Ruminations on Rooms n' Nations
ROOMS -
Again with the hernias.
Just spent the past few days recovering from hernia surgery on Monday. That means not leaving my bedroom the first day home from the hospital, lolling about in the arms of sweet Sister Morphine and lacking the nerve to get out of bed simply because it hurt too damn much just to swing my legs over the side and climb in or out of it.
Thank God I was constipated. However, any hopes of 'leg-over' are currently residing in my 'Wish List' at Amazon. I am happy to report tho, that while in the Recovery Room after the operation, I knew I was going to be alright after experiencing a semi-erection while thinking about an egg-salad sandwich. You know, the kind with not-so-finely-diced onions, a very thin slice of tomato and a sprinking of sprouts of any kind other than Brussels. And of course, liberal doses of salt and pepper and lots of Mayo. Okay, now take a moment to rearrange your parts.
The operation went okay. I'd been through this before (just three years ago with a hernia on the other side of my groin,) so I pretty well knew what to expect. And judging by the size of the bruising and the darkness of the dried blood which accompanies my latest scar, it looks like everything went well.
But I gotta tell ya - I AM just a bit disappointed in our free health-care system up here in Canada. Or specifically, here in London, Ontario where our current Health Minister promised more jobs for nurses while cutting back hospitals' budgets in his next breath.
You know, the first time I had a hernia done shortly after turning 50 (it's one of those 'rites of passage' things which neither Steven King nor John Updike nor the guy who used to direct those Clint Howard movies seem to have glommed onto yet,) well, when I was in the Recovery Room afterwards, the free cans of Ginger Ale just kept coming and coming. Unbeckoned even! And no tips allowed! There was no stopping the flow until I had to make that crucial trip to the washroom to see if I could urinate. And after that, well let's just say that as far as free carbonated beverages go, 'Canada Dry' was just that. Wham, bam,thank you Sam.
But this time, the nurse attending to me went for lunch shortly after I got in there and I had to nurse the same damn half-glass of warm no-name Ginger Ale for over an hour. They didn't even give me the rest of the can to top it up.
But now that Ontario's Liberal government has officially banned praying to our Deity before they open their daily session of yelling at each other (yeah, cuz that's gonna help,) they've cut down so much on hospital budgets that there I sat - an hour after having my gut sliced open with the surgical equivalent of box-cutters and my intestines moved out of my scrotum and tucked back behind my stomach wall where they belong - and I am reduced to drinking ginger ale out of a fukkin' thimble. I ask you, WHERE are our PRIORITIES, people?!
I had been looking forward to that ginger-ale all week. I had even thought of claiming not be able to urinate on demand - just so I could get more. It was such a let-down, that on the way home, when Mavis got my 'scripts filled at the 'Pharm (that's how the junkies talk,) she was good enough to get me a big bottle of Ginger Ale. True, it was that Schweppes stuff. But that's okay. I'm not one to complain. Even though it was warm. Thank God, it wasn't Vernors. That shit tastes like James Reaney's piss. Or so I've been told.
Anway, that was a few days ago. I spent the next few days doing a lot of sitting. Sitting and reading. Yes, reading. That's what things have come down to.
Originally I thought that this would be the ideal time to get started on watching that DVD collection I got for Christmas a couple of years ago of the first complete season of 'Friends.' But you know what - after hernia surgery, they caution you against sneezing, coughing and uncontrolled uproarious laughter. So for the sake of a speedy convalescence, 'Friends' is back on the back burner.
I'm one of the few (actually, there may be dozens of us,) who can actually claim to have never seen an entire episode of 'Friends' from opening to closing credits. Sure, I've caught large chunks of it at a time whilst flicking the channels - but it's only 'Phoebe' that keeps me there. There's something very deep and mysterious going on inside that character. I don't know what it is and I'm sure that Lisa Something, the actress who plays her doesn't know either but ...
... But that Joey guy? Cracks me up every time. And THAT'S why I set the DVD aside. It only hurts when I laugh, right? And maybe it was the codeine, but when I watched a few minutes the other day, I swear, that show is soooo funny when you're stoned. Someone ought to blog about that.
And that's been my week.
By the way, the book I'm reading - 'The Pale Blue Eye' by Louis Bayard. It's this murder mystery set in the West Point Military Academy back in 1830 and the comical co-star is a real-life person. 'Edgar Allan Poe.' Apparently he was one of those writer guys in real life back then. But man, what a wit! That Eddie guy cracks me up every time. And if they do a movie, I know just who should play him.
