The searing pain in my hip shut down my mobility. Fix me, the nerve said.
Which explains why I sit in the reception room of the Pain Clinic, waiting my turn.
Pain and mostly old women fill the room, waiting also for relief.
A man with Einstein hair sits across from me, unkempt, grimacing.
The nude on his large silver belt buckle smiles. His wife is having a bad hair day.
She might have washed it last year.
The nurse calls the roll, “Mr. Hearn.” I remain silent momentarily for effect.
Then I answer, “Here.” She has no humor. Pain nurses are not happy people.
Follow me, she says. I do, into the pre-op room. The interrogation begins.
Where do you hurt? My hip, I say. On the 1-10 scale, which? “100,” I answer.
She’s not amused. She continues. Why are you here? You need revenue? I answer.
Are you drunk, sir? Not yet, I say. Be serious, sir. OK, I’ll try. Are you pregnant?
No, but I’m working on it. Yes or no, sir. OK, No, so far. Her eyes fling daggers.
Do you know what the doctor plans to do? Not really, does he? She looks disgusted.
She checks my blood pressure, then re-checks it. Why? I ask.
You appeared not to be alive on the first take. Consult my 100-scale pain, I shout.
I ask her name. Same as my first girl-friend. Scary.
I ask if perhaps she had once been. She didn’t remember. We’re both relieved.
She finishes, leaves. I wait. An old lady, maybe 100, hobbles in for interrogation.
Same questions. Pregnant? Hope not, she says. He promised safe sex. She smiles.
Do you know what the doctor is going to do? Artificial insemination? She answers.
I’m beginning to like this lady. I may ask her out, with permission of course.
A young nurse in a red flak jacket arrives. Follow me, she says. Anywhere, I say.
Why the vest? X-ray protection, she says. What about me? I ask.
Don’t worry, X-ray won’t kill you,…the needle might. The needle? I’d forgotten about it.
Nothing good comes from a needle. A cold sweat erupts. I shiver.
Lie face down, remove your pants, she demands. Things are finally getting interesting.
I always prefer domineering women. A massage? I ask. You wish, she replies.
Think of it as your last-meal request, she says. I cringe. Then I hear a whirring sound.
A picture of a gigantic spine appears on a screen. Is that mine? I ask. Yes, she says.
See that bulge? The needle will go there. Will it hurt? I ask. She laughs. I pray.
You want local anesthesia or the full knock-out IV? Bareback, I say. I’m tough.
They all say that…the first time, she says. Can I change my mind? Too late, she says.
Have you performed this procedure before? I ask. Yes, she says. Once. I don’t laugh.
A door opens. A white Hazmat suit shambles in. Who’s that? I ask. Robodoc she replies.
An echo inside grunts. Two red glows emanate through an opaque black shield. Eyes?
I picture a black Caddy Escalade, windows blackened, on Peachtree Street. Horrors!
Who’s this? I ask. Dr. Feelgood she answers. Rejoice…your redemption draweth near.
Are you a Nun, I ask. No, she says, but I have given many last rites. Relax, sir.
He holds a needle not quite as long as a baseball bat, aiming at a bull’s eye on my spine.
Is that going into my spine? What do you think? the suit says. I lose consciousness.
I awake sitting in a wheel chair. No pain. The doctor sits beside me. How do you feel?
Great! Is this heaven? I ask. Thank God, he shouts. You’re our first success. I feel faint.
Doc, is this relief permanent? I ask. No, he says, are you kidding? I search for words. Give me some hope, Doc, I say. What’s the long-term solution for this pain? I ask.
He’s silent for a long moment. Then says, Death, gets up, leaves. I lose continence.
The nurse with my ex girl-friend’s name wheels me through the waiting room to my car.
People with eyes of pain look at me. They seem to be asking silent questions.
I feel sorry for them, hoping it’s not their first time. I offer no encouragement.
I exit, proclaiming, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Two scream. One faints.
I add, and may God have mercy on you if you’re pregnant!
Today I live. The pain has subsided.
