© 2011 Timmy Tamisiea. All rights reserved. telewizor_3

53/365 – E.T., Gall Home! (Part 4 of 4)

Let’s say a prayer.

Please God, or Allah, or Kermit the Frog – whoever wants to hear me out.  Can Megan come home today?  I think she’s been in the hospital 1.5 days too long.  Please let the doctor have some consideration for his patent and not wait till noon to come to the hospital like some college kid who thinks 10:30am is “early.”  I’d really like her to come home and enjoy thanksgiving and see how I cleaned out the microwave for the first time in 7 years.  Please.

Love,

Timmy

Whoops. Wrong god. Wrong god. Wrong god.

7am.  No sleep.  Again.  Get on the ol’ Foster bus and head to Swedish Covenant.  I’ve skipped three days of work.  I want things to go back to normal.  However, all we do today is watch TV and the roommate pooped her pants again.  That poor old lady.  The nurse has to keep taking blood from her as well and she’s not good at it.  The old lady starts yelling, “Ow ow ow ouch ouch!”  Megan heard her once say, “They’re doing it on purpose.”  When she leaves fro her surgery, selfishly, we’re relieved.  We feel bad for her, but she should never have been placed in Megan’s room.  She needed much more attention as requires assistance with everything.

They should have put one of these on their shared bathroom, because Megan could never use it.

So, what’s on TV?

The Price is Right!  Man, I really do like Drew Carrey.  I thought his sitcom was pretty damn good.  But he and his buddy, Wayne Brady, just don’t cut it as game show hosts.  They just seem so disinterested.  Boooo.  It’s like any joke they can vomit out come sour a slow, sloppy drool.  “Hey, you won a car . . . to drive in.  California has drivers . . . car?”

“Hey, look. Car. Girls. Joke . . . can I go back to Cleveland now?”

Maury has a show about Aunts telling their nephews that their girlfriend’s baby isn’t theirs.  Thats’ entertaining.  I love it when the words, “The Results Are In!” flash across the screen.  As if, every time, a doctor is running in from the lab with the envelope just as Maury is finishing up his interview.  “Oh, man, thank god I got here in time.  I have the results.  I need to get them to Maury now!”  Then as he passes a doctor from the same lab — “Hey, Doctor Hoover, where’s Maury’s show, I have the results!  They’re in!  Damn it, they’re in!  I have seconds to get them before they stop the show!”  This happened two or three more times before the show ends.  Always a rush because THE RESULTS ARE IN!

Hurry! Hurry. Maury needs the results! The results must be in!

At this point, little Abby, the student nurse, comes in and say goodbye to Megan.  Earlier that morning, she took Megan on a walk to get her some exercise and they were lie to chatty cathys.  I know Megan will miss her.

Then we watch this cooking show called The Chew.  I have a real hard time with this show for a few reasons.  ONE: most of hosts are stupid.  I don’t mean literally. They can cook and talk and all that jazz.  I mean, this show feels like just a bunch of b-list talk show hosts masquerading as cooks.

TWO: There’s comic book that been out for much longer than this show called Chew.  It’s about a detective who has extra sensory perception with his sense of taste. He can lick and taste anything and get a sense of where its been or what happened in a location.  So, a show about food with the same name as a comic book where sometimes the detective has to eat flesh to solve a murder is weird.

Now that's a cooking show I want to watch.

THREE: there’s a host named Carla Hall who looks like a demented buzzard.  She’s very sweet and actually a great cook as proved on Top Chef, but man, she’s crazy looking.  She’s like Scary Spice’s twisted twin.  I was just informed she’s a former model.  On what show?  National Geographic.  The Horror Channel.

Nightmares.

All right, at this point we’re both sick of being in this hospital.  We just want out.  Megan promises, “The next nurse to come in, I’m just gonna ask, ‘What’s it gonna take to get me out of here?”  And she does.  And the nurse give the standard answer – we’ll know when the doctor come in.  SON OF A BITCH.  When will that be?  After Thanksgiving?  Dr. Shaw is a nice enough guy, but really?  Can’t he just get here early for once?  The thing is, this anger is hindsight, because when he does come in, he just dismisses Megan.  He says he needs to see her next week and that he has a prescription for her, but that’s it.  No physical exam.  No tests.  Just a “on you way, little girl.”

Except, this time, when he calls me Mr. Green, I correct him.  It’s Mr. Tamisiea.  But he mistakes it for us being a progressive couple.  DAMN-IT.

Yep. We’re so progressive this was almost our wedding.

Well, the great John Serve picks us up – a wonderful friend of ours.  He drives us home.  It is there that we find Megan’s going to be in come pain.  She has an awful time getting comfortable in bed.  Whenever she lays prone, she hears and feels clicking in her abdomen.  After a hour and some codeine, I get her propped up in a sitting position and she falls asleep.  I leave her phone next to her with my number on speed dial because she can’t yell for me — it hurts too much.  I can’t even sleep in the same bed because any slight movement can cause discomfort.  I sleep in the guest room.

Now the recovery begins.  The job of a husband / nurse / Columbia TA / North Face Associate / Second City Box Office Employee / Masters in Fine Arts Student /  Video Game Junkie is never done.  But Megan is worth every second.

I have to start prepping and cooking for Thanksgiving as well.

At least she’s home.

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