Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Arubadoc

Which one of you has ever been picked up in your sweats and sneakers by a half-block long white stretch limo at 7 A.M.? I mean, for all the neighbors looking out their windows with their bowls of rice chex, and wondering what the hell is she up to now, I’d like to say, “I’m flying to LAX to get my hair cut by nutty Jonathan Anton” but you all know I’m on my way to the doc-in-the-box surgery center. Although the limo had no heat, and I did see my breath the entire way there, it was a pleasant ride. I was greeted at the desk very nicely, but all the fawning I was promised by the woman who made the error about last week’s mishap, did not happen. I don’t think she came to work that early or maybe she called in sick, which I certainly would have considered on ANY Monday in my working life.

I changed into that fashionable schmatta gown that ties in the back and put on the booties with the skid paws on the bottom. They let me sit without having to wear the blousy shower cap, but said once in the OR, I would have to put it on. I tried joking with the attendant that it might have been a bad idea having this done on a Monday because cars built on Monday always turn out to be lemons. He said the worst day is Friday because everyone wants to get the hell out of there. Note to self. He gave me some delightful back issues of the Star and I caught up on all the movie stars with bigger bellies than mine, although they are expecting.

Enter Sam Elliot in a blousy showercap. Now, and I am not exaggerating, picture the big eyebrows and moustache, the piercing eyes, and the swagger and then he opens his mouth and he’s Howie from Freehold. He was the machine technician and he just couldn’t tell me enough about how the machine works and what would happen when the procedure started. Then, he started repeating himself, and I kept saying “Got it”, because, really, I needed to get back to the Star and find out what Teri Hatcher sees in Ryan Seacrest. But he would not leave. Finally, someone called for him at the desk and next thing I knew, I was led into the OR, walking slowly in my paw socks and holding the back of my gown closed to avoid mooning those in my path.

I got up on the table and the doctor, who was talking ALL about his trip to Aruba, said he would be numbing my foot soon and then I would not feel anything. “Then” is the key word, because he said nothing about how much the numbing process would make you want to scream out loud. My first clue was the nurse, after puttering around the room and not seeming to notice me, all of sudden took my hand and leaned directly over me. Barring a declaration of love, I knew what this meant. She said, “Just remember to breathe” and I said, “I suppose you all like it when the patients keep breathing”. With that, Arubadoc stuck this needle into the side of my foot and the burning was unbelievable. And it lasted far longer than the dentist’s injections do. OK, finally, it was over. Then, she squeezed my hand again, and I thought, “What now?” and was answered with a far worse, excrutiating pain on the other side of my foot for the second needle. Then, catching my breath, because I tell you, Pilgrim, I held my breath for the entire time, I joined Sam Elliot, Arubadoc and the two nurses while we waited for my foot to go numb. Of course, I needed another shot because I could still feel the pin pricks, which, c’mon, how many times are you going to stab me?

Now, they turn me on the side and line up the machine, and Sam Elliot is in charge now. And the sensation is like someone taking a hammer and chisel to your foot and tapping it, starting off slowly and then rising to a crescendo of speed and pressure. He had told me that if it gets too much he will turn it down. He lied. He kept asking me, “Is that too much?”, and when I would wince, “Yes” he would say, “Is it tolerable?” and I would say, “I want to run screaming off the table” and he would laugh but would not stop. Rage against the machine.
At one point he said, “We’re halfway through” and I thought I would never make it.

Meantime, Arubadoc is telling me what a good patient I am, probably because I didn’t kick him or Elliot in the nuts. They are having a running discourse on how taxes are killing the hospitals and I thought that the hospitals are killing people so there’s a nice symmetry there. I assume I was delirious then. Finally, it was over. I was wheeled out of there into recovery, very disappointed that I did not get any good drugs. I was given juice, told not to take any Ibuprofen for an indefinite period, and not to drive for the day. I will have to wait a month to see if the procedure was successful, and that my heel will be sore for as long. If it works, as I pray it will, I can resume my exercise walks, dance again, and get off that recumbent bike, for the love of god.

