Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Hip Replacement…The Anatomy of Torture

I’m in the doctor’s office again. We review the X-rays. Bad news.
How do I stand, Doc?” I say. “Mystery to me,” he says.
I ask what the problem is. “Square peg in a round hole.”
I ask why. Says I’m old. That explains nothing, yet everything.
I ask if it’s serious. He says only if I have plans to walk.
He gives me a brochure. A sailboat, a couple in love, dancing, drinking.
I take the bait. Cha-ching. I’m his next year’s new BMW.

No rush, you’ll know when,” he says. I hobble home, curse my birth.
I renew church membership, begin tithing. God heals, right?
The condition worsens, demands a second opinion. I throw good money after bad.
Square peg in a round hole,” the Mayo pro says. “Cards you were dealt.”
“When?” I ask. “When you pound on my desk,” he says.
The bad-news bill beats me home. I pound on my chest. Then the desk.

I soon yield. New hip. I schedule it. I’m relieved. I marvel at my courage.
A week away I’m back in church. I give God another chance. He’s busy.
I toss $20 bucks in the plate for good measure. He answers with silence.
I take that as a No. God’s not impressed with $20’s. I keep the tip.
Two days remain. I’m anxious, call the stone mason.
White marble, I tell him, chisel 3-4-42---11-1-11. Rest in One Piece.

Finally, Showtime. Bad days arrive early. This one dawns at 7 AM.
Sign these papers, the nurse demands. “What’s in them?” I ask.
“Nothing that’s good for you.” She shoves the pen into my hand.
I sign away my life, my first born, deed to the house, get a number, 666.
They’ll call you by number, she snaps. I know that number. A bad sign.
I beg for another, mutter something about the anti-Christ. She hisses.

Next, 666.” I tiptoe in. A nurse appears, picks her teeth with large needles.
I lie on a gurney in an open-air gown. She peeks. Then laughs. I’m disgraced.
Never trust women with beards to administer narcotics. Never trust women.
A man in an Armani suit with a red silk tie slithers in, discusses insurance.
He reads me my rights, asks for a financial statement. Says Medicare is broke.
Says overruns are my nickel. I curse him. He grins, lights up a big Cuban.

Things move fast. Catheters hang, tubes drip, monitors beep. I pray.
An orderly straps me down, rolls me away. Lights dazzle overhead.
I see a tray. It has tools. Black & Decker chain saw. Skil drills. Ace hammer.
Another tray. My options…a bottle of cheap gin, a jigger glass.
A silver bullet, a blindfold. Handcuffs, a stapler, pliers, a used Gideon.
Spectral faces surround. Light blinds me. Someone sharpens a knife.

I smell gasoline, the saw roars to life. I hear the whirr of the drill.
Voices shout. My leg is severed, ripped from its socket. I ask for more gin.
A sponge wets my lips, last rites are given. I lose consciousness.
I dream. Butchers mutilate my body. My cup runneth out. I float in clouds.
Voices of horror shriek in pain, hollow eyes stare through dark windows.
Humans heave in the mosh pit of penury, bereft of medical benefits.

They seize my hip, lacerate and tear it from my body. It wails.
They fling it ingloriously onto a stainless tray. It quivers in agony.
A pathologist examines it, toe-tags and labels it DOA.
I had asked to have it. The doctor objected. It’s mine, I pleaded.
Why?” he asked. “Maybe a cane, or gear shift knob, or a necklace,” I say.
He shrugs. I hear the word ‘fool’ uttered under his breath.

I wake. Remember little. Feel for my leg. It’s re-attached. No pain. Yet!
Hands lift me, hand me a walker. I prowl the empty corridors.
I go to therapy. All women. I feign machismo. Fail miserably. They giggle.
The doctor visits, asks how I am. In agony, I squeal. He gives me an aspirin.
Will I recover?” He says, “Consult God.” Leaves his bill. I review it, pass out.
The hospital ejects me. I wonder if I’m better off now.

The jury remains out.

Bud Hearn
November 10, 2011

1 comment:

Camdenfamilies said...

My father had hip replacement last year. I hope you are doing your physical therapy as ordered. Be well.
Celenda Perry