Listen to Me, Medical People

My last hospital experience was January, 2000, while giving birth to twin boys. Husband visited daily armed with cannolis from North End bakeries. He’d pass my room, go directly to the nurses’ station, hand my caretakers the treats and say, with enormous sympathy, “I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t that bad, not really, but cannolis from Mike’s Pastry did guarantee attention from the good folks at MGH. Yesterday, nurses at St. Joe’s weren’t so well-rewarded. Husband is in Colorado Springs and I don’t believe in dessert. This is my story.

Attendants wheeled me into the operating room three and a half hours late. In all fairness, they gave me Outback gift certificates to cushion the blow. That’s Outback Steakhouse, so I’m looking forward to eating a baked potato and salad while everyone around me devours dead animals.

Loopy from “relaxing medicine”, I fantasized out loud about veggie cheeseburgers and onion rings.

“Been fasting since midnight last night,” I said to no one in particular. “So I’m covered when Yom Kippur rolls around, right? A day of fasting is a day of fasting, am I right?”

No one replied.

“Great customer service,” I mumbled before passing out.

Afterwards, I didn’t want to wake up. My mom almost called the priest, conveniently on standby (she can’t help herself), but I finally opened my eyes and immediately glared at the attendant.

“Too much anesthesia,” I said. “Now I’m all groggy and sh*t. I told you this would happen.”

They tried to explain and I actually said,

“Blah, blah, blah. That’s all I hear.”

After a while, Nurse sat me up and allowed my mother to come back into the recovery area. Thought maybe she could calm me down. After shift change, another nurse arrived and, right hand to God, two employees gave her the sign of the cross. Didn’t bother me, though. Whatever works.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

"I’m pissed off,” I told her. “I don’t like feeling this way.”

“Because you’re in pain?”

“No, because I can’t think or form coherent sentences. And I don’t always look like this. Normally I’m a barrel of laughs.”

Mom felt the need to explain “control issues” and assured her the rest of our family was good people.

“How about some pain medication?” Nurse asked.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll meditate, it’s not that bad. I’ve had twins, you know. Give it to my poor mother. After a night with me, she'll need it.”

“You’ve had two hernias repaired; perhaps you should take it with you.”

“Percocet fogs the brain and turns poop to concrete. Thanks though.”

Wait a minute. Two hernias?

“I thought it was only one,” I said.

“The doctor found another in there.”

Sounded like the conversation with my obstetrician over six years ago regarding an extra fetus floating around inside me. Must my body double everything?

“Here’s your Sprite,” she said. “Sip slowly.”

I took a sip and sighed.

“This isn’t Sprite.”

“Shasta.”

“Vendor?”

Nurse nodded.

“You’re probably their only customer. Cause. They. Suck.”

“At any rate, once you pass gas through your rectum you can move on to solid foods,” the nurse said, slipping the pain prescription to my mother.

“Wow, Mom,” I said. “The next few hours should be a treat.”

Eventually I felt better and stopped with all the negativity. The attendants and I even made jokes about my bare ass. It’s perfect. I’m sure the nurses were sad to see me go. I told them I’d be back in a year for my plastic surgery procedures.

Armed with cannolis of course. Mike’s Pastry delivers now, don’t you know?