A Tarnished Luster

Well, the shit has hit the fan for sure now.  Israel's attack on Iran will have global implications.  For all of you who don't want to provoke countries with nukes, you have been fooling yourselves.  I keep saying this.  It is only a matter of time before one of the too many countries with nukes decides to use one.  It could be Pakistan.  It could be Russia.  Sooner or later, though. . . .  

Here at home, U.S. Senators are being dragged out of press conferences by "security" and forced to the ground, face first, in order to be handcuffed.  Nothing to see here.  Happens all the time.  

So it is now obvious, or should be to anyone with a thinking mind, that Trump's use of military in L.A. did not quell the protests, but rather has spread them across the country.  Will he send troops to every city now?  

And yet. . . Saturday is "No Kings Day," and the left is ready to get out and carry signs.  Here's one.  "Dictator or Democracy."  They both get five stars.  And it seems we had an election in which Trump was democratically elected.  So. . . who do you really blame, Trump or people who voted for him?  

Three fucking times.  

Trump did have a good idea, though--appeal to billionaires and idiots.  That has always been a winning combo.  Democrats have decided to piece together a coalition of trans right advocates, gay rights advocates, #MeToo advocates, and people who want to drive electric cars.  Oops.  Now what are you going to do with your Tesla?  

It may be time to write a strongly worded letter to the editor.  

But fuck me, those are your problems.  I have my own.  

I was looking forward to being cleared by the surgeon.  That would be swell.  But before my appointment, I got a call from my mother.  She seemed to be in a bad way.  She wasn't making a lot of sense, but I understood that she had tremendous back pain and that she had not been able to move her bowels for a long while.  She wanted to go to the E.R.  

"Can you wait until I see my surgeon?  I'll be over right after that."

So that was the plan.  The luster had been taken from the day.  

When I saw the surgeon, he was quite pleased with his work.  So was I.  The scar has healed nicely.  He was in a good mood about it.  Jovial, really.  I was guessing that the healing had gone better than one might hope given my age and the location of the wound.  

"Did we take a picture of that?" he asked his P.A.

"No."

"I did," I said.  

He asked me to pull it up on my phone.  He took the phone from me which scared the shit out of me as I feared he might start scrolling.  I know!  But I do.  He pinched the screen to enlarge the photo and looked at my leg and began telling me how he did what he had done so well.  

I was free to go.  

"I've read that silicone cream is the best thing to use on a scar," I said, but before I got it all out he fairly shouted, "BULLSHIT!"  

"Look at it," he said.  "You will barely see it."

O.K. O.K. . . .  I didn't bring up that I got that piece of information on the Mayo Clinic website.  

"So I can run and jump and surf now?" I asked.  

"Yes.  That won't come apart.  I'd have to cut it to open it back up now."

It had been an amazing recovery, really, given that it had been just weeks since he operated.  I was a bit ahead of the curve.  

As I walked out into the sunny parking lot, I felt better than I had for months.  

But. . . . 

When I got to my mother's house, she was sitting with a heating pad on her back.  She was confused about what to do.  She said she'd wait and call 911 that night to take her to the E.R.  There was no sense in that, though, I said.  What was she going to accomplish by waiting.  And so I convinced her that we should go now.  

And there we were again.  It seems like I've lived 2025 in that E.R. and hospital ward.  My mother, of course, could not hear the questions they asked her and she would, as has become her habit, answer questions she guessed they were asking.  I had to answer most of them for her.  They took her vitals.  Holy shit, her blood pressure was 205/99.  Was that possible?  That is in stroke range.  I got very concerned.  

The doc came in.  He wanted to get some X-rays, he said.  My mother was having tremendous difficulty lying down on the bed.  Finally, with a lot of moaning, she was whisked away.  I was alone in the room.  My back was hurting, so I stood up to move a bit.  I went to the door and peered down the hallway.  And what did I spy?  There, standing in her scrubs wearing a surgical mask, working at a computer was the E.R. doc who had treated my mother for her broken wrist, the same one who saw me when I went to the E.R. seven weeks ago--Dr. Magic!

Holy shit, I thought, we were lucky not to draw her this time.  She is young and beautiful, but I don't think much of her nascent medical knowledge.  She seems to be rather in the on the job training program.  Still. . . she is very pretty.  

O.K.  First things first.  Magic isn't her real name, but her real name is even more miraculous.  Secondly, this isn't her real photo.  I uploaded hers to Google Image Search to find one that approximated hers.  She is just this pretty, but I didn't want anyone to be able to look her up and tell her what my opinions are.  Why?  Well. . . . 

When she looked up and saw me, there was a recognition in her eyes.  She looked for longer than usual, then took down her medical mask, smiled, and waved.  Really?!  You call bullshit, perhaps, and I pretty much was, too.  But she did, and it made me feel very shy.  True.  

When they brought my mother back to the room from X-rays, she was in agony.  In a bit, the doc came in and said, "It looks like there is a compression fracture in your L2 vertebrae.  The X-ray analysis said it was 'age indeterminate.'  I want to get a CT scan for a better view so we can see if the fracture is old or new.  Let me get you some pain medication, and we'll send you over."

