Old people are pretty shameless. At 58, I consider myself old now, ok? I can remember one old girl telling me about her ulcerative colitis in the cafeteria at the college. I said, do you mind? I'm eating lunch. Didn't faze her a bit. So, here is my shamelessness, a picture of my robot-inflicted wounds from surgery.
|Have I no public sense of decency? Nope.|
The thing is they had me walking the eight hours after surgery. I did about a thousand yards before I pooped out. They do it because they are worried about lung function. The nurse who assisted me was about twelve years old and weighed half my body weight. She couldn't have kept me from fainting and falling if there had been a platoon of her.
Friday and Saturday nights was off-and-on bad sleep or fever dreams. I had that recurring sick time nightmare that my brain was a calculator forced to do innumerable arithmetic operations by an evil accountant. Plus, I'm interrupted by staff drawing blood, providing medication, taking temperature and blood pressure, so it wasn't until I got home yesterday that I got a solid fifteen hour nap in. That really helped. I've walked about a mile and half since Friday, and after spending time in the meat locker of the hospital, the 90 degree/100% humidity is just the kind of hothouse conditions this delicate flower needs.
Speaking of delicate flowers, I've changed my mind about Donald Trump. I actually think he is currently doing us all a public favor by godbothering the idiot conservatards. It really doesn't matter that I am personally not a fan of his, that I find many of his views despicable. Personal likes and dislikes should not enter the picture. He's shaking things up, shaping the narrative to expose the ridiculousness of the candidates positions, and making the right people uncomfortable about the wrong things. This is classic showmanship.
The sole fact that Trump has made (anti-rich-people's-tax) Grover Norquist squirt out a little stain from his overly constricted sphincter, the idea that - oh, what a world! what a world! Trump could destroy all of Norquist's beautiful wickedness - provides me a great deal of smug satisfaction.
It's a very fine piece of performance art in the tradition of P.T. Barnum, and I appreciate it. Nothing personal.
Speaking of which, one of the things I noticed about the hospital was a lack of distraction. Oh, sure, there was safe and staid hotel art sprinkled about the floor, but I really, really needed distraction. Art would have helped. Especially bad art, something I could object to.
I'm realizing that artists, writers, and performers (pace Mr. Trump) are incredibly egotistical. How dare I share with you things about me? (Because really, that's art and letters are about: me, Me, ME! Look AT ME!!!)
And yet, it really is nothing personal. Artists and writers are trying to provide a bright and shiny lie that gets you off dead ass center and look around for a change. Enough of the navel gazing. They make you, for just a second, think about something besides you. Doesn't matter what it's about, or whether it is of good taste.
So, the hospital really needs that. A lot.
Well, I'm about pooped writing this up, and back to shameless self-promotion that is my primary mission right now. And also to squeeze out a solid poop and get myself back to some semblance of normal.
Do you want an update on that?
P. S. A solid thank you to everyone who has visited or expressed concern or asked about my well-being. I love you guys.
P.P.S. This was really hard to do, composing this. I hope none of you ever have to go through the circumstances surrounding this essay.