Saturday, May 21, 2005

surgical entries vol 1.

everything they tell you is a lie. there is no upside to getting surgery. the drugs become a burden. the nurses act annoyed. the food is starchy and bland. the bed bends at the wrong angles.


before i went under, as i lay on the gurney facing the bright whiteness of the hospital sky, i was stunned for a second by the irony. i was on the gurney waiting for the anesthesiologist to come and put me down, and there was a frenzy of blue and green in my peripherals. doctors and surgeons and assistants of all sorts. all there to fix the problem. all there to inject the cure. and i had never felt sicker before in my life. i had never felt more ill. there i was, surrounded by medical practitioners the sensation of disease had never been stronger. this irony never got clever.

{when i awoke, blurry images i recognized to be the cute nurse that questioned me before i hit the gurney, and later on after the second or third start to conciousness, the neurosurgeon that performed the operation, came up to me and said something like "you did great jonathan, everything came out fine. you did good." i can only remember thinking, "why do they keep telling ME that i did good? i didnt do nuthin but lay there and get cut. THEY should be the ones receiving praise," then nodding out again into a deep, narcoleptic sleep.}

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the recovery room is filled with victims on their last leg. an old man that wont wake up to piss in a bottle. an even older lady that refuses to breathe. a fat chick that cant feel her feet. a middle aged sucker who's IV makes his hand throb in pain. my nurse assures me that im awake. i tell her im in pain with all the strength i can muster. it comes out a horse whisper.

she gives me a shot of morphine. i whisper that i need more. she gives me another shot. i hiss my confusion. i dont feel a thing. she ask what i expected to feel. i say different than i did before she gave me the morphine. she says give it some time then walks over to another patient. this is the hospital.

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i get to my room and they supply me with some Demerol. i flop and turn as much as possible under the heat of my greatest high. the feeling is as if pleasure exploded inside you, and it burns you asleep and you love it. much more intense then the mission street tar i booted in disco. much cleaner and more potent. i nap in its fires, finally under a decent spell.

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i gotta pee. i gotta pee and its midnight and i cant move an inch. it hurts to move at all. there is no way i can get up and go to the bathroom so i panic for a second, my dilemma washing over me, then suddenly- i dont have to pee anymore.

i lean up for a peak to see if maybe i havent gone in my bed when - OH FUCK!! WHAT THE... i have a tube in my dick. a tube going straight up my bladder. i tiny tube going UP MY MOTHERFUCKING DICK!!!

i panic again, then stop as the pain from the TUBE IN MY DICK shoots through me. i lay back down and accept that if i didnt have a tube in my dick i would be a flopping high crippled sitting in his own urine. this is only somewhat comforting as now every motion i make seems to cause a stir in my nether regions. and this stir dont feel pleasant. it feels more like having a machete wielding psycho living in the pouch above my genitals suddenly woken up while sleepwalking.

so i stay perfectly still for the first 12 hours or so until the nurse come and rips what i have now learned is called a Foley out of my penis. and like she promised, it didnt hurt coming out, but it burned like hell for 20 minutes after. more painkillers were in order, as well as a glass of water and a brief moment of intense sobbing.

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and that is about all i feel up for transcribing tonight. maybe ill relay more about that episode later. then again, maybe i wont. [note the last Judy Blume reference. Judy Blume Fever, catch it!]

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:gray matters: by jkg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at downtownalleys.blogspot.com.