Reading and sittin' and thinkin'. Mostly about how nice the back-yard looks in the spring-time when there's flowers and buds on the trees and stuff. And birds. We got birds too. Ditto the squirrels. The occassional chipmunk. And about how nice it is to have a dog to sit in it with again. It's all new to her. So even though I bring out a book, I spend most the time looking at her.
And thinking about Death. Because when you've had your second hernia operation in three years, it's time to start thinking seriously about things. Like begatting a few more male heirs and wondering if all those unopened 'Mott the Hoople' albums was such a smart investment after all.
But that's Life fer ya. You're always thinking about Death at some point during the day. With me, it's usually while sitting on a toilet after hernia surgery and constipated from medically-prescribed and regularly-ingested Tylenol 3's. And they say childbirth is rough.
It was the same thing when I had the hernia repaired on the other side of my groin three years ago. But like childbirth, I don't remember it being so painful. Or afterwards being so swollen and bruised and feeling like a hot dagger in my gut whenever I have to stand up or sit down. This time round, I got so excited about a few days off work that I guess I forgot that there was a negative side to the whole thing.
The Lesson to be learned here - Never grow old, my friends. Because once you hit 50, it's just a never-ending array of shit.
Until I turned the Big 5-OH, a few years ago, I thought I was immortal. Then, shortly after reaching the half-a-century mark, I realized that my shelf-life was getting shorter and my expiary date was coming sooner rather than later.
I had my first hernia. Then I found out that my gums were receding. The new kids at work didn't get my references to 'Mr. Ed.' That kind of thing.
Even though it is now May, I'm in the September of my years (feel free to sing along,) but I remember what it's like to be in the Springtime of my life. Back then, when I gave any thought to getting old, I wasn't concerned about Retirement Savings Plans or inventing a car that runs on guilt. All I worried about was male-pattern baldness. Well, at least THAT hasn't happened yet.
NATIONS - I was going to write something about the 60th anniversary of Israel becoming an independent state. But even though most of my friends are of the Hebrew faith, I don't feel like it. See you around, huh?
Again with the hernias.
Just spent the past few days recovering from hernia surgery on Monday. That means not leaving my bedroom the first day home from the hospital, lolling about in the arms of sweet Sister Morphine and lacking the nerve to get out of bed simply because it hurt too damn much just to swing my legs over the side and climb in or out of it.
Thank God I was constipated. However, any hopes of 'leg-over' are currently residing in my 'Wish List' at Amazon. I am happy to report tho, that while in the Recovery Room after the operation, I knew I was going to be alright after experiencing a semi-erection while thinking about an egg-salad sandwich. You know, the kind with not-so-finely-diced onions, a very thin slice of tomato and a sprinking of sprouts of any kind other than Brussels. And of course, liberal doses of salt and pepper and lots of Mayo. Okay, now take a moment to rearrange your parts.
The operation went okay. I'd been through this before (just three years ago with a hernia on the other side of my groin,) so I pretty well knew what to expect. And judging by the size of the bruising and the darkness of the dried blood which accompanies my latest scar, it looks like everything went well.
But I gotta tell ya - I AM just a bit disappointed in our free health-care system up here in Canada. Or specifically, here in London, Ontario where our current Health Minister promised more jobs for nurses while cutting back hospitals' budgets in his next breath.
You know, the first time I had a hernia done shortly after turning 50 (it's one of those 'rites of passage' things which neither Steven King nor John Updike nor the guy who used to direct those Clint Howard movies seem to have glommed onto yet,) well, when I was in the Recovery Room afterwards, the free cans of Ginger Ale just kept coming and coming. Unbeckoned even! And no tips allowed! There was no stopping the flow until I had to make that crucial trip to the washroom to see if I could urinate. And after that, well let's just say that as far as free carbonated beverages go, 'Canada Dry' was just that. Wham, bam,thank you Sam.
But this time, the nurse attending to me went for lunch shortly after I got in there and I had to nurse the same damn half-glass of warm no-name Ginger Ale for over an hour. They didn't even give me the rest of the can to top it up.