But that wasn't the order of events.  A fellow came in to take her for the scan, and when he moved the bed, my mother screamed out in pain.  

"I'm sorry," he said, then looking at me,"I'm sorry."

"They said they were going to get her some pain meds first."

"Let me go get the nurse," he said.  

Half a miserable hour later, the nurse came in with an injection of Dilaudid.  Oh, boy. . . that seemed to work pretty quickly.  

"Whoa.  That hit my head," my mother said.  

Quite awhile later, the fellow came back to take her for the scan.

Alone again, I got up to stretch.  I walked to the door to peer down the hallway, and again, there was Dr. Magic.  She looked over and waved again.  

"Hello, she smiled, "I remember you." 

Holy smokes!  My knees fairly buckled.  I'm a very shy fellow, and I'm afraid my silver tongue was tied.  She chatted me up for awhile, but my words came out like a sixth grade boy with a crush on his teacher.  There was a time. . . but probably not anymore.  And so. . . that is all there is to that story.  It is a pathetic story, I know, but it is all I have.  And it is the truth.  

When I stepped back into the room and sat down, my mind was full of confused adoration.  Or, in the most wonderful words of James Joyce, "Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger" (Araby).  

My mother was brought back into the room where we waited.  The E.R. was busy.  I had been listening to a man somewhere down the hallway violently puking ever so long.  Another man was brought into the room next to my mother's with chest pains.  There was a "Code Blue" screamed across the P.A. system.  And, of course, one can only guess that the place was understaffed by the corporate boys who ran the business.  My mother's nurse was working a twelve hour shift, she said through her yawns.  So. . . with much impatience, I patiently waited.  

When the doc came back, he said that the CT scan had shown clearly that she did have a compression fracture and that he wanted to admit her for the evening in order to manage her pain and keep an eye on her vitals.  He ordered up some Miralax as he said the scan also showed that she was very constipated.  

When he left the room, I said, "So. . . they've confirmed that you are full of shit."

I'd been sitting in the room all day.  They were going to admit my mother.  Nothing else was going on.  It was nearing five o'clock and I hadn't eaten anything yet, so I said, "I think I'll go get some dinner and then come back.  There is nothing else they are going to do, O.K.?"

"Sure, honey."

So I headed out to what was once my favorite Italian restaurant.  I don't have one right now that I like any better, but I am certain that this is not my favorite anymore.  It was early when I walked into the bar, and the bartender and one of the waitresses saw me coming up the sidewalk.  They were smiling at me as I entered.  

"Hi Bud," said the bartender.  She handed me two menus and I laughed.  "It's only me tonight," I said.  I was sure she was expecting Tennessee.  

"I'll just have the Blue Plate Special," I said with a grin.  "Whatever happened to that and the Senior Discount?  As soon as I got old, they took it all away."

I ordered a Fresco salad.

"They took that off the menu," she said. 

"What?  What did they replace it with."

"Nothing," she said.  

Well shoot.  I ordered a Chianti Classico and a Chicken Cacciatore.  I would need to find a new favorite Italian place.  

The bar began to fill up with "regulars."  You can see the same people here night after night.  I don't think any of them like me.  They are a snooty lot of faux-highbrows.  I hear their conversations, though, and I can testify to the best of my abilities that they are by and large idiots.  Proof?  They all voted for Trump. 

When I got back to the hospital, my mother was in her room.  She was up and walking about.  I guess the opioid had really helped.  She was unusually peripatetic.  They had brought her a dinner that she wasn't eating.  She didn't want to get into bed, and she kept walking out into the hallway for unknown reasons.  Finally she came back and sat in a chair.  In a bit, a nurse came in, but she was going off duty.  So I sat longer until the night nurse came in.  She got updated on my mother's chart, and I threw in some caveats.  My mother had not had any pain meds since the dilaudid.  I asked about that.  

"There are no orders here for pain medication," said the nurse. 

"But that was the reason the doctor admitted her--pain control."

"I'll check with him," she said.  "Maybe he just hasn't gotten around to it yet."

It was getting dark outside.  

"I"m going to go," I said.  "Do you need anything?  I'll come back in the morning."

It was almost nine when I dropped onto my couch.  None of my problems had gone away.  Save one.  I rubbed my hand across my scar.  It still felt tender but not that tender.  It would work out fine.  I'd had the cyst on that calf since I was in my thirties.  The calf now felt wonderfully free.  

I sat back and thought about the day.  When I thought about my conversation with Dr. Magic.  I could feel hot embarrassment rising up my chest and neck.  I would never have another girlfriend, I thought.  I was a complete imbecile.  It comes from living so much alone, I reasoned.  That and a simple deficit of character.

Whatever.  One foot in front of the other.  That's all one can do sometimes.  No chewing gum, no juggling.  Just one foot, then the other.  

And, when fortunate, a little music.  

Fortune hasn't smiled on me lately, though.  There is only the sound of the world falling apart.