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.

FOR I HAVE SEEN THE ETERNAL FOOTMAN HOLD MY COAT AND SNICKER / PRUFROCK / t s eliot

  I have had a hard year, physically,

and emotionally. It has been marked by loss, illness, betrayal and self doubt.  I am slowly pulling out of it. I have a strong constitution and do plan to be around for some time. 

I am writing this post and will probably publish it tomorrow, the day before I report for yet more surgery on Monday, July 23, 2012.  It is nothing as dramatic as brain surgery or open heart surgery.  It is only that my much battered and overused plumbing is shot and badly in need of repair.  There are risks, as there are risks in crossing the street.  When your time is up, your time is up.  It is, of course, possible that this will be my last post.  I hope not and do not plan for it to be.  I’ve got some zingers waiting in the wings but I don’t want to drop the whole load at once.  But for sure, as it says in my profile, “There are many songs that will not be sung.”

Fear, yes.  I have had enough pain and do not want any more.  Not to mention the indignity of it all.  I am thankful that I do not plan to go into this hungover and dehydrated.  One of the many benefits of my sobriety.   I have had an appointment with each of my therapists this week.  I am engaging in prayer and meditation and rest so as to be as physically, spiritually and emotionally fit as possible.  When I go in I will have done as much as I can do.  It will no longer be in my hands.

I know I have not been totally forthcoming in my writings.  My writing has been pretty well controlled.  It is just my style.  I have written some thinly veiled stories but have, in the most part, not used real names out of respect for both the living and the dead and in some cases, my own mortal ass.

There are things I am not, at this point, able to talk about because they are too horrible to comprehend or just too embarrassing.  I believe we all take secrets to the grave. 

I have had fun using the nom de plume of The Shadow.  It was just something I pulled out of my ear and thought “why not”.  I will probably use my own name someday.  I have no problem with that. I am certainly not ashamed of it.

I have always thought that the two worse things that could happen would be to lose a child or to lose my eyesight.  I have buried a child and now I am going blind.  Glaucoma that was not attended to until it was almost too late because I thought only black people got glaucoma.  So much for thinking.  It is a slow process and the Doctor says I will probably die before I am completely blind. Always something to look forward to.  My left eye is almost gone and I am having a difficult time using the computer.  Just so you know.

This sounds to me like the final episode of OLD YELLER.

THE SHADOW

SPITALNY, A CLASS ACT!

In the summer of 1958, after graduating from High School at 17 and before turning 18 that fall, I was working as an apprentice at the Aaron-Ruben Funeral Home in Indianapolis.  The job was that of a glorified gofer that got to wear a suit at least part of the time.  Aaron-Ruben was the only Jewish funeral home in the state of Indiana.  Irv Ruben also ran Hoosier Monument up Meridian Street and ran a livery service to some of the smaller neighborhood funeral homes in the city who found it more economical to rent a hearse or limousine than to stable their own.  I was also sent out to drive on these funerals representing almost every ethnic minority in the city primarily Eastern European.  At that time Indianapolis was unofficially a segregated city and the Black population took care of themselves.

   For my labors I received $15.00 a week and room but as a result I was exposed to far more varied customs and cultures infinitely more interesting than anything I had ever seen in Bindweed county.

   Many of these funerals stand out in my mind for different reasons.  One of them was a family member of Phil Spitalny, whom I had never heard of at the time.  It turned out that Phil Spitalny was a band leader who was billed as Phil Spitalny and his all girl orchestra.  During World War II when all the men were drafted into the armed services, Phil formed an orchestra made up of young women.  I am not sure it quite lived up to its potential.

   I was sent to work this funeral.  I believe I drove a limousine to take the family from either the synagogue, or more likely, the cemetery to their home.  The lawn was covered with tents with a large catered buffet to feed their many friends.  Then I saw something I have never seen before or since that afternoon.  On one side of the lawn there was a separate spread for the people who were working the funeral.  We were actually being fed and cared for when at any other funeral we just went hungry.  I remember thinking at the time that this was an example of the way people should act.  When I think of that day on that tree shaded lawn when we were treated well because that was the thing to do.  Every time I hear or think the name Spitalny I remember this and still think of the definition of class.