But now that Ontario's Liberal government has officially banned praying to our Deity before they open their daily session of yelling at each other (yeah, cuz that's gonna help,) they've cut down so much on hospital budgets that there I sat - an hour after having my gut sliced open with the surgical equivalent of box-cutters and my intestines moved out of my scrotum and tucked back behind my stomach wall where they belong - and I am reduced to drinking ginger ale out of a fukkin' thimble. I ask you, WHERE are our PRIORITIES, people?!
I had been looking forward to that ginger-ale all week. I had even thought of claiming not be able to urinate on demand - just so I could get more. It was such a let-down, that on the way home, when Mavis got my 'scripts filled at the 'Pharm (that's how the junkies talk,) she was good enough to get me a big bottle of Ginger Ale. True, it was that Schweppes stuff. But that's okay. I'm not one to complain. Even though it was warm. Thank God, it wasn't Vernors. That shit tastes like James Reaney's piss. Or so I've been told.
Anway, that was a few days ago. I spent the next few days doing a lot of sitting. Sitting and reading. Yes, reading. That's what things have come down to.
Originally I thought that this would be the ideal time to get started on watching that DVD collection I got for Christmas a couple of years ago of the first complete season of 'Friends.' But you know what - after hernia surgery, they caution you against sneezing, coughing and uncontrolled uproarious laughter. So for the sake of a speedy convalescence, 'Friends' is back on the back burner.
I'm one of the few (actually, there may be dozens of us,) who can actually claim to have never seen an entire episode of 'Friends' from opening to closing credits. Sure, I've caught large chunks of it at a time whilst flicking the channels - but it's only 'Phoebe' that keeps me there. There's something very deep and mysterious going on inside that character. I don't know what it is and I'm sure that Lisa Something, the actress who plays her doesn't know either but ...
... But that Joey guy? Cracks me up every time. And THAT'S why I set the DVD aside. It only hurts when I laugh, right? And maybe it was the codeine, but when I watched a few minutes the other day, I swear, that show is soooo funny when you're stoned. Someone ought to blog about that.
And that's been my week.
By the way, the book I'm reading - 'The Pale Blue Eye' by Louis Bayard. It's this murder mystery set in the West Point Military Academy back in 1830 and the comical co-star is a real-life person. 'Edgar Allan Poe.' Apparently he was one of those writer guys in real life back then. But man, what a wit! That Eddie guy cracks me up every time. And if they do a movie, I know just who should play him.
Reading and sittin' and thinkin'. Mostly about how nice the back-yard looks in the spring-time when there's flowers and buds on the trees and stuff. And birds. We got birds too. Ditto the squirrels. The occassional chipmunk. And about how nice it is to have a dog to sit in it with again. It's all new to her. So even though I bring out a book, I spend most the time looking at her.
And thinking about Death. Because when you've had your second hernia operation in three years, it's time to start thinking seriously about things. Like begatting a few more male heirs and wondering if all those unopened 'Mott the Hoople' albums was such a smart investment after all.
But that's Life fer ya. You're always thinking about Death at some point during the day. With me, it's usually while sitting on a toilet after hernia surgery and constipated from medically-prescribed and regularly-ingested Tylenol 3's. And they say childbirth is rough.
It was the same thing when I had the hernia repaired on the other side of my groin three years ago. But like childbirth, I don't remember it being so painful. Or afterwards being so swollen and bruised and feeling like a hot dagger in my gut whenever I have to stand up or sit down. This time round, I got so excited about a few days off work that I guess I forgot that there was a negative side to the whole thing.
The Lesson to be learned here - Never grow old, my friends. Because once you hit 50, it's just a never-ending array of shit.
Until I turned the Big 5-OH, a few years ago, I thought I was immortal. Then, shortly after reaching the half-a-century mark, I realized that my shelf-life was getting shorter and my expiary date was coming sooner rather than later.
I had my first hernia. Then I found out that my gums were receding. The new kids at work didn't get my references to 'Mr. Ed.' That kind of thing.
Even though it is now May, I'm in the September of my years (feel free to sing along,) but I remember what it's like to be in the Springtime of my life. Back then, when I gave any thought to getting old, I wasn't concerned about Retirement Savings Plans or inventing a car that runs on guilt. All I worried about was male-pattern baldness. Well, at least THAT hasn't happened yet.
