It’s Tuesday morning. Megan’s in the hospital. I’m at home. I slept about 4 hours. Maybe 5. Again. And now it’s time to jet back to the hospital for Megan’s big day! Surgery day! Woo Hoo!
- Megan’s Surgery Day! Everyone celebrates . . . actually, this is what Megan sees when she’s hopped up on pain killers.
I head straight for the hospital . . . I mean straight for the coffee shop at the hospital I’m trying so hard to stay healthy and awake for Megan, but between work and trying to take care of Megan everyday feels like a siege just rolling out of bed. Every cell in my body is mad at me. I can hear them all calling me “asshole” in unison. Tell that to my brain. It’s keeping me up till 3:30-4:00am. I think it’s mad at me too.
- What? You want to go under the knife too? You jealous?
Need coffee. It’s a self-serve counter. Filing up. Filing up. Then this older African American woman next to me blurts out, “You look like a little boy!”
What!?
I stare at her. I mean. I hate it when homeless men in Chicago call out to me, “You have any change, young man,” or “Keep that smile, young man” or “Will you wipe my ass, young man?” I always correct them. I’m not a young man. A young man is 18. I’m much older. When a stranger just verbally vomits, “You look like a little boy,” I’m left speechless and equally annoyed. “A little boy? I’m 35.” She insists that my winter hat and coat make me look like a little boy. I explain that maybe its because I shaved this morning, but that, alone, proves I’m a man. Unless I’m some 6 year old with a severe hormone problem. I think that if she’d said this at any other time and I would have been fine. I probably would have had fun with her. You know, called her an old hag, “Ha ha ha! We’re having fun, right, witch hazel?” But the fact that I have a sick wife I’m taking care of, balancing 3 jobs and school and trying to keep the apartment up — being called a little boy was more of an insult.
- Oh, is that what I looked like? Well, my apologies, Witch Hazel. I am a young man.
Well, after convincing Witch Hazel that I, am, indeed, a man and even saying she looked my age (I’m such a flatterer) I got my coffee. I get to Megan’s room and her roommate pooped her pants early this morning. All is right with the world. Oh, young woman. No pooping your pants. Should bring Witch Hazel up here and then really blow her mind.
Megan’s even got a new student nurse. Her name is Abby and she’s very sweet. Megan seems to like her. She chats up Megan, keeps her company. It’s quite adorable when she had to switch put Megan’s IV – she shakes uncontrollably because her teacher is right there watching her. She blamed the caffeine. Megan and I know she just wants to do a good job. Unfortunately, she didn’t leave a good impression at first. Megan tells her that she got her masters at Roosevelt in downtown Chicago. Abby loves the new building that Roosevelt just built. She says, “I love the new building Roosevelt built. It makes Columbia look stupid. Which makes me happy.” Wait a minute . . . I go to Columbia. Megan gives me a look that says, “Let it go.” I’d like to say I “let it go” for Megan, but in all honesty, I was just too damn tired to say anything. It’s all right Abby. I just spent 5 years there. No big deal. Good luck at North Park University. Stop shaking . . .
- Now, does that come in a colostomy version?
Now, Megan told me to not mention this incident because she really liked Abby. So, let me temper this first impression with the fact that in the end, Abby was a godsend. She was kind and she took Megan on walks and visited with her often. So, she made up for her comment.
11:00am. Megan and I are taken to the recovery room. “Recovery room,” you ask? Yes. Apparently it’s also a prep room. Just a prep room with Megan, myself and a bunch of patients who just got out of their own surgeries. You know, a “recovery room.” So, we wait. And wait. Her parents wait in the Surgery waiting room. We wait. The doctor waits for his hole in one. The earth waits for winter. Winter waits for spring. Wait and wait . . . . wait.
- Andy Milonakis waits for an offer for “Waiting 3, Still More Waiting” to come to his door . . .