But the Doc’s word, “Death,” still troubles me.
Bud Hearn
September 30, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
For Promised Joy
“The best laid plans of mice and men oft go amiss, and leave us naught but pain and grief for promised joy.” Robert Burns, Poet
No genius is needed to arrive at a simple conclusion: Things don’t always work out according to our plans. Which gives some credence to the philosophy that if life weren’t so serious, it’d be a joke. That in itself begs the question: What if life were intended as a joke in the first place? Wow…far out!
Alright, I hear scoffers, laughing, dissing the Theory of Chaos. But you must admit that many, if not most, of your carefully crafted, can’t-lose schemes have failed to satisfy your carnal cravings and have come to naught. Shouts of, “Give us proof,” send a message that proselytizing has failed to persuade you of this possibility. Read on.
Last night I shook my fist at the heavens, saying to those within earshot, “I’m getting a good night’s sleep tonight!” My wife rolled her eyes, shaking her head at such a preposterous pronouncement. She said, “Better not let Her hear you say that!” (Some think that God is a woman, you know. If it proves to be the case, that’d explain why men’s plans often go awry, dooming them to perdition.) Now, is this not prima facie evidence that life is at least first cousin to a joke? I continue.
Well, you can guess what happened to my sleep plan. About 2:00 I heard a loud explosion. The house shook violently. Then, silence. Eerie. An explosion? An intruder? I lay there in the darkness, wide awake, waiting, waiting. But for what I didn’t know. More silence. Fear gripped my spine. I got up, turned on all the lights, searched the house. Nothing. Even the dogs were sleeping. Strange. Back to bed.
Do dreams make sounds? Did I dream it? I pondered the questions. Meanwhile, Sirens danced in the ether of my gray matter. Packs of wild dogs roamed the littered streets of my semi-consciousness. Sleep fled.
A line queued in my sleepless state. The IRS led the way, pounding on my door, demanding payment. Next, bankers and lawyers, delivering writs and warrants, foreclosure notices. Women I’d insulted, blondes particularly, cried for retribution. Others. The line grew longer and longer. It went on for hours. I could stand no more.
I staggered into the kitchen for coffee. The dogs barked, demanding to be fed. So much for my good night’s sleep. Then the phone rang.
Ace called with bad news. “Watermelon Man (all our friends have sobriquets) had a tragic accident,” he said. “What happened?” I asked. He responded, “He took up the dangerous game of croquet, and the game didn't go as planned.” I exclaimed, “Say on, brother.”
He said, “Well, his team got heavy into the afternoon wine. They look silly dressed in their whites, but they’re on tour…it’s the resort ‘in season’ game of choice, you know. A bee musta smelled his breath and thought him to be the honeycomb. Anyway, it flew into his ear and crawled into his brain. The doctor couldn’t get it out without a lobotomy.” Shocked, I said, “What’ll happen to him?”
Ace said, “Not good. His life’s changed forever. He thinks he’s a bee and his wife is the Queen. He spends his days flitting around in her garden, sniffing the flowers.” I said, “Look, Ace, his wife has always been a Queen, but don’tcha think he’s gone a little overboard on the flower-sniffing routine?” Ace laughed, saying, “Well,he's a fruit anyway. You know why we call him Watermelon Man, right? Ever since he discovered that watermelons have certain ‘male benefits,’ he eats ‘em at every meal. That boy just ain't right!”
“What’s the long-term prognosis for him?” I asked. “Don’t know,” he said. “I guess he’ll soon get use to being a bee. But if he tries to produce honey, pal, the folks in white jackets are gonna come and lock him away.”
Do you need any more evidence that things don’t always go according to our plans? If so, then you can fill in the blanks with your own experiences.
There is no guarantee of promised joy out there folks, but there’s nothing wrong with sniffing around the Garden of Serendipity…it may “bee” the final solution.
Bud Hearn
September 16, 2010
No genius is needed to arrive at a simple conclusion: Things don’t always work out according to our plans. Which gives some credence to the philosophy that if life weren’t so serious, it’d be a joke. That in itself begs the question: What if life were intended as a joke in the first place? Wow…far out!
