I used to have pride, respect, maybe even a little bit of integrity. If you like laughing at other people's mystery this is right up your alley.
So I was coming home in a taxi today and low and behold my old friend Colonel Sanders was holding court with a line of Chinese chicken-chompers all the way out the building. I remember the days when I used to walk into see my life-long friend "The Colonel" and was able to pick and choose between a list of delectable fried creations complete with eleven herbs & spices. These days are long gone my brethren, as I have recently been told that going up and down stairs will be a novelty that I will only reach with luck on the coming Halloween.
On the Friday morning of my surgery I courageously decked myself out in only the finest of clothing in preparation for one-on-one combat with a Chinese knife-fighter: USC shirt, USC jacket, Adidas pants, socks with sandals which is only cool in the Orient and the Midwest. After reaching my battleground I filled out all the papers and soon found myself wearing a purple Moo-Moo with no underwear, socks, or well anything. After getting my tie tied, I was strapped down to the gurney and my veins were opened up with a needle that would be connected to my wrist for the next four days. Well sort of, since it took them three times to actually find the right vein, and being a man who hates needles and blood more than I hate admitting that West Virginia really is a legitimate United State this was not the confidence non-booster that I needed going into my battle royale...
After being wheeled up to the war-room I was soon greeted by my Chinese surgeon and about ten other Chinese men & women all with scary looks gloves and masks. My arms were extended like a crucifix and I was shot up with enough anesthesia to put a herd of wildebeest to sleep for a few weeks. I remember waking up and the staff looking at me with puzzled faces as if to think, "is he still alive". I instantaneously was in a state of shock and was unable to speak; however, I eventually put together the mental fortitude to extend a thumbs up; which in turn inspired one of the nurses to stick an oxygen mask about halfway down my throat.
A few hours later I was in the room where I would spend the next 72 hours, and not only would I never leave the room, but I wouldn't leave my bed during these dark days. I had a TV, DVD player, a lifetime supply of morphine and about ten or so friends who made it out to visit me during the worst weekend of my life. I had no idea that I had a DVD player, so I was subject to the movies chosen by the hospital, and there were some of the worst movies chosen this side of "The Full Monty". To this day I do not know what I would have done had the first full season of "Las Vegas" (I give two very shaky thumbs up to this selection) not been present to keep my entertained.
I was given few instructions if any, mainly to push the morphine button (which was white) if I felt pain) & to push the help button (which was red). Over the next few days I pushed the red button quite a few times, but that white button got pushed more times than a brunette in a school filled with gingers trying to compete for the spot of "Annie" in the big play. It got to the point where I started to get double vision like I had drank a couple bottles of Popov Vodka. My brain constantly played tricks on me as I saw things that I knew were not really there. Nevertheless, the pain in my knee never stopped hurting the entire time. This was due to the fact that I had a piece of metal inserted into my torn ACL ligament, and most doctors can tell you that this surgery is on their top ten list of surgeries that will make you want to cry. And I will be honest, I did...
By the second day I finally got the funny feeling that it was time to go to the bathroom, and I had my Chinese friend Lucy (who stayed with me for almost the entire four days, and whose kindness I will never forget) interpret my quandary to the nurse. Soon thereafter I was given a blue bucket contraption that looked more like what somebody might use to water their flowers with, and as Lucy left I reluctantly tried to get down to business. Problem is, the drugs that had invaded my system had seriously screwed up my urinary tract and after a half hour of going after it, I had not even drained a drop in my most unsavory of bathroom devices. The nurse barged it while I was still trying to handle my business and she was not at all satisfied with my efforts, and soon enough I had another substance injected into my veins which was supposed to help me with this or something or other. This helped me to be able to fill the bucket when need-be, but this act became very tiresome very quickly. I felt like a dolphin at a theme park doing my famous trick every time that I had to use the bathroom. And the Chinese nurses would literally clap when I was able to perform. I now know what these poor dolphins go through, and will never go to "Sea World" again.
In a weekend full of horrible events, I have to say that the sponge baths I would get in the mornings were my least favorite. Since getting off of my bed was an impossibility, I was sponged off by middle-aged Chinese nurses with bad teeth who ferociously scrubbed at my various body parts like they were working at a car wash full of trucks that had just finished a road rally. I wanted to shove them off of me and be left alone, but I had no fight or might at this time like a King Cobra caught in the trance of a snake charmer. These washings would last about five minutes, but I felt like I had been scrubbed to death for hours.
The following two days were somewhat of a blur. I would wake up at random times throughout the day, to find: a horrible plate of food that I would have thrown out the window if I had the power to do so; a group of nurses looking at me with with sad looks making me wonder whether I was ever going to get out of this hospital; and finally a doctor who had the physical prowess of a duck-billed platypus who eventually gave me my marching orders. As the doctor helped pull me off the bed I soon realized that my right leg had lost any muscle mass that it once had, and I felt like I was trapped in quick sand. I was outfitted with a pair of crutches and my first stroll down the hall resulted in a crash with one of the nurses, who was less than impressed with my navigational skills.
After a taxi ride home I was finally out of the castle of doom and my couch became my savior. This concludes the 4-day stay in my own personal house of horrors. Not as much fun as the four-day weekender trips I used to take to San Francisco, when USC played Cal or Stanford back in my undergraduate days of grace.
don't break a leg,
The Crippled Warrior
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