Apr 8, 2007

Here And Now

It's taken quite a few years, but after much ado, I've arrived...here. Precisely where I am right now. Which is to say--slightly sore, recovering nicely, marveling over prescription narcotics and spring sunshine and how industrial the health care profession has become.

I've written quite a few posts in the misty depths of my mind during this convalescence, watched 7 episodes of ST: Enterprise, two episodes of Midsomer Murders, read all of Gene Wolfe's "The Knight," which was an outstanding read, taken more sitz baths than I care to think about, popped Toradol and aspirin and crunched prescription narcotic painkillers like M&Ms, and well, to be quite frank, I've bemoaned my fate and railed at doctors and my own health (or lack thereof) and in general probably suffered more from cabin fever than anything else.

The high points?

  • The medical industry sucks. I was treated like just another cow in the abattoir, tho this one had new curtains and that new-building smell and a veritable army of nurses and support personnel who were all every bit as unemotional and uncaring as the new beige carpeting. I emerged with a throat raw from being intubated (meaning I had a large plastic tube shoved rudely and none too carefully into my windpipe) and a surgical wound that is nowhere near as bad as the secondary wounds that were left by the procedure itself. I've never suffered a more Pyrrhic effort in my life.

  • The only high point of the entire event? I had a male nurse named Maurice who, to my knowledge was no Gangster of Love, but who was called "Moe" by everyone around him. Unfortunately I never heard "Calling Doctor Howard, Doctor Fine, Doctor Howard" on the overhead, so I was a little let down by that.

  • Scott--I did in fact emit a rather feeble Woohoohoo! in the OR. I say "feeble" because I had already received iv drugs to 'calm me,' and the gas, which tasted dirty pinkish blue was already working it's magic on me, but I did get Moe to lift the vile device long enough for me to let out a mildish whoop, then all was dark. I'm afraid to think what the doc might have done had I NOT spake thus.

  • If you're ever given the option of gas versus iv, go with the gas. I felt a thousand times more awake in the recovery room. Heck, I even remember most of it.

  • I miss my garden. I miss pottering around out there. I miss checking on my crawfish.

  • The sun is out in force. I've seen clouds and rain, it even sleeted yesterday for a few frozen minutes, but today that fat old sun is riding high, spreading warmth and bright green everywhere it touches. I long so much to be out in it.

  • Smoking a cigar in a tub of hot water can be a lot tricker than it sounds, but when it works it's quite relaxing. Just make sure that a) the toilet is within easy ashing distance or b) no-one will notice the smouldering lump of grey on the bathroom rug.

  • I want to live in a tiny English village and be eccentric, because the crazies don't get axed.

Nancy, if you haven't noticed, I let fly with a few Papa stories on your blog, and thank you for the invite! ...I saved the joke for here:

Q: According to Hemingway, why did the chicken cross the road?
A: To die. Alone. In the rain.

Here's looking forward to a return to regular posting.


Nancy Dancehall said...

I did notice, and they were great! Here's hoping you'll be back in the garden next week. I feel your pain; nothing but snow here. Again.

Stucco said...

But what was/is wrong?

Scott from Oregon said...

Recovering from surgery and sitting in a bath smoking a cigar?

I hope it wasn't throat cancer, you bonehad...

The last "hoo" in the mix is the magical one.

I'm sure right after you passed out, this conversation ensued...

"What did he say?"

"He said "woo hoo"

"No. There were three syllables. I distinctly heard three syllables."

"Maybe it was woo hoo you?"

"Hoo. I am sure I heard a third hoo."

"Probably-- hey be careful, man. You're dealing here, with a human being!"

Irrelephant said...

Nancy--I finally set foot on my little patch of land this afternoon. There is nothing quite like dirt therapy to heal, if not the body then the spirit.

Stucco--now that it's all over and the potential embarrassment is, well, whatever. I had a fistulectomy. Had the damn thing for four years, got tired of hurting constantly, and had something done about it. The sad part is that the recovery from the procedure itself has been far worse than the procedure, and much worse than the original cause. *shrug* Methinks it's an oxymoron--modern medicine.

Scott--I gotta say, when I read that I laughed out loud. The conversation, not the throat cancer bit. No cancer, no throat. All part of the same process, however, just the end, not the beginning.

Scott from Oregon said...

Well then, keep your cigar out of your butt...

Stucco said...

Embarrassment? I don't know what you had, and Google is less than obvious. You had a connecting tube removed? Four years is a long time to put up with something that you can have "-ectomied".

In any event, I hope your feeling better.

Liz said...

Ugh, sounds like somebody needs some chocolate, STAT! Glad you're getting over your procedure and hoping the sunshine helps. Now, off to Google "fistulectomy" - damn expensive word, it is!

Liz said...

Um...okay...perhaps chocolate wouldn't be the best thing, right now - loved the chicken joke, though!

Irrelephant said...

Scott, remember the old Marlboro tagline "I smoke for taste." Well, I wrote that. It was, however, my second choice.

Stucco, when it's that personal, and you hate doctors and medicine and hospitals like I do, first you exhaust every other answer first. And then you suffer for a while.

Liz, thanks for the thought, but you're right...chocolate in all it's infinite love for us would be...problematic...right now. *lol*