kanji

26 April, 2005
he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day

despite all of the trepidation and in-the-gut horror i'd been experiencing, my Day In The Belly Of The Whale began without fear, though not without the requisite irony... as i have come to expect. even before my eyelids opened for the first time, the Fates decided that the soundtrack for the early morning would be: Captain&Tenille's dubious hit, "Do That To Me One More Time". i don't believe that i could have consciously chosen a more horrible selection, or more appropriate.

as not for whom the Captain sings... he sings for thee.

by this point, my innards had been transformed into the prescribed tub of goo... thanks to the meds specified in the pre-op orders. consequently, my whereabouts in the house could be audibly detected by the anguished grumblings of my belly or the geysers of funk that were exploding from GroundZero, on my frequent trips to the loo.

also setting the stage for my entry into the hospital, a sky tinted in multiple shades of dirty grey... a perfect match for my mood. appropriate reading matter, Please Kill Me. i imagine the title was quite fitting for those who cast eyes upon it.

from that point on, the world became a SalvadorDali painting come alive: surreal... no, superReal. the waiting room of pale victims, the hell of paperwork and the surliness of the receptionists, the unblinking eye of fluoresence, the Breath of the Pre-Op... punctuated by The Persistence Of Memory of Procedures past.

then... The Wait:

...punctuated with the ceremonial donning of the ass-revealing uniform. the surprisingly painless needle-stick for the I.V. (skilled nurses, thankfully). the monitoring electrodes. the interview. and then, the Wait, II. godforsaken daytime television in the claustrophobic prep room the only means to derail my thoughts. a failure.

when finally the call came, it was like being cast as the stiff on the gurney on the opening credits to SixFeetUnder: grids of lights passing overhead while wobbling into empty hallways... until passing the threshold of the OR. faced with my own monitors, for vitals and the scope... for my semi-lucid viewing pleasure.

dulled to the pain with Valium&syntheticMorphine by the doctors. skilled, efficient, and conversational, even when i could have sworn that the scope was going to erupt from my chest, � la Alien, i could'nt have cared less.

and then, it was over... my innards, spotless and unrotted.

another reprieve.

.


hit me with your rhythm stick




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