Suddenly, a nurse stops by and, with a thick Polish accent, asks Megan, “You in Florida?” We have no idea what she’s getting at. I mean, when the Sunday nurse asked Megan, “You smoked” as opposed to “Are you a smoker?” all bets are off in terms of what this staff is getting at. Megan says, “No, I’m from Kentucky.” The nurse replies, “No, you in Florida?” We look at each other with crooked eyes and then, slowly, Megan says, “Noooooooo.” The nurse then reaches around me, opens this mini fridge looking device that holds bunch of blankets and grabs one. She hands it to me. It’s super warm and toasty. “Then you should cover your feet. It’s cold.”
- Unfortunately, this is the “back-up” blanket warmer when the other one conks out.
Now, allow me to digress here. A freaking oven for blankets! Why aren’t theses things readily available for consumers? Freaking hot blankets for cold Chicago days. Who in their right mind at the blanket warming company thought that no one would buy that. Sorry hospitals, but it’s high time you stopped being so selfish. Share this with the world. It’s about the size of a mini fridge and it WARMS BLANKETS! Son of a bitch. What will they think of/hide from us next.
- Guess that answers that question.
Back to the waiting. To pass the time, Megan and I start posting on my Facebook profile what we’re doing. The following is the entire update with comments. we created a monster – – but a lovable, entertaining monster that helped us pass the time:
INITIAL STATUS UPDATE:
Waiting in a surgery prep room for Megan to get her gall bladder removed. I call it the “Legend of the Gall” room
- No one can tell a good gall bladder one liner like ol’ Henny Youngman. “Take my gall bladder! PLEEEEEEEEEEESE! Ahhhhhh it hurts!” Oh, Henny.
Well, that was fun — even days after the surgery. Just a note – very revealing about what pop culture items people tend to enjoy . . . So what do we do now? Well, if anyone knows the Tamisieas, they know we are prone to making up songs out of the blue. Pat’s songs usually consist of gibberish or non-sensical phrases. My favorite of his is “Hey there Billy! I have it!” That’s it. Who’s Billy? No one knows. Mine usually consist of jingles that could very well be commercials . . . well, maybe not. But I made up this song to get Megan’s mind off the surgery. A nurse had commented that after the surgery, Megan would get a pair of “massaging booties.” I had no idea what that meant but suddenly I started singing:
Massaging Booties
Bootie Massage
Turkey Baster
Sweet Potato Pie
Cranberry Sauce
Biscuits Piled On High
Massaging Booties
Bootie Massage
- I’m in negotiations with the makers of this fine product to sell my beautiful song as their new jingle.
We started laughing so hard that a nurse stopped by and wanted to know why. We had no answer. It was a bad move anyway because the laughing hurt Megan’s abdomen. A little while later, the anesthesiologist stopped by. It was time for me to leave. And so we play the waiting game part two. Megan’s parents and I – just waiting around. Reading. Talking. I start to get some shut eye when Leo, Megan’s dad, offers me some cookies. Who needs sleep when you got COOKIES! I really wish I had that shut eye . . .
- Of course, this was what I was dreaming about. So plain old chocolate chip cookies are fine with me.
There’s a monitor in the waiting room that indicates where the doctor is at any given moment. For the whole 2 hours we waited, he never left the recovery room. All the other doctors were in Surgery. Was this some scam like at a mechanic when they say you need a new part and then just let the car sit for a few days, pass it back and charge you an arm and a leg? Oh man, we just got scammed, didn’t we. Megan’s just laying on a table, passed out while doctor’s play poker on her abdomen.
Hey, youse need a operation. I'm da guy wit the doctors certificate. Eh-OOO!
Well, eventually, the doctor comes out and informs us that Megan is doing fine. She had over 50 stones in her gall bladder. He said she’d probably been collecting them for 10 years. 10 YEARS! I always thought Megan had a secret hobby. Well, if we never have babies, at least we can say she gave birth to 50 beautiful gall bladder babies. Much easier to care for as well.
Got ourselves a little football franchise here.
