Gurneys, Gowns and Clones

Prior to 2004 the only hospital gurneys I ever saw rolled across a Thursday night television program.

I don’t like medical attention. But when I did not get enough of it in 2003, me, some doctors in a hospital area called nuclear medicine, a surgeon, then a radiologist and an oncologist (and the absolute best people behind a one-foot thick wall in a radiology treatment room—luv ya all still), kicked off 2004--my year of IVs, EKGs, CATs, gurneys and gowns.

While they killed the cancer, a red herring—as defined by the oncologist--remained. He didn’t like it and won’t like it. I love his candor and caution. So off to another specialist I went. Add DNC to the alphabetic procedures on my list. Nope, the girlfriend just has an errant fibroid, reported the pathology lab, which by now I have become a regular contributor to the lab’s bottom line. When an ugly little growth appeared on my skin, it was off with its head. Nope, the girlfriend just has an errant chunk of flesh. More funds sent to the pathologists, who I’m thinking should know me on a first name basis and appoint me to their board of directors with profit sharing privileges.

Ocean and I roasted a lovely rib roast for Christmas day. Also on Christmas day my inner red herring reappeared. I kept it to myself. The last red herring became such a drama--think DNC, followed by lots of B-L-O-O-D, and rushed to the ER where the doctors all rhymed hysterectomy—that I choose not to reenact that scenario. Body parts intact, I recently returned to my GYN.

Before the sun rose yesterday, and before our Santa Fe temperatures neared double-digits, I was barely cloaked in anti-fashion’s greatest foible ever,the hospital gown. I directed the nurses to take blood pressure from my right arm, along with the IV, greeted the always happy anesthesiologist, who said, “I know you,” and I bantered away in a parade of patients on gurneys rolling down surgery highway. My last recollections include asking what was the anesthesia of the day, heaving my body onto the surgical table, gazing at the ceiling and parting with, “Well, this time you won’t catch me saying something really stupid before I go ouuuuttttttttt………”

Pathology has collected enough of my tissue to build a whole new me. So when I begin my ride through eternity, just get me cloned and I’ll be back. That incarnation should have a lot less medical expenses and maybe return to just watching gurneys on HD TV.