago – when my own appendix revolted – that was going to leave me forever unless I wrote it down.
You’re not going to get the whole appendicitis-pain-not-knowing-finally-go-to-the-doctor-almost-burst story. It’s fabulous, really, but stories of medical ailment are like break up stories: good for the first few paragraphs. Then you know what happened. You know who got dumped; you know who cheated; you know whose private bits are too scary – whatever. You don’t want to know more.
But my story is really best near the end.
Drugged quite sufficiently, I went into the O.R. and had a great conversation with a guy who had been a medic in Bosnia. We had a lot in common. At least the morphine analog he’d squirted into my I.V. left me believing that he and I had a lot to talk about. We’d be friends some day. But he left me there, flaccid, gowned, not really caring…really.
Jimmy the surgeon asked me soon after what I’d like to hear on the stereo in the O.R. I pulled ‘Zydeco’ from some odd corner of my mind, intent on stumping the utterly cool young surgeon. Sho nuff, son-of-a-bitch pops in plain ol’ coon-ass Looosiana Zydeco something or other, and out I went.
Next thing I know I’m being wheeled along. My eyes open, the fluorescent lights are streaming past the faces of two exceedingly cute nurses. And instantly I have to vomit. “OhshitI’mgonnabesick…” and I tilt my head and the feeling just as instantly goes away.
I roll my head back and look at Cute Nurse Left and she smiles. “Chemistry is good.” She’d injected something into the I.V. that killed the first attack.
I have no more than five seconds to assess my situation: I am wearing a flowered gown (I remember this from admission), thus virtually naked; I feel like a flounder; I’ve been eviscerated; I’ve almost vomited on a cute nurse; I’m just not feelin’ sexy.
Cute Nurse Right catches my gaze, and smiles as we maneuver through a doorway.
“This may not be the best time to ask you this. But are you from West Seattle?”
I was simply not prepared. “I am.”
“I thought so – I’ve seen you at the grocery store!”
Humiliation…complete.
posted by C at 7:19 PM
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