I go walk with Megan back to her room where she is high on drugs. She says to me, “When I woke up, the first thing I said was, ‘Where’s my husband?'”
And with that, I rush home so she can sleep. I clean the house for 5 hours so she has something nice to come home to – even borrowing our neighbor’s vacuum. Our gay neighbors who are named Ty and Rex. I really want to get to know them well so I can refer to them collectively as TYrannosaurus REX. Then I get this text: “One of the nurses said it might be thursday before I get to go home. It all depends on progress. So please pray I heal quickly and get tom come home tomorrow. :(“
I get to sleep at 3:30am. Again.
52/365 – Jacob’s Bladder (Part 3 of 4)
It’s Tuesday morning. Megan’s in the hospital. I’m at home. I slept about 4 hours. Maybe 5. Again. And now it’s time to jet back to the hospital for Megan’s big day! Surgery day! Woo Hoo!
I head straight for the hospital . . . I mean straight for the coffee shop at the hospital I’m trying so hard to stay healthy and awake for Megan, but between work and trying to take care of Megan everyday feels like a siege just rolling out of bed. Every cell in my body is mad at me. I can hear them all calling me “asshole” in unison. Tell that to my brain. It’s keeping me up till 3:30-4:00am. I think it’s mad at me too.
Need coffee. It’s a self-serve counter. Filing up. Filing up. Then this older African American woman next to me blurts out, “You look like a little boy!”
What!?
I stare at her. I mean. I hate it when homeless men in Chicago call out to me, “You have any change, young man,” or “Keep that smile, young man” or “Will you wipe my ass, young man?” I always correct them. I’m not a young man. A young man is 18. I’m much older. When a stranger just verbally vomits, “You look like a little boy,” I’m left speechless and equally annoyed. “A little boy? I’m 35.” She insists that my winter hat and coat make me look like a little boy. I explain that maybe its because I shaved this morning, but that, alone, proves I’m a man. Unless I’m some 6 year old with a severe hormone problem. I think that if she’d said this at any other time and I would have been fine. I probably would have had fun with her. You know, called her an old hag, “Ha ha ha! We’re having fun, right, witch hazel?” But the fact that I have a sick wife I’m taking care of, balancing 3 jobs and school and trying to keep the apartment up — being called a little boy was more of an insult.
Well, after convincing Witch Hazel that I, am, indeed, a man and even saying she looked my age (I’m such a flatterer) I got my coffee. I get to Megan’s room and her roommate pooped her pants early this morning. All is right with the world. Oh, young woman. No pooping your pants. Should bring Witch Hazel up here and then really blow her mind.
Megan’s even got a new student nurse. Her name is Abby and she’s very sweet. Megan seems to like her. She chats up Megan, keeps her company. It’s quite adorable when she had to switch put Megan’s IV – she shakes uncontrollably because her teacher is right there watching her. She blamed the caffeine. Megan and I know she just wants to do a good job. Unfortunately, she didn’t leave a good impression at first. Megan tells her that she got her masters at Roosevelt in downtown Chicago. Abby loves the new building that Roosevelt just built. She says, “I love the new building Roosevelt built. It makes Columbia look stupid. Which makes me happy.” Wait a minute . . . I go to Columbia. Megan gives me a look that says, “Let it go.” I’d like to say I “let it go” for Megan, but in all honesty, I was just too damn tired to say anything. It’s all right Abby. I just spent 5 years there. No big deal. Good luck at North Park University. Stop shaking . . .
Now, Megan told me to not mention this incident because she really liked Abby. So, let me temper this first impression with the fact that in the end, Abby was a godsend. She was kind and she took Megan on walks and visited with her often. So, she made up for her comment.
11:00am. Megan and I are taken to the recovery room. “Recovery room,” you ask? Yes. Apparently it’s also a prep room. Just a prep room with Megan, myself and a bunch of patients who just got out of their own surgeries. You know, a “recovery room.” So, we wait. And wait. Her parents wait in the Surgery waiting room. We wait. The doctor waits for his hole in one. The earth waits for winter. Winter waits for spring. Wait and wait . . . . wait.
