Stocking Stuffer

Stocking Stuffer

Have you ever found yourself in a situation not of your own making, which controls your every action. I realize there are consequences for our actions, but in my particular situation the consequence was not only potentially embarrassing, but bordered on the edge of remaining civilized. I know I tend to over react in some situations, but this was not one of them. I should begin at the beginning where someone suggested that the beginning is the best place to start as it references where you are during the episode, with whom, and why.

It all began in the doctor’s examination room. He seemed a nice man, competent, at least in his reassurance that hernia operations were normally not complicated. He cautioned however that it was a remote possibility, but a possibility that something could go wrong. At my age guarantees are no longer a necessity although I am to my original parts. I should mention I had never been in a hospital before and found the upcoming experience exciting despite the calculated risk.

The doctor explained the procedure in layman’s terms, which I appreciated not having overcome my fear of all things medical. My fear relates to a misdiagnosed heart palpitation when I was in the prime of my youth; twenty-two years old. Death, at the age of twenty-two, is so far in the future it does not even register as something that could occur despite the fact you know it will. I was about to move to the mountains of Montana and was persuaded to have a physical; I would be far removed from any medical facility, doctor, or even a medicine man. I reluctantly agreed having had many sports related injuries over the years that proved not only painful but disfiguring, even if only for a short time.

I made an appointment with our family doctor. I say our, although I’d never met the man nor had I known my family to be particularly religious when it came to frequenting medical facilities. It was rumored my grandfather had been banned from a hospital once for throwing a punch at a nurse. He spoke broken English at best, so when he told me his story I preferred to believe the incident was simply a misunderstanding of a third kind; although my grandfather was not known for his calm demeanor, neither had I witnessed any street fights that he was involved.

I guess I could say that my family, although not afraid of doctors and hospitals, were not prone to seeking medical advice as it would assuredly bring bad news, and who needs more bad news after surviving a car accident and then being told you were uninsurable. I forgave my family for their shyness regarding medical professionals and made my way to the appointment. Having only observed waiting rooms on television, I was a bit taken back by the empty room I found myself in. Emergency rooms, which I had frequently visited, were more like a carnival of coughs and groans than a pre-miracle opportunity. While I weighed the contrast of the two facilities a nurse looked around the room and called my name. Being the only one present it was easy for me to comply with her wish to follow her. I was weighed, my height was established along with my blood pressure and oxygen level.

She left me alone in the small examining room that was eerily quiet. The walls were adorned with numerous charts displaying several in-depth drawings of the circulatory and nervous systems, in three D color and accompanied by text that made my urge to leave grow stronger. In the midst of me determining if I had leukemia or simply a brain tumor, the doctor entered. He was elderly, white hair in places, wrinkled skin on both hands and face, and a smile that could attract flies.

We went through a routine of coughing, the opening and closing of mouths, his and mine, an ear exam, and finally the reflex test which I enjoyed the most. I had no idea I could kick that high. Luckily for me the doctor had bent over to retrieve his glasses which had fallen from his nose and had slipped under the examining table. Finally we got down to the nuts and bolts of the matter, the stethoscope. The chrome thing that all doctors wear around their necks like yokes, I suspect so we can tell them from the nurses.

In spite of the cold metal on my bare chest, I felt confident I would soon be on my way with a glowing diagnosis that I could inform my parents and friends of, which would alleviate all apprehension about my proposed living in the mountains, me being a city boy and all. Ah! But fate is a fickle provider of both good and bad news. I had convinced myself there was no reason to be concerned despite the doctors grumbles and tut tuts, head shaking, and eye twitches.

He had not found his glasses so attempted to relay the bad news to me while squinting.“ I detect a murmur in your heart, and I believe you should go immediately to University Hospital to be examined by a specialist there. I will call and make the arrangements. They will be expecting you.”

I could only imagine that people who win the lottery suffer a similar anxiety; once you’ve achieved your dream after having had so many dashed, there is little use in continuing, depression replaces hope.

Numbed by the prognosis I made my way to my car and headed for the medical facility on campus. If you are not familiar with the U of M, you would not know that parking in the best of times, say Sunday at noon, is impossible. I have a permit to park by the river, only a hundred or so stone throws from the hospital. The parking area is also on the other side of the river so you have to hike five hundred yard across the bridge that spans the mighty Mississippi. The whole time I climbed the two hundred or so steps from the river’s edge to the bridge, It occurred to me that no one knew where I was, or to what I was escaping. It may have been the distraction of my pounding heart in my ears that caused my fatalistic outlook to fall on my like chicken Littles prognosis.

