A Race Against Time
I was at an urgent care just now, and the doctor asked me if I’d like some narcotics and how much. Now that is service, my friends. I used to have a doctor that treated every patient as if they were Charlie Sheen in disguise. “You want pain relievers? For a broken femur? Get the hell out of my office, junkie!” So it’s nice to have a doctor listen to your complaint, believe it, and then actually give you something that will take care of it. Especially when that something is 250 doses of morphine.
Hahaha, I’m just kidding. I got fifteen tablets of Vicodin. I woke up Sunday morning with the worst, most painful sore throat that I have ever had in my life. I felt fine on Saturday night, stayed up late watching movies and drinking beer, and then I woke up at 6:00 AM on Sunday when I swallowed and the pain jolted me wide awake. I know that the human body is a miracle and all of that other rah-rah bullshit people say when they’re confronted with something miraculous like childbirth or a really nice rack. But there is a lot about the human body that sucks, and sore throats are one of them. “And on the sixth day, God created Man. But just in case Man turned out to be a collection of grade-A assholes, he created sore throats as well. ‘There, something that will hurt when they eat, drink, swallow, or breathe. Let’s see them fuck with me now!'”
Immediately upon getting home, I popped a couple of Vicodin and then I realized that I hadn’t written a post for tomorrow. So now I am engaged in a race against time, desperately trying to make with the ha-ha before my brain, flooded with endorphins, begins to dwlksfd lkf aslkdjfhadlkjsf fjlhkd fadsflkj adhf adlvkadkjfheld… zzzzzzz.
Wow, that shit kicks in fast when you snort it. (I’m joking again. I smoked it.) Actually, for whatever reason, I’m usually pretty functional on narcotics. I mean, I’m not going to do any high-speed performance driving on them or anything, but I have no problem staying awake, watching a movie, or prank calling the Vatican. Some people go face-first into their dinner, but I’m not one of them. And apparently I’m like this with anesthesia as well, something I learned in an alarming fashion.
A few years back, I had a fun little bout with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma that required me to go through chemo. Some of the chemo drugs that are used in the treatment are apparently very, very dangerous. The chemo nurses would spend all day giving them to me and then instruct me to go home and drink a metric fuckton of water to get them out of me as soon as possible. If this makes no sense to you, consider another fact: These drugs are so dangerous that you need to get a device called a Port-o-Cath installed so that they can insert these drugs directly into your heart.
Me: So, the chemo drugs are dangerous.
Nurse: Oh, God yes. They can do a lot of damage to your body.
Me: And because they are so dangerous, you want to inject them directly into my heart, did I get that right?
Me: Doesn’t that strike you as kind of insane?
Nurse: No, what is insane is how much we’re going to charge you for this.
(My chemo nurse seriously said that. She was a funny and wonderful person.)
Anyway, I had to get the Port-o-Cath installed via a minor surgery. For those of you lucky to have never had surgery, here’s how it goes: First, they give you a shot of something to “relax” you. This does almost nothing to me. Then they wheel you into the OR and everyone is waiting there for you except the surgeon. For whatever reason, the surgeon doesn’t like to walk in there until everything’s ready to go. I think this is because he wants to feel free to say things such as, “This guy is a fucking goner,” or “What the fuck is this thing? Somebody look this up!” or even “Jesus I’m drunk” without having to worry about the patient’s reaction.
So the anesthesiologist introduces himself to you, and does the whole “count backwards from 100” thing that most people don’t even get a chance to do before they conk out. I, on the other hand, get into the 70’s while everyone around the table starts looking at each other, thinking, “What the fuck?” Then the surgeon walks in and belatedly realizes that I’m still conscious. “Ok, so this one ought to… Oh, hey there! How’re we doing?”
As I’m interrupting my countdown to say hi to the guy that’s going to slice me open, the doctor gives a puzzled look to the anesthesiologist who answers with a cartoon-like shrug that says, “I have no fucking idea why this guy is still awake”. Then the drugs kick in, and let me tell you something: The last thing you want to see when you’re going under is a group of medical professionals in front of you, all with a “What the hell?” look on their faces. It doesn’t instill confidence, that’s for fucking sure.
Where was I? Oh yeah, drugs. I’m on some right now. As I write this, my throat is still kind of sore, but my knees feel fucking terrific for some reason. I can see how professional football players would get kind of fond of these things. Ok, well, since I’m nice and doped up, there’s no reason to have a coherent thread in this post, so let’s talk about this woman:
This is an old clip that I’ve seen probably a dozen times, and it keeps popping up in my list of recommended videos on YouTube (which, if you’ve followed this site for a while, you’ll know is full of a lot of very fucked up videos). And I can never watch this video without cringing because the look in her eyes betrays her thoughts perfectly: “Oh, man, I wish I was smarter. Everyone is making fun of me. Again.”
And since my feet are now feeling groovy, here’s another oddball video, this one on the subject of murdering flowers:
Time’s up. I’ll try to get my shit together for a real post tomorrow.