Alright, I hear scoffers, laughing, dissing the Theory of Chaos. But you must admit that many, if not most, of your carefully crafted, can’t-lose schemes have failed to satisfy your carnal cravings and have come to naught. Shouts of, “Give us proof,” send a message that proselytizing has failed to persuade you of this possibility. Read on.
Last night I shook my fist at the heavens, saying to those within earshot, “I’m getting a good night’s sleep tonight!” My wife rolled her eyes, shaking her head at such a preposterous pronouncement. She said, “Better not let Her hear you say that!” (Some think that God is a woman, you know. If it proves to be the case, that’d explain why men’s plans often go awry, dooming them to perdition.) Now, is this not prima facie evidence that life is at least first cousin to a joke? I continue.
Well, you can guess what happened to my sleep plan. About 2:00 I heard a loud explosion. The house shook violently. Then, silence. Eerie. An explosion? An intruder? I lay there in the darkness, wide awake, waiting, waiting. But for what I didn’t know. More silence. Fear gripped my spine. I got up, turned on all the lights, searched the house. Nothing. Even the dogs were sleeping. Strange. Back to bed.
Do dreams make sounds? Did I dream it? I pondered the questions. Meanwhile, Sirens danced in the ether of my gray matter. Packs of wild dogs roamed the littered streets of my semi-consciousness. Sleep fled.
A line queued in my sleepless state. The IRS led the way, pounding on my door, demanding payment. Next, bankers and lawyers, delivering writs and warrants, foreclosure notices. Women I’d insulted, blondes particularly, cried for retribution. Others. The line grew longer and longer. It went on for hours. I could stand no more.
I staggered into the kitchen for coffee. The dogs barked, demanding to be fed. So much for my good night’s sleep. Then the phone rang.
Ace called with bad news. “Watermelon Man (all our friends have sobriquets) had a tragic accident,” he said. “What happened?” I asked. He responded, “He took up the dangerous game of croquet, and the game didn't go as planned.” I exclaimed, “Say on, brother.”
He said, “Well, his team got heavy into the afternoon wine. They look silly dressed in their whites, but they’re on tour…it’s the resort ‘in season’ game of choice, you know. A bee musta smelled his breath and thought him to be the honeycomb. Anyway, it flew into his ear and crawled into his brain. The doctor couldn’t get it out without a lobotomy.” Shocked, I said, “What’ll happen to him?”
Ace said, “Not good. His life’s changed forever. He thinks he’s a bee and his wife is the Queen. He spends his days flitting around in her garden, sniffing the flowers.” I said, “Look, Ace, his wife has always been a Queen, but don’tcha think he’s gone a little overboard on the flower-sniffing routine?” Ace laughed, saying, “Well,he's a fruit anyway. You know why we call him Watermelon Man, right? Ever since he discovered that watermelons have certain ‘male benefits,’ he eats ‘em at every meal. That boy just ain't right!”
“What’s the long-term prognosis for him?” I asked. “Don’t know,” he said. “I guess he’ll soon get use to being a bee. But if he tries to produce honey, pal, the folks in white jackets are gonna come and lock him away.”
Do you need any more evidence that things don’t always go according to our plans? If so, then you can fill in the blanks with your own experiences.
There is no guarantee of promised joy out there folks, but there’s nothing wrong with sniffing around the Garden of Serendipity…it may “bee” the final solution.
Bud Hearn
September 16, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Once and For All
Some believe in the fairy tale of ‘once and for all?’ Do you? If so, check your birth certificate to see if it lists State of Delusion as your residence. Who but an utter fool or lunatic would believe such utopian nonsense! I’ll prove it.
We came home last night from dinner. The foyer was dark. We always leave our shoes at the back door and go barefoot inside. Our daughter, the poster child of a cleanliness addict, convinced us it’d keep the floors germ-free once and for all. We weren’t aware we lived in a germ-infested house. Whether the floors are any cleaner for the inconvenience, I can’t say…with two dogs, what’s ever clean, once and for all?
