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.
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.