Well, last weekend officially became "The Lost Weekend." In that movie classic, Ray Milland goes on a rather unproductive 4-day drunk. I wasn’t drunk, but kind of wish I drank, so I could have been drunk. Make sense?
Anyway …. Back to our story. Part 1 had ended with my query of shining stupidity and paranoia, followed by MB’s even shinier, clever rejoinder. I did laugh, then cringed as I heard the low rumble of laughter from "The Lady with the Elbow Problem" in the next curtain. (What?! These curtains aren’t soundproof?) As she chuckled, I pictured my hand slyly slipping through the crack in the curtains and just giving her, you know, a little slappy slap. Hmmm. Could these thoughts of mild violence have anything at all to do with the fact that my dignity and privacy were being robbed by The Man?!
Sorry.
Seconds later, a nurse entered our personal paradise, pushing The Cart. The Cart, as most of you know, is the subtle showcase for the tools of torture that will be featured in your all-too-near future. Swept up by the sadomasochistic glee of it all, I craned my head around for a peep, but saw only various potions that looked both stinky and sting-y. Turning away, I redoubled my efforts to "remain calm," as per Dr. Chang’s extra helpful advice. The curtains parted and the doctor entered again.
"Guess what?" I asked.
"What?" he said, with good, doctorly concern.
"Well" — I replied, in an "I-see-dead-people" whisper — "it’s still there."
(I do this to break the tension. I don’t know WHY I do it, because I ALWAYS shoot for clever and end up with stupid. I guess I was lucky that the doctor responded with any sound, even if it was a braying-like sound, which could have been a laugh. Or sinuses. I don’t know.)
He began to busy himself with The Cart. The obli was doused with the aforementioned stinky and sting-y potions. As I lay there, chewing pillow, Dr. Chang said, "Okay. Don’t look."
Now, please. What is the absolute, categorical rule whenever someone says, "Don’t look"? You look. What else IS "don’t look" except an invitation TO look? So naturally, I succumbed to irresistible impulse and …. I looked.
SWEET MOTHER OF MOSES.
In his hand was what doctor types call a syringe. I call it a GIANT, BUTT-KEBOB SKEWER.
"You looked!" he wailed. Yeah. And I was still looking. Bug-eyed. Coffee-sipping husband, bug-eyed. The doctor began to talk very fast.
"Okay. First, we need to numb the area, then make the incision, then …."
Blah, blah, blahdie BLAH …. all right, already. JUST. DO. IT.
"…. and I want you to know there’s going to be water involved."
Right. Because that IS the concern here, that water might be involved. I love a doctor who can sense my innermost fears.
Finally, the moment had come. He looked at me and said, "Are you ready? There’s going to be some pain." (Let’s not forget water.)
"You might want to take a deep breath and go to a happy place." I thought he was kidding with that, but he was quite in earnest.
Okay, playing along. A deep breath …. a "happy place" …. A Land Without Oblies …. help me, Lord ….
"Heaven?" I croaked out.
"Suuure," Dr. Chang laughed. "Okay. Deep breath. Here we go."
(Heaven, heaven, heaven, hea-vennn)
YEEEEE-OOOOOWWWWW!!!!
The offending obli was skewered dead center. All visions of heaven exploded as I descended into a fiery, butt-kebobbing hell.
Now, during the approximately 30 seconds of skewering, several things happened at once:
First, and fleetingly, I thought maybe this was payback for calling my husband "Burl Hives" a few years ago when his skin turned reddish and blotchy and he did, indeed, have hives. I felt quite sorrowful about this now.
Second, a voice came to me from behind the doctor’s back: "How ya doin’, hon?" Are you kidding me?! It was that dratted Burl Hives. Daring to speak to me. At this precise moment. In That Voice. You know. That fakey, lovey voice that husbands whip out at ill-timed moments to assure us of their undying support and adoration. (Hmmm …. I’m touched, Burl…. that you took the time to care between your sips of coffee!) You KNOW. That Voice that gives normal women the murderous thoughts of a mafioso: "Oh, yeah? You tawkin’ to me, Slappy? Yeah? You goin’ down. I don’t cayeh how big you ahh. When I’m done heeya, I’m stawtin’ wichyoo."