“Where’re the dogs?” my wife said, adding, “Hmmm. No dogs? Not a good sign.” She took one step on the cold stone floor and shrieked, “Oh, no, #@*#, not again! I’m gonna kill ‘em!” Accidents happen, but fortunately tonight only a wet one, if that’s fortunate. She hopped to the laundry room and washed her foot. “OK, who did this? Where are you?” She shouted. Silence answered her. They remained invisible somewhere in the darkness.
She flicked on the lights and rolled up a newspaper. The criminals were found, crouching in a dark corner. They trembled. “I’m gonna put an end to this, once and for all,” she announced, waving her cellulose weapon. Realizing they’d reaped the whirlwind, they melted into the floor. But not before giving her their classic hang-dog look, “Who, us?” Fearing the wrath to come, I stood in the shadows and prayed for their souls. Nobody moved. Time stopped.
In that brief interval before the action began, I wondered if the once-and-for-all concept had legs. Take religion. It aims for a ‘once and for all’ conclusion. Some try daily doses of wine and confessions inside a tiny box. Others believe in casting bread upon water. Illogical. It returns soggy. Others think foot washing, meditation, chanting or eradication of infidels gets special recognition in the hereafter. No ‘once and for all’ there. Some bet on the Wesley brothers’ message of South Georgia salvation as a ‘once and for all.’ But some are still unconvinced.
In Boston they thought the scarlet letter “A”, tattooed upon one’s forehead, could abolish once and for all the contagion of “the oldest profession.” Haha. So much for that. It no longer smolders, it’s a raging fire!
The Brits decided to root out poverty once and for all by emptying the debtor’s prisons and shipping ‘em to America. A dumb idea. Instead, the debtors formed the Wall Street Gang and emptied the English treasury numerous times. Debtors are creative!
Take politics. It’s dangerous to extrapolate the what-ifs of political be-all, end-alls. Dynasties are hazardous. Imagine being saddled forever with the likes of the Bushites, the Clintonites, the Obamaworlds and the Pelosismileyfaces if they were once and for all. Frightening!
Do you have any aches and pains? I do. Wouldn’t it be great if there were a ‘once and for all’ cure? There is, of course, it’s just not good to dwell on such finality. So we do the next best thing…short-term relief with pills and substitute body parts.
Maybe you’re one of those who think enough money will solve all your problems once and for all. Dream on. Some think with enough money the IRS can be eliminated once and for all. Silly thought. It’s a stalking menace, and the once-and-for-all concept is not in their policy manual.
But my swoon ended as suddenly as it began. There my wife stood, towering over the tiny transgressors, poised to send dog fur flying. But she just couldn’t do it. Instead, she handed out a severe hands-on-the-hips tongue lashing. After all, who with any sensitivity can beat small creatures (roaches excluded!) with a newspaper? A woman’s tongue is a mighty weapon indeed!
We need no further evidence to realize there’s no such thing as ‘once and for all.’ Still we hope, day after day, hung-up in a fool’s paradise. Only it’s not quite a paradise. There’s no more a ‘once-and-for-all’ beginning than there is a ‘happily-ever-after’ ending.
Nevertheless, something useful can be gleaned from this rubbish---it’s dangerous to enter a dark house barefoot if you have dogs!
Bud Hearn
September 9, 2010
We came home last night from dinner. The foyer was dark. We always leave our shoes at the back door and go barefoot inside. Our daughter, the poster child of a cleanliness addict, convinced us it’d keep the floors germ-free once and for all. We weren’t aware we lived in a germ-infested house. Whether the floors are any cleaner for the inconvenience, I can’t say…with two dogs, what’s ever clean, once and for all?
“Where’re the dogs?” my wife said, adding, “Hmmm. No dogs? Not a good sign.” She took one step on the cold stone floor and shrieked, “Oh, no, #@*#, not again! I’m gonna kill ‘em!” Accidents happen, but fortunately tonight only a wet one, if that’s fortunate. She hopped to the laundry room and washed her foot. “OK, who did this? Where are you?” She shouted. Silence answered her. They remained invisible somewhere in the darkness.