THE SHADOW SAYS – ENJOY!  http://youtu.be/2K6CuKdaMQQ

HERE IS THE REAL MEANING OF FREEDOM

When I was a kid of about fourteen, growing up on a farm in Soythistle Township, in Bindweed County, Indiana, my father, who was the consummate outdoors man, ran a trap line.  He had a couple dozen steel traps and would set them in various spots along the Tippecanoe River and its small tributaries.  He would trap for small fur bearing animals, an occasional mink but mostly muskrat.  He sold the pelts to Benny Snyder who ran a junk yard in a nearby town. The unpardonable sin was to run another man's trap line.  That is to spring a trap that was not theirs or, even worse, to retrieve an animal from another man’s trap.

   One day, it was summer; he brought home a trap with a large raccoon, alive but with the steel trap firmly gripping its leg.  I don’t know how long the animal had been in the trap but it had already started to chew its leg off.  The raccoon was put next to the telephone pole that stood in the side yard between the house and the barn.  There he stayed for an entire afternoon, patiently chewing away at his leg until my father finally dispatched it with his .22 rifle.

A real Cavalier, my old man.

I think the analogy about freedom is pretty evident.  Freedom has a price.

THE SHADOW-------LIVE FREE OR DIE

'TIS A PRIVILEGE TO LIVE IN COLORADO / MASTHEAD / DENVER POST

It’s true! It’s true! The crown has made it clear.

                             The climate must be perfect all the year.

                              In  Camelot

I woke up this morning and immediately started coughing.  My nose was running and my sinuses were dry and swollen.  My eyes felt like they had been sanded down and wrapped in a gunny sack.

I am pretty insulated from the world, living here inside “The Black Hole OF Calcutta” especially after I threw my TV away in a fit of sanity.  That woman, Flo, who sells insurance in incessant commercials, was the catalyst.  Although I was aware that the entire state of Colorado was on fire, I thought ‘WTF’?

So I got on my computer to see what the air quality was.  I checked the government site and lo and behold, the air is good. 

Colorado Department of Public Health and Environment Detailed Air Quality Summary for 06/29/12 (Today)

Area

Site

Air Quality

Max AQI

Pollutant

Conc.

Period

Time * (MST)

Denver [+]

BOU

Good

49

Particulate < 2.5 micrometers

15 µg/m3

24-hour

7:00 AM

 

How good is bad and how bad is good?  My government says it’s good so it must be good. So why do my already ravaged eyes hurt so badly?  I know that numbers can mean anything.  I know that the Colorado economy depends on the tourist and convention business and relies heavily on their reputation of clear mountain air not to mention Pure Rocky Mountain Spring Water.  I know there are many interests who like to see it remain that way.  I know fire and smoke, while inevitable, is counter productive.

Me, I haven’t trusted my government since November 22, 1963.  Smoke gets blown around.  Some smoke gets in my eyes.  Some of it is being blown in my ear.  Some of it is being blown up my ass.

THE SHADOW SAYS YOU CAN’T CON A CON

TODAY IS MARV HEEMEYER DAY

The Dozertank

Marv Heemeyer

Consider if you will, Marv Heemeyer, a resident of a small town in Northwestern Colorado, a seemingly nice guy, congenial, someone you might like to sit down and have a beer with, but somewhat prickly when riled, who on this day in history, June 4, 2004, suddenly propelled Granby, Colorado into the                                                      SHADOWY ZONE.                

Marv became angry because he felt a series of ordinances enacted by the town government of the town of Granby had ruined his business.  After he had failed at several attempts to overcome these obstacles, Marv set out to prove you can indeed fight city hall.

Marv possessed a Komatsu D355A bulldozer, formidable in its own right, and even more so after he had basically converted it into a tank by welding steel plates to the machine.

On June 4 he proceeded to wreak havoc on the town, laying waste to a goodly portion of Granby.  Impervious to small arms fire, the law enforcement apparently did not think that the way to stop a dozertank was to go after the treads.

Eventually the dozertank stopped of its own attrition.  Marv was reported by the swat team to have died of a “self inflicted gunshot wound”.  That seems to happen a lot when the law is in a standoff situation.  Keeps the record clean.

Disclaimer:  I cannot in any way condone Marv Heemeyer’s actions.  What he did was wrong.

  

The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.
Thomas Jefferson

The Shadow Says…revenge is best served cold.