Then, third, Elbow Lady’s cell phone started ringing …. and ringing …. and ringing. And not a normal ring, either. Oh, no. It was that tinny, cell-phony version of Beethoven’s "Fur Elise": Nee-nee-nee-nee-nee-nee-ree-ree-ree. The tune that is the bane of many a young, pudgy-fingered pianist. Instantly, I flashed back many years to my own wildly unsuccessful 8-year-old piano recital — the one where I sat there, pudgy-fingered and crimson-faced, as my unruly digits sabotaged me by playing the opening strains of "Fur Elise" over and over and over again. Ah, yes. The recital where, mid-performance, I heard my dad’s tape recorder ominously click OFF. Well, let’s face it, two minutes of the same five seconds over and over? There was only so much I could bless people with my repetitive gift.
Now thus far, I had not screamed. But, oh, mommy, I wanted to. However, I think screaming in hospitals is no good for anyone — no good for me, no good for the doctor skewering me, and no good for anyone still waiting their turn to be skewered. But Elbow Lady and her "Fur Elise" cell phone were driving me to the brink. I felt seconds away from bellowing one of those self-serving "words from the Lord" that everyone’s so gaga for these days: "Elbow Lady, I FEEL the Lord is telling ME to tell YOU to answer your freaking cell phone! It’s driving Him crazy!! " (And you know …. the ringing did stop. Maybe it really did drive Him crazy.)
So where are we? Ringing: Stopped. Butt Kebobbing: Stopped. LBUT: Numb. Incision: Imminent. It was then I discovered the one — and I mean only one — advantage of the LBUT obli: I couldn’t see what happened next. Dratted Burl Hives described the gruesome entertainment factor for me as “pure CSI.” Wow. Really? I felt strangely proud of my obli then. Later on, though, he mused, suddenly all-knowing, "I really thought the incision was too big."
Hmmm. Didn’t really want to know that, so I drily replied, "In your expert opinion because your mom’s a nurse?" He scowled at me. I deserved it.
"Procedure" over, the bandaging began. It seemed alarmingly poofy. My Beloved, pleased with himself, remarked, "Your ass looks like it’s packed for international shipping."
I thought momentarily how I’d miss him after I killed him.
It couldn’t be that bad, could it? Doctor gone, I reached back and gingerly felt the area. Was this a joke? My husband’s comment was actually an understatement. It seemed as if that maniac Dr. Chang had just gone to the nursery, grabbed a stack of folded Huggies, and slapped them to my butt cheek. I was aghast.
With MB’s help, I wobbled up and put on my baggy pants. Baggy, that is, except across my beleaguered, be-Huggied butt cheek, where the pants’ worn fibers strained to hold me in. Dressed, I looked like some poor woman who forgot the dryer sheets and now had her husband’s entire sock drawer statically clinging inside her pants’ arse. My bum was lumpen, distorted, misshapen — a walking nightmare. I wanted to cry. Once again, I longed for A Hat To Hide The Shame Of It All. I glanced at My Beloved and wondered if he did, too.
Moments later, I was waddling out to the car. My Beloved shortened his long stride, grabbed my hand, and waddled with me. I stared glumly down at the large plastic bag the nurse had given me. Ah, my lovely parting gifts: a year’s supply of bandaging and tape, voluminous care instructions, including a tutorial on weatherstripping the area for showering, and lots of painkillers. I rummaged in the bag a bit, certain there’d be some Rice-a-Roni or at least a lousy lollipop. Nope. I sighed.
Then My Beloved said in his real voice, "Well, baby. You were a brave little soldier." I smiled and stopped next to the car. My swaddled keister stopped a couple seconds later.
Just then, I felt a lovely, warming glow. And it wasn’t just from the burning of my LBUT. But as My Beloved opened the car door, he said it:
"Let me help you in …. Olive Boil."
(Cue "Psycho" shower music)
All right, Burl Hives. GAME ON.