I'D GIVE FOUR MILLION JUST TO BE ABLE TO TAKE A PISS WITHOUT IT HURTING. / HYMAN ROTH / THE GODFATHER

          A continuum of the previous post.

From the recovery room there was a seemingly long and painful trip up to my room where I was to stay overnight before I was sent home.

   The entire stay became increasingly surreal to the point of being bizarre.  I met my nurse, Mike, to be followed by Travis and Brad.    Male nurses who defied all stereotypical concepts of a nurse, male or female.                      

I am old school when it comes to gender separation by profession, Rosie the Riveter aside.  My sister is a nurse, now retired after a long and successful career.  Nurses in my mind are still pert young things who wear pinstripe uniforms with starched aprons and cute little caps.  Another stereotype.  I had my male nurse and a gorgeous unnamed female nurse working side by side to ease my pain.  When you are in a world of hurt, it doesn’t matter.  I could fall in love with every female nurse I ever had and a couple of the
other as well.

In the time I spent there I experienced an epiphany of sorts.  Illness has apparently mellowed my spirit.  I realize that Denver Health is part of the American Health Care System, good or bad.  They make their mistakes and perform miracles.  They are what they are.  But I have always walked out of the hospital and not been carried out feet first.  That is saying something.  Medicine and surgery are not finite sciences and I needed to realize that.

In the American Civil War the first advice from the veteran soldiers to the new recruits was---- “Stay away from the surgeons.”  Surgeons are skilled mechanics.  They work with scalpel and needles and thread to reshape mangled tissue and bone and excise diseased organs and yes, fix it so I can pass water again.  For this I will be eternally grateful.

   When they visit your room the surgeons stand in a line far from your bed and near the door as if ready to make a break for it, should it be necessary.  I do not think they can deal with physical suffering.  Their work is abstract.

The staff of Denver Health, particularly the nursing staff, carries the load.  These are the people I came in contact with on a “hands on” basis.  They are patient, dedicated, professional and sainted.  I have never seen anyone like them.  I heard one of my nurses, Brad, a huge ex-bullrider coming down the hall singing “Mack the Knife” – in German.  I swear—I don’t make this shit up.

I have, and I suspect most men have, a castration complex.  Mine stems from when I was 15 on my father’s farm.  We raised hogs and when it came time for them to be castrated, my job was to wrestle them down and hold them while my father wielded the knife and a rag soaked in Lysol.  I cannot say if it was more traumatic for the pig or for me.

Finally alone in my room I stealthily reached my hand under the sheets and groped to where they had repaired the cursed Hydrocele.  I quickly counted.  One!  Two!  Thank God!  The only things I have left in this world are my dignity and my balls.  The hospital stripped me of my dignity but at least I still have my balls.

   At last when I was discharged and home, to care for myself, it was with some degree of irony that this old farm boy reached for the square green tin of Bag Balm.

THE SHADOW IS SPEECHLESS FOR ONCE.

IN SPITE OF THE BEST EFFORTS OF THE AMERICAN HEALTH CARE SYSTEM, I STILL LIVE

I was referred to the Urology Clinic.  I knew what that was.  Kinda.  I mean, they handle plumbing problems.  It turns out my prostate was prostrate.  Now all men have a prostate.  I was never sure why.  It seems to be an annoyance more than anything.  Like male pattern baldness.  It enlarges over time, slowly, insidiously, until you can no longer empty your bladder.  The best answer was surgery.  And quickly.  Ah man, not again! I mean, the scars aren't even healed from the last time.  But it is better than drowning in my own piss.  They want to do a TURP and while they are at it they will repair my Hydrocele. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hydrocele_testis  If you really want to know, check the link.  I can no longer bear to look.  The Hydrocele was a gift from the surgeon who did a hernia repair on me 7 years ago.

Was I scared?  Nah.  More like terrified.    

You see, when I hear the word surgery I immediately conjure up this vision of a well, next to a large shade tree.  Under which there is a kitchen door resting on two sawhorses.  There is a bearded man, shirtsleeves rolled up, wiping a bloody knife on his leather apron.  Beyond that there are blowflies swarming on a large pile of putrefying arms and legs.  In the distance one can hear the dull WHUMP of field mortars and the ripping canvas sound of volleys of musket fire.  You get the picture.  This is where my mind can go.  Back to that place where I have been before.

This is not heart surgery and there is little drama.  They begin by suckering you in.  There is always the ubiquitous needle stuck in my arm.  The nice lady slips a vial onto it and announces that she just wants to give me a little something to calm me.  Something to take the edge off while they get ready.  OK.  I’m all for tha………………….

…………..Out of the blackness into a dim surreal half light.  PAIN!  Muscle Spasms!  I have been raped by a Chinese section gang.  They transfer me from the anesthetic to morphine.  I asked for a lighter dose because I don’t do well on morphine.  Actually I adore morphine but I am a recovering alcoholic and to give me morphine sets loose long dormant urges buried in my brain and I go absolutely Batshit for days.  I did things and said things that I mercifully, only vaguely remember.

THE SHADOW SAYS: WE WILL CONTINUE THIS ON THE NEXT POST.