NATIONS - I was going to write something about the 60th anniversary of Israel becoming an independent state. But even though most of my friends are of the Hebrew faith, I don't feel like it. See you around, huh?
posted by Sonny Drysdale at 9:51 PM
13 Comments:
Ouch, elephant balls syndrome. It just sounds so painful. Please tell me they put you to sleep to slice and dice so near your tallywhacker. Is it true hernias are caused from peeing outside in the winter? Get well soon.
Honey - if narcotics weren't offered, I wouldn't even go near a hospital to pull my pants down.
Except back in the day when Butch and I used to cruise by the Nurses' residence on South Street in this old convertible I used to have. To this day whenever I walk into the Vic Tavern, I'm greeted by cheers of "Moon!"
Alas, no one calls me 'Moon' anymore. Except Mavis - and that's only when she's walking the dog on the street behind us and notices me standing in the window of the upstairs bedroom. But that's another post.
From what I read in the medical literature, hernias in the groinal area are usually caused by middle-age and mental stress due to the fact that all your peers are jealous of you just because you are smarter and better looking than they are.
And peeing outdoors during mosquito season.
Don't feel bad, Sonny, Elvis died an old man at 42.
His daily routine at the end was similar to that of Howard Hughes.
First needle injection of Downers at 2 am;
Second needle injection of Downers and Amphetamines at about 11 am.
Third needle injection of Amphetamines at about 5:30 pm.
Glad that you made it through the surgery ok. I've never had a hernia, so I can't judge how bad the discomfort is. But I did go through god-awful hell with an urinary trac infection - so bad I finally took myself to the emerg and begged them to catheterize (sp?) me. Oh, blessed relief! Until they pulled it out... but we won't talk about that, else Honey Crueller will have enough material for an entire eposode of SNL or Letterman. Why all the reading? Not that I have anything against it... I do quite a bit myself. But didn't they let you have a laptop in the recovery room? Don't they realize we're all supposed to be connected all the time now? What is this, the Dark Ages? BTW, don't ruminate too much. You can get migraines doing that. And Elvis was a poor example, Butch. If you had that 'Colonel' guy or whoever that crackpot was, you'd prolly be shooting up too.
Thanks Butch. Incidently, heard you hootin' an a-hollerin' over to the ball park this afternoon. How old is that place anyway? Word on the street has it that it's just a couple years shy of the one they have in Tecumseh, down Windsor way.
thanks to you too, Jimbo. Much appreciated. And no, I don't even want to know what a catheter (sp?) is. But thanks anyway.
Sonny, the game at the park is on Sunday at 1 p.m., if it doesn't get rained out.
It'll also be televised on Las Vegas-TV-13.
If there was noise at the park today, it was the dugout bunnies warming up for the Sunday night orgy at Dizzy Dean's place.
Butch, I have a feeling that the city is renting out your ball-park for RV shows and dog races again.
Remember that time last year we surprised all those football cheerleaders coming out of the Roy McGregor ClubHouse?!?
Man, I havn't had that much fun since ... well, then.
Yes, I remember that fateful Black Day in July, when we found a badacious group of scantily clad, heavenly ta-tas cavorting in the clubhouse.
Alas, we ran out of K-Y Sterile Lubricant after only one hour.
Whose idea was it to give it to them up the ol' Jack and Danny anyway?
Herm or Rory?
Neither.
Bob's yer uncle.
You manage to write this whilst suffering the sling and arrows (mostly arrows) of outrageous medical indifference (Schweppes? Unfair!). And all the while, Michael Coren is paid to shit into a word processor.
Truly this world is unjust.
Well, David - would you rather be able to read Michael's voiding and accidents - or actually witness them happening on his TV show?
I don't mind Mik so much. Compared to the other American-styled right-wing religious pin-heads he seems harmless enough since no one reads up here. In my dotage, I occassionally even agree with the guy.
Emphasis on 'occassionally.' As in 'rarely' and 'blue moon.'
Ouch. I'm sorry, Sonny. That must have hurt like a mother-sexual-intercourse-haver.
And for the record--Sonny does have a beautiful backyard. I still remember the glare he gave me when I came to visit unannounced once. Not that I blame him--if I had a yard like that, I' dig it up and move it to the Antarctic, just so no one could interrupt me when I was just a-settin'.
Kid - that was no glare. Merely embarrassment at someone walking in on me while in the middle of reading a biography of Linda McCartney (a.k.a. - The Cute One. Comparatively speaking, next to Yoko, that is.)
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