“B” SIDES AND OTHER RARITIES

A living dog is better than a dead lion.
– Ecclesiastes 9:4


Thinking of her whippet who’d been recently castrated, my adult daughter asked if I’d need to wear one of those protective cones so I wouldn’t lick myself. After the surgery, upon my release.

I would if I could, guess I said.

My surgeon says there’s a slight chance they’ll find no additional cancer in the prostate – with it removed, and once they’ve had a chance to examine it. My response was something along these lines: I suppose at that point, it’s too late to think about putting it back?

They harvest a cancerous prostate, no different than harvesting a rutabaga or a summer squash.

It’s never a good thing when in the throes of a compromising position, someone tells you to take a deep breath or bite on a towel.

For my Florence Nightingale, my lady with the lamp: this is the in sickness and in health part.

The catheter, upon having finally been removed and hung on a nail above my workbench: ideal for draining the old engine oil from my lawn tractor or the Simplicity snowblower. We all aspire to something of a far greater value, finding new purpose long after we've exceeded our useful lives.

HEALTHCARE IN AMERICA

So I meet with my physician, and from the results of a previous CT scan, learn I have a thin chest wall. But a big heart.

Or maybe an enlarged heart, considering all the exercise.

He’d smiled, when early on I’d inquired if it might be possible they’d gotten all the cancer during the needle biopsy.

In any case, start to finish, I’ve been treated like a rock star. An abridged report card: lab technicians A, radiologist A, nurses A, anesthesiologist A, surgeons A+, primary physician A+, facilities A-, hospital food C+, administration B+, pharmaceuticals B+, insurance carrier B+.

From the initial blood screening, to the biopsy and surgery and all that came after, I’m here to report that including the food, particulary the cottage cheese, the quality of healthcare in America is alive and thriving. Nothing against Canada. Nothing against Cuba, I'd love to visit one day. We have friends who are Cuban, Anna Ruth played her cello at our daughter's wedding. In this house, there is always morning. Nothing against Cuba, but contrary to Michael Moore's diatribe, I'm glad I had the operation a little closer to home.

WHAT WAS THAT?

I wake up to bright lights, loud voices, and a sudden, frenzied commotion. I wake up, and right away I’m thinking: I’ve been in a plane crash and I’m still strapped into my seat!

Except there’s this catheter draining to somewhere below my line of sight.

Which might be a good idea for longer flights, especially as the baby boomers’ prostrates begin to balloon. But in this context, tangled in the switches and cabling, the catheter seems ridiculously out-of-place.

Except this isn’t a crash site, it’s a hospital bed – one of several in Recovery, each a deluxe model with all the gizmos and gadgetry. Like lawn equipment, they’ve come a long way since the Eisenhower years.

Still, I’m confused by the juxtaposition.

It’s as if they’d just rolled me onto the operating table, then I’ve been wheeled to my room and it's instantly dark outside and nearly my bedtime. Glad I thought to hydrate. Glad I packed my toothbrush and a pair of slipper socks.