Suddenly, a nurse stops by and, with a thick Polish accent, asks Megan, “You in Florida?” We have no idea what she’s getting at. I mean, when the Sunday nurse asked Megan, “You smoked” as opposed to “Are you a smoker?” all bets are off in terms of what this staff is getting at. Megan says, “No, I’m from Kentucky.” The nurse replies, “No, you in Florida?” We look at each other with crooked eyes and then, slowly, Megan says, “Noooooooo.” The nurse then reaches around me, opens this mini fridge looking device that holds bunch of blankets and grabs one. She hands it to me. It’s super warm and toasty. “Then you should cover your feet. It’s cold.”
Now, allow me to digress here. A freaking oven for blankets! Why aren’t theses things readily available for consumers? Freaking hot blankets for cold Chicago days. Who in their right mind at the blanket warming company thought that no one would buy that. Sorry hospitals, but it’s high time you stopped being so selfish. Share this with the world. It’s about the size of a mini fridge and it WARMS BLANKETS! Son of a bitch. What will they think of/hide from us next.
Back to the waiting. To pass the time, Megan and I start posting on my Facebook profile what we’re doing. The following is the entire update with comments. we created a monster – – but a lovable, entertaining monster that helped us pass the time:
INITIAL STATUS UPDATE:
Well, that was fun — even days after the surgery. Just a note – very revealing about what pop culture items people tend to enjoy . . . So what do we do now? Well, if anyone knows the Tamisieas, they know we are prone to making up songs out of the blue. Pat’s songs usually consist of gibberish or non-sensical phrases. My favorite of his is “Hey there Billy! I have it!” That’s it. Who’s Billy? No one knows. Mine usually consist of jingles that could very well be commercials . . . well, maybe not. But I made up this song to get Megan’s mind off the surgery. A nurse had commented that after the surgery, Megan would get a pair of “massaging booties.” I had no idea what that meant but suddenly I started singing:
We started laughing so hard that a nurse stopped by and wanted to know why. We had no answer. It was a bad move anyway because the laughing hurt Megan’s abdomen. A little while later, the anesthesiologist stopped by. It was time for me to leave. And so we play the waiting game part two. Megan’s parents and I – just waiting around. Reading. Talking. I start to get some shut eye when Leo, Megan’s dad, offers me some cookies. Who needs sleep when you got COOKIES! I really wish I had that shut eye . . .
There’s a monitor in the waiting room that indicates where the doctor is at any given moment. For the whole 2 hours we waited, he never left the recovery room. All the other doctors were in Surgery. Was this some scam like at a mechanic when they say you need a new part and then just let the car sit for a few days, pass it back and charge you an arm and a leg? Oh man, we just got scammed, didn’t we. Megan’s just laying on a table, passed out while doctor’s play poker on her abdomen.
Hey, youse need a operation. I'm da guy wit the doctors certificate. Eh-OOO!
Well, eventually, the doctor comes out and informs us that Megan is doing fine. She had over 50 stones in her gall bladder. He said she’d probably been collecting them for 10 years. 10 YEARS! I always thought Megan had a secret hobby. Well, if we never have babies, at least we can say she gave birth to 50 beautiful gall bladder babies. Much easier to care for as well.
Got ourselves a little football franchise here.
I go walk with Megan back to her room where she is high on drugs. She says to me, “When I woke up, the first thing I said was, ‘Where’s my husband?'”
And with that, I rush home so she can sleep. I clean the house for 5 hours so she has something nice to come home to – even borrowing our neighbor’s vacuum. Our gay neighbors who are named Ty and Rex. I really want to get to know them well so I can refer to them collectively as TYrannosaurus REX. Then I get this text: “One of the nurses said it might be thursday before I get to go home. It all depends on progress. So please pray I heal quickly and get tom come home tomorrow. :(“
I get to sleep at 3:30am. Again.