I made it to admittance alive and was ushered hurriedly into a room many times larger than the doctors examination room. There were several stainless tables, rows of jars filled with a cloudy liquid, and a wall clock that could have ticked its way to Tipperary and back without missing a beat.

I was told to undress and put on the open back article of clothing she called a gown. I did as I was instructed having no alternative, but to die. I waited, watching the minutes tick by accompanied by the tremors the clock provided. After half an hour a doctor, much younger than the one who had passed sentence earlier entered. He didn’t introduce himself or make any acknowledgement that I was still of the living. He too wielded a much nicer stethoscope than my family doctor. He proceeded to have me cough and take deep breaths until he was convinced I was alive.

I didn’t know what to expect, so expected nothing but the anticipated bad news; I was going to die, alone, and in a strange place. It is at times like the one I was experiencing that we begin to take stock of our lives. I had not planned to die, but nevertheless I was about to expire at any moment. My soul searching ended when the un-named doctor abruptly left the examination room stating “I will return. Make yourself comfortable.”

I was sitting more or less naked on a cold table covered with disposable paper and whatever germs had proceeded me contemplating the final interrogation. Before I had a chance to sink lower into my state of readiness the door was pushed open, and in came the doctor supported by four others who wore their own stethoscopes, and therefore I assumed had to be physicians as well. They took turns listening to my heart from various vantage points. When their exam was completed they huddled a short distance from me, obviously discussing who should deliver the death-roll news. They all turned in unison; a woman stepped forward apparently having drawn the short straw. “I’m Karen McIntyre, a heart specialist here at the U of M hospital and I wish to inform you of our prognosis.”

I was somewhat shocked that the remaining male ensemble allowed this twelve-year-old, no doubt beginner, to deliver the devastating news. I prepared myself by wondering how much time I had left and would I die alone on the bridge, and if so, would anyone find my car before the parking fines surpassed the worth of my 1969 Corvair, a classic.

“We have all agreed we can’t find anything wrong with you. Your heart is as good as one would expect of a twenty-something year old. You are free to leave. Have a good day.”

As the door slammed shut, I for some reason felt cheated. I was prepared in my own way to meet whoever is on the other side of the abyss, and now all I had to do was get dressed and walk the green mile to my car and make my way home. Life can be disappointing, but years later I had an epiphany; it also prepares you for future situations that although not be identical, provide a sense of disenfranchised assurance that life truly is a joke, and it always includes me.

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The years passed, climbing endlessly toward the ultimate inevitability, social security, an oxymoron in its own right. I find myself in a sort of limbo having survived when many didn’t. Viruses, the essential arbitor of any species, reared its deadly head and cried, “Wake up folks,” but no one was apparently listening. I had fulfilled my duty as a father, a husband, a community member and could only imagine what came next, other than the inevitable that is.

I noticed a bulge in my lower stomach that I assumed was just one more thing shifting out of necessity and thought little of it. A year passed, two; it began to grow despite my willing it not to. I knew if I succumbed to the recommendations of family and friends I would find myself once more in the clutches of the medical establishment. Being tired of fighting the impossible fight I coalesced, and found myself in the office of a doctor it was claimed to be, “the one to see for such problems.”

I went to see him. The memories of my past experience, although they proved to be non-fatal, did get my adrenaline pumping. He was cordial and seemed knowledgeable, which I prefer to a doctor who asks, “so what do you think is wrong with you?” Doctors, like mechanics, should know better than ask a potential customer for a diagnosis, no doubt arrived at by watching TV sitcoms where miracles are a given.

After examining my bulge, he confirmed that it was truly a hernia and should be taken care of immediately. The immediacy he mentioned triggered an anxiety attack which left me comatose and willing to follow the piper where ever he wished me to go. He recognized my hypothermic reaction, and reverted to lay terms, which in all honesty are more frightening than the language generally used by doctors as a means to hypnotize the inwardly hysterical, rendering us sheep.