She flicked on the lights and rolled up a newspaper. The criminals were found, crouching in a dark corner. They trembled. “I’m gonna put an end to this, once and for all,” she announced, waving her cellulose weapon. Realizing they’d reaped the whirlwind, they melted into the floor. But not before giving her their classic hang-dog look, “Who, us?” Fearing the wrath to come, I stood in the shadows and prayed for their souls. Nobody moved. Time stopped.
In that brief interval before the action began, I wondered if the once-and-for-all concept had legs. Take religion. It aims for a ‘once and for all’ conclusion. Some try daily doses of wine and confessions inside a tiny box. Others believe in casting bread upon water. Illogical. It returns soggy. Others think foot washing, meditation, chanting or eradication of infidels gets special recognition in the hereafter. No ‘once and for all’ there. Some bet on the Wesley brothers’ message of South Georgia salvation as a ‘once and for all.’ But some are still unconvinced.
In Boston they thought the scarlet letter “A”, tattooed upon one’s forehead, could abolish once and for all the contagion of “the oldest profession.” Haha. So much for that. It no longer smolders, it’s a raging fire!
The Brits decided to root out poverty once and for all by emptying the debtor’s prisons and shipping ‘em to America. A dumb idea. Instead, the debtors formed the Wall Street Gang and emptied the English treasury numerous times. Debtors are creative!
Take politics. It’s dangerous to extrapolate the what-ifs of political be-all, end-alls. Dynasties are hazardous. Imagine being saddled forever with the likes of the Bushites, the Clintonites, the Obamaworlds and the Pelosismileyfaces if they were once and for all. Frightening!
Do you have any aches and pains? I do. Wouldn’t it be great if there were a ‘once and for all’ cure? There is, of course, it’s just not good to dwell on such finality. So we do the next best thing…short-term relief with pills and substitute body parts.
Maybe you’re one of those who think enough money will solve all your problems once and for all. Dream on. Some think with enough money the IRS can be eliminated once and for all. Silly thought. It’s a stalking menace, and the once-and-for-all concept is not in their policy manual.
But my swoon ended as suddenly as it began. There my wife stood, towering over the tiny transgressors, poised to send dog fur flying. But she just couldn’t do it. Instead, she handed out a severe hands-on-the-hips tongue lashing. After all, who with any sensitivity can beat small creatures (roaches excluded!) with a newspaper? A woman’s tongue is a mighty weapon indeed!
We need no further evidence to realize there’s no such thing as ‘once and for all.’ Still we hope, day after day, hung-up in a fool’s paradise. Only it’s not quite a paradise. There’s no more a ‘once-and-for-all’ beginning than there is a ‘happily-ever-after’ ending.
Nevertheless, something useful can be gleaned from this rubbish---it’s dangerous to enter a dark house barefoot if you have dogs!
Bud Hearn
September 9, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Among His Effects
“A great man is one sentence.” Clair Booth Luce
It happened at the dinner table, his favorite place.
Overhead a solitary light hung, lighting the room, the house otherwise dark.
They sat silently, conversation sparse, their thoughts kept secret.
He looked up slowly, dropped his fork and fell from the chair.
Death claimed him on the way down to the cold terrazzo floor.
A simple, easy, quick, sudden death. He would have approved.
She sat frozen in stunned silence, staring, in shock, his wife of long years.
He didn’t move. Nothing moved but time. Poof. Seventy-five years, over.
He lay peacefully in his new coffin home. They came and looked him over.
“Just like him,” some thought. Others said, “Mr. Mac did a real good job.”
All remembered him. They said so to his widow.
She sat there, smiling, confused.
The solemn cortege crept through deserted streets to the city cemetery. His last ride.
Mourners in the shadows of ancient cedars, shivering in the December chill.
He departed, clothed with scripture, prayer and flowers.
