Perdition: Thy Name is Hernia. Part Seven

The rest of the 15^th was awash in strange and unfocused activity. I remember distinctly disobeying the ‘four hour’ lie down rule, or at least trying to, by telling myself that the hockey game must be watched. I Must represent minority hockey rights (read: not be a Leafs fan) in the TV chamber. I tried to move, a burning pain shot throughout my entire body, a purposeful tearing sensation screeched in my groin…”oh boy, well, I am half way there”…meaning, I was half way to sitting up on the bed, let alone any standing on my own accord or any success in shuffling to the toilet. Sitting on the edge of the bed became a problem immediately…waves, waves of nausea not unlike those created by the eruption of Krakatoa were sent upwards and reverse peristaltic reactions began in earnest…”back down, back down, back down, ok” and I went back to the opiate induced stupor.

Throughout the initial aborted attempt at movement, and all subsequent aborted attempts at movement during those tenuous hours on the 15^th, I could hear braying chatter emanating from the left side of the bed-chamber. My procedure ended at around 3:00 in the afternoon and therefore right in the middle of the first round of visiting hours (2:00 – 4:00). I knew this would present an interesting situation as I was already familiar with the parents of Roommate. He was, as mentioned, a chap of 19 (born in 1992) and therefore still in the bosom of the 21^st century of the Cradle to Grave Hellaparent. He intimated to me that his mother was texting incessantly regarding absolutely everything and anything related to surgery, a hospital, walking, eating, personal hygiene, breathing, moving one’s eyeballs, existing, you name it. They were in the room when I arrived, the parents I mean, and they were really en place, as it were. Roommate was well solidified by Mommy’s insistence that the clothes were well placed in the closet, that the entire table was well engrossed with the personal effects of Roommate. Forget three days in a hernia hospital, this chap was outfitted for a ninety day slog with Wolseley to put down that irascible Riel across the Great North West. You would think he had ten sherpas popping out of his bag with steaming Ceylon tea and a birch bark canoe to paddle down into the OR. Only ten years ago, a boy of 19 would be perspiring with embarrassment at the intrusion, yes, intrusion of mommy and daddy in preparation for surgery. I would probably have received one phone call from my mom…she loves me, on that score I am certain, and I her, but never would she have been so involved with a 72 hour sojourn into the Herniated unknown. But, I imagine in this age of festering narcissism, it never occurred to parents and child that anything was out of the ordinary. I could see a nurse eyeing all of this and muttering to herself: “uh-huh, white boy problems”. Or maybe I am just bitter, maybe I was bitter because no-one called me, no one visited, I am not sure people even knew I was in the hospital. Or, maybe because of years of self-imposed exile and a well-known streak of high-minded misanthropy, coupled with a Total and Unrelenting Hatred of personal communication devices, I could not communicate with anyone, nor really wanted to. I mean, really, what could I articulate in a fog of opiates that could not be inferred by anyone realizing that I came out of surgery only an hour ago. What really would be on the docket of conversation? Let’s see, down to brass tacks over the euro-debt problem, or that latent homosexual optometrist in Syria, how do we deal with such an effeminate tyrant? Or, oh wait, I can’t even sit up!

Which brings me back to the original observation . . . even roommate was now getting annoyed at the shrill-hee hawing of Mommy in the room. After Roommate’s second Tylenol-3..he stated: “Well, I can’t really stay awake here, why don’t you guys head back to the hotel?”…Indeed, I thought to myself, please get out! I was not acknowledged, not really, and this was amusing to me, all I could think of at this point was, aha, yes, I can eat in peace once the nurses come. Come the night. I was in pain, yes, and I was nauseous, yes, but the last thing a man wants to hear is hard-edged bitching from anyone, and luckily, all of that manner of audible tyranny was put to rest as Roommate drifted into a fitful sleep. At this point, the meal cart came in and I enjoyed two sandwiches (Roommate could not keep anything down), a mug of coffee, the best cookie I have eaten up to this point (or so I thought, this was the first proper ‘unhealthy’ desert I had eaten in 50 days, and I was fairly high on the opiates) and raspberry Jello. By this point I thought to myself, “well, it must be around 7:00 PM and I must make my way to the TV lounge”. The time was actually now two in the morning and I realized that I was therefore not apparently conscious after that final bliss inducing swallow of Jello, the room was black, and there was no food tray. At this point, my bladder was explaining to my brain that after such a long relationship with coffee and litres of IV fluid, that it was time to withdraw all funds and close the account. So, it was up and at them time again, and I could barely shuffle into the bathroom…Discomfort was at fever pitch, I was completely nauseous, as one feels after an eight hour Scotch drunk, only to wake up half-drunk, with the room spinning, but also with the urge to pee…so, in this state, I had to sit on the toilet. I have never done this before, and felt Donald Smith look down on me, with those Granite Eye-Brows furrowed and dire, his mouth, hidden behind that mighty beard, pursed in a droop and his Blue-Steel Celtic eyes looking at me with shame and disdain..Yes, I felt ashamed, to pee sitting down for me was a nadir of sorts, a surrender to the mad-house, with the red-heat lamp seemingly filming the whole ordeal and bathing me in rusty embarrassment. After what seemed like three hours (and it may well have been this long) I used the hand rail (!) to stand. I pulled my smock pants up, with the effort usually required to design the CERN cyclotron, and tried not to vomit on the lengthy 4 foot trip back to bed.