Today, the painters are finally staining the deck, after several aborted attempts because of weather. They are NORMAL, we discussed Uboats, as I am fascinated with sub lore and sub movies, and I hope they finish soon. Last time they were here, my ceiling fan fell on one of their heads. Although it isn’t a depth charge, it did create an element of danger I’m sure they still crave.

Monday, April 03, 2006

Paging Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard

And to think, I watched “Grey’s Anatomy” last night and got myself into surgery mode. You see, I was to have a procedure today to help with my heel pain, which prevented me from qualifying for the US Curling Team this year. Well, after a phone call this past Thursday from the surgical center (doc in a box with oxygen and the good drugs), reviewing all my allergies and telling me not to use any alcohol in my hair (what? oh, sparks, the oxygen, the flames, oh the humanities), they assured me that I would be called this weekend with my scheduled time and the time for the limo (yes, limo) to pick me up, as driving would be out of the question once they perform the magic whatever. Well, you know it. They did not call me and when Sunday afternoon rolled around, I called and left messages. I was up most of last night imagining the limo showing up here and me in my pajamas. They said it could be as early as 6. So I sat, fully dressed and comatose, on my couch from 6 am on, like one of those senior citizens who is getting picked up to go to a wedding, and is dressed and ready four hours early, sitting in her recliner, with her purse hooked onto her wrist, ready to jump up and go at any time.

Naturally, I must’ve fallen back asleep, and the phone rang at 9 am. “It’s the surgical center. Where are you?” Where am I, indeed. “Oh, well we don’t know what happened, but since you are not here, the doctor has started his next patient and we are all booked for the rest of the day.” She instructed me to call my doctor’s office and reschedule. I look out the window for a moment and see the limo down the block. I call her back, and she says, “Oh, just ignore him, he just took a ride.” I’m still mulling that one over.

Angela, the very nice and efficient woman at the podiatrist’s office is apologetic and she told me they called and yelled at HER. She wasn’t happy. Finally, later that afternoon, and I should save the message, Michelle from the surgi center called and said she is the scheduler and it was her fault and she explained the cockamamie procedures that were even worse than EB’s about forms and vouchers and where the ball was dropped. She did an appropriate amount of groveling and I felt a lot better. In the age of George W. Fathead, it’s nice that someone took responsibility for something.

Saturday, April 01, 2006

The-Really-Bad-Made-For-TV-Movie

It was raining, and it started raining after I had battled with myself to put my sneakers on, grab the Ipod newly loaded with Pretender songs, and brave the boardwalk with the Saturday yahoos…so, turned around, did the stationary bike for awhile and gave myself a huge headache. I get these tremendously pounding, nausea producing headaches that require some sort of medication depending on the intensity, propping up on pillows, or for really bad ones, pacing, and putting something mindless on the tube until the pain becomes bearable. So, I came upon a little golf movie with Robert Urich, rest his soul, and Meredith Baxter, no longer Birney, called “Miracle on the 17th Green.” And I let it wash over me in all its cheesy splendor…It’s amazing how you can almost hear the pitch for this movie – “It’s got everything: the Rocky formula, older man wants to join the senior Pro tour, gets fired from his advertising job, wife feeling neglected and putting all her energy into a Catholic day care center filled with rascals who have no daddies or good shoes…a funny (their words) priest who hears a confession in a lavatory stall (I think my head is hurting more now), a cigar smoking African American buddy who doesn’t qualify for the tour but agrees to caddy Urich when he does, and many, many, many Christmas scenes, one of which includes Urich in a Santa suit charming the poor unfortunate rascals. When you ask yourself, “Who watches this stuff?” that would be me and anyone whose head hurts so much that they can visualize their basal ganglia exploding.

The bottomless pit of bad TV is somehow reassuring to me. It helps me feel superior to the lowest common denominator of the American population and gives me hope I might write something that would appeal to even a small portion of that population. I’m hoping L calls soon to go to dinner because I’m starving and I really don’t want to get involved in the next offering from Lifetime, “She Waited a Month to Schedule Her Mammogram” or some other compelling melodrama.

Update on the painters: The rain, no painters.