The crowd dispersed and withdrew in a hushed retreat.
The family lingered, held captive by the moment in the tranquil setting. Nobody spoke.
A time to remember.
But life goes on, subsumed in the daily details of living. It’s good to be busy now.
In due time his affairs were put in order; his estate settled, cards written.
Life had new rhythms in the empty house. His effects were sorted, parceled, distributed.
Nephews kept his obsolete fishing equipment, now relics for framing not fishing.
A granddaughter kept the wool shirts, the suede jacket, wears them often.
Sons kept the photographs, a few letters, the guns, his prosthetic wooden left hand.
He left little behind, having discovered that little is needed to live well.
He’d kept boxes of financial data, footprints of his life from the early ‘40’s.
Cancelled checks indicated his frugality, the feeding of five thousand with five loaves. His mother, two brothers, a sister, a church, his family, all recipients.
A savings passbook showed small but regular deposits for his sons’ college.
A dollar here, five dollars there. It added up.
Everything in perfect order, as always, anal-retentive to the end.
Obscure were his disciplines, his prudence, his motives. His sentence remained hidden.
We never asked, “Who are you?” He never volunteered to say. His actions spoke.
As years moved on the essence of his persona distilled, providing us clues.
John Locke wrote a man’s mind is best understood by his actions.
What did this man’s actions reveal? Discipline, responsibility, commitment, love.
And by them, he, being dead, yet speaks.
Among his effects we discovered the man, and his unique sentence.
I know these things…I am the elder son, working on a sentence of my own.
Bud Hearn
September 2, 2010
It happened at the dinner table, his favorite place.
Overhead a solitary light hung, lighting the room, the house otherwise dark.
They sat silently, conversation sparse, their thoughts kept secret.
He looked up slowly, dropped his fork and fell from the chair.
Death claimed him on the way down to the cold terrazzo floor.
A simple, easy, quick, sudden death. He would have approved.
She sat frozen in stunned silence, staring, in shock, his wife of long years.
He didn’t move. Nothing moved but time. Poof. Seventy-five years, over.
He lay peacefully in his new coffin home. They came and looked him over.
“Just like him,” some thought. Others said, “Mr. Mac did a real good job.”
All remembered him. They said so to his widow.
She sat there, smiling, confused.
The solemn cortege crept through deserted streets to the city cemetery. His last ride.
Mourners in the shadows of ancient cedars, shivering in the December chill.
He departed, clothed with scripture, prayer and flowers.
The crowd dispersed and withdrew in a hushed retreat.
The family lingered, held captive by the moment in the tranquil setting. Nobody spoke.
A time to remember.
But life goes on, subsumed in the daily details of living. It’s good to be busy now.
In due time his affairs were put in order; his estate settled, cards written.
Life had new rhythms in the empty house. His effects were sorted, parceled, distributed.
Nephews kept his obsolete fishing equipment, now relics for framing not fishing.
A granddaughter kept the wool shirts, the suede jacket, wears them often.
Sons kept the photographs, a few letters, the guns, his prosthetic wooden left hand.
He left little behind, having discovered that little is needed to live well.
He’d kept boxes of financial data, footprints of his life from the early ‘40’s.
Cancelled checks indicated his frugality, the feeding of five thousand with five loaves. His mother, two brothers, a sister, a church, his family, all recipients.
A savings passbook showed small but regular deposits for his sons’ college.
A dollar here, five dollars there. It added up.
Everything in perfect order, as always, anal-retentive to the end.
Obscure were his disciplines, his prudence, his motives. His sentence remained hidden.
We never asked, “Who are you?” He never volunteered to say. His actions spoke.
As years moved on the essence of his persona distilled, providing us clues.
John Locke wrote a man’s mind is best understood by his actions.
What did this man’s actions reveal? Discipline, responsibility, commitment, love.
And by them, he, being dead, yet speaks.
Among his effects we discovered the man, and his unique sentence.
I know these things…I am the elder son, working on a sentence of my own.
Bud Hearn
September 2, 2010
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