Last
week, I had surgery on my innards! Most specifically on an organ that I shall call my
blah-dére. Which had gone askew, drifted free of its moorings, and was eventually (maybe when I hit the age of 90)
going to lead me into the Depends aisle if the doctor didn’t fix it. Three
eight-pound babies sitting atop it might have caused it to slip from its
accustomed position and go on a strange peregrination, saying hello to the colon and sidling up to the spleen. (The blah-dére is a known sidler, and should be given Tic-Tacs to carry.) It was on its
way somewhere. It needed to be harnessed.
Organs that wander need stern discipline. I was embarrassed about this business, because blah-déres ain't the stuff of polite society, but now I'm posting it on my blog. Go figure. (People would rather talk about butts or boobs or even colons.) But suppose your heart wandered, or your duodenum? Or your liver just up and hid somewhere in the cavity of your chest, cringing from your nightly devotionals to the Lords of Booze? You wouldn't put up with it, not for a minute.
I was not interested in
shopping for “Poise” brand products (although I hear they make a fine and worthy product). Neither should you be, one in three like me! Go to the hospital and get that sonofabitch hoisted back on deck like a
drunken sailor. Ashamed? Pfah! It’s more embarrassing to tinkle while doing
jumping jacks or while doing ballet leaps to “Moves Like Jagger.” I’m going
to become one of those “hot trampoline girls” now. Not a droplet of pee shall 'scape my nethers. I'm going to drink lots and lots of iced tea and beer and then go on the trampoline.
I share this hideously embarrassing story so
that others may seek the same path as I have. Because I'm cool like that. Although Whoopi, the spokeswoman for Poise, is very righteous for speaking about her "spritz" in a public forum, I don't like the
thought of her wearing a "pad." I can't even say "pad" without using
quote marks because it's such a horrible word, rather like "panty." Do we like "pads" for our periods? The last time I wore a blasted "pad" was after birthing my third child, and it was like wearing a couch cushion between my legs. No grown woman ought to submit to this injustice! (There is a school of thought, by the way, that suggests that wearing diapers is insulting and wrongful for babies. No baby ought to submit to this injustice!)
Blah-dére surgery is covered by insurance, although you will need to check with your own health care provider.
Whilst in hospital, I had
the delight of sharing my room with an 87-year-old Italian lady named
Philomena. She’d had surgery on her back that morning. As I was eating my “clear”
dinner of chicken broth and lime jello (my second such miserable meal of the
day), I could smell her dinner of chicken breast with gravy and mashed potatoes
from the other side of the curtain.
“I no eat!” said Philomena.
Those were about her only words of English.
As soon as her extended
family left the premises, she began moaning and groaning like the star of a
tragic opera.
“Oh, mamma mia! Lo sono nel dolore terribile!”
she cried. I could hear her writhing about, chewing on the scenery a bit for
good measure. "Come ho fatto a finire que? Non mi piace questo posto!"
Then she started to gawp up
great gobs of phlegm and then swallow ‘em down again. She did this all evening
long. It sounded something like this:
“Schllurfkgkgkk…gulp.
SHNMMJKKlllffp…gulp.”
After each series of
wrenching, barftastic noises, she started to call out for me.
“Miss. Missuz! Missiz!
Heeeeelp me! Heeeelp me! Aiuto!”
I could tell the poor old
dear was in pain so I’d ring the nurse on her behalf. The nurse would come
running in with a Percocet for me.
“No, not me! Her!”
“But we can’t understand a
word of Italian!” said all the nurses.
“Um, I think she is in
PAIN. Show her the sad-face pain chart,” I suggested.
They rolled old Philomena
around on the bed and asked her lots of questions and she babbled at them in
Italian. I think they may have given her a Tylenol, but nothing stronger—for
she never went to sleep!
After the third incident I
accepted the Percocet for myself, and drifted off into a blissful slumber. An
hour or so passed, and then:
“Miss! Missuz! Oh, Missuz!
Heeeeeelp me! Snlurklegurklrsmskfkg….gulp.”
I rang the nurse and told
her I needed another Percocet. She asked where the pain was.
“In my head!” I said.
Finally, morning came.
Philomena was moaning and thrashing about in a frenzy. I called the nurse
again.
“You gotta help this lady!”
I said.
Finally, they gave her a
Percocet while she was in the midst of poking at her breakfast, which included
a fruit salad.
It wasn’t long before she
zonked out, and I was finally able to read my book without disruption. But
soon, Philomena’s daughter showed up.
“Mamma!” she said. “Mamma!
Wake up! Open your eyes, Mamma! What’s a-wrong with you, Mamma? Mamma!”
The daughter started
slapping and tugging at the mother, and crying out for the nurses. Oh Lord, I
thought, what if the old lady corked off?
Then the daughter screamed:
“Oh Mamma mia! She got a strawberry inside her mouth! She’s a-gonna choke! You
kill-a my mamma!”
There was much activity to
remove the strawberry while the daughter wailed things like, “You drug-a my
mother! You drug-a her and feed her strawberry! Questo e molto male!”
The strawberry was finally
extracted and Philomena gave a gentle snort of pleasure, lost in her
Percocet-induced dream. I wondered what she’d been like in her youth, and
decided that she probably screamed and carried on just as wildly when, as a
girl, a boy dropped a newt down her shirt. No, she’d lost none of her spunk. Hopefully not any of her spritz, either. Bring out a trampoline for Philomena, for she wishes to bounce as high as the darkening sky.