He was so adept at explaining the process, so skillful that I found myself believing I could perform the operation myself given a utility knife, drywall tape, and a staple gun. Just as I was about to accept the reality of my situation he added, out of a sense of duty I suppose, the possible negative effects . There was nothing in my opinion that would have generated an anxiety attack until he threw in the possibility I could, although it was unlikely, loose a testicle. This disclosure caused me to return to the notion that a few select tools and a U Tube video would probably allow me to stay intact, as well as at home. Now the loss of a testicle wouldn’t have been earth shaking at my age, but nonetheless I had hoped to leave this world with everything I came into it with, so as not to upset the balance of nature, mine.

After blood work and several consultations, I arrived at what was to be an out-patient event that would see me safely on my way home after a few hours of observation. The drugs I admit were spectacular. I remember nothing after being introduced to “The Team.” I awoke several hours later, groggy, but alive. My welcoming to the conscious world wasn’t as I had imagined it. I had been moved to a recovery room where I waited for the good news and the time I would be released. He entered the room all smiles which gave me hope but also concern. After a bout with miles of intestines I believed he should’ve look more reserved, but confident.

My return smile quickly dissipated as he said the operation was a success even though I did lose a testicle, “couldn’t be helped. The hernia was larger than anticipated, and “we” believe it would be in your best interest to spend the night in the hospital under observation, just in case.”

The just in case segment joined its compadre, unlikely, and formed a more perfect union that I contemplated throughout the night not being able to sleep. Catheters, although considered essential, make movement of any kind impossible. The following morning I was deemed fit as a bed pan and told I could go home, but not to “lift anything more than a few pounds.” After three days I began running a fever and was returned to the hospital where it was confirmed something had apparently gone wrong. The doctor, my doctor, was not on duty as he was on vacation it being Christmas. After several examinations by various staff it was determined that I needed to be transported to a hospital that “would take good care of you. After a two-hour ride in an ambulance that had the suspension of a go-cart, I arrived. I was taken immediately to the operating room where I passed out before the introductions had been concluded.

The operation was a success evidenced by the plastic balloon now hanging from my stomach. I no longer needed the traditional fecal removal system; I now carried a Rube Goldberg rendition with me. I was informed by the doctor and an ostomy nurse on the procedures necessary to insure my “safe and speedy recovery.”

I spent the next five days in the hospital forgoing sleep, and being subjected to a starvation diet of stock soups, bouillon-based, chicken or beef, three times daily should I make the proper arrangements with the kitchen staff. I should mention that I was offered a menu with everything but the colored water excuse for soup, “Ex’d” to prevent undue harm. On the fourth day I was allowed pudding and a spice less sandwich of undetermined ingredients. I was allowed to return to civilization on the fifth day, 20lbs having disappeared mysteriously.

Living with an impediment requires an amount of mental gymnastics I had not thought possible. I felt like a chimpanzee carrying an infant about on my stomach. I had been advised to check the bag regularly as it had the capacity to fill with a methane product that if not released, could explode the bag. Although not life threatening, I was advised of the embarrassment potential, and much like the testaments of old it happened as prophesized.

Fortunate for me the bag had the decency to not explode but give up the ghost despite the generous amount of glue that was to mate two pieces of petroleum product, in the fashion of a wolf in heat. I was returning from a beautiful day on the Oregon coast, stomach full of fresh halibut and curly fries, dreaming of past times when the revolution occurred. At first I thought I’d spilled my water bottle onto my lap, but investigation found the bottle to be sealed. It had to be a sensation of an unknown kind that I was experiencing for the first time.

Gravity it is said is what keeps those of us who believe in science from drifting into a galaxy that may not be as accommodating as this one has been. It gave notoriety to a man named Newton who dispelled the notion that apples could fly, they just chose not to. I being an observer of things great and small, knew that gravity played no favorites, and what was good for one was good for all. I discretely tucked my pant leg into my sock as though preparing for a bike ride. I discretely slipped into the house and the bathroom, cursing Newton the entire way. I disrobed as carefully as gravity would allow and slid into the shower. The initial blast of cold water calmed my limited perspective. As the water became tolerable I allowed gravity to do what it does best, cleanse the soul of an unwanted alien invasion that had challenged my religious tolerance.

When all is said and done we can only hope that things are more like they are now than they have ever been before, and that the mystical being in the universe forgives my indiscretions as I forgive those who pointed at the volcanic like eruptions on the carpet, and snickered.