As Woody Harrelson's character in "Doc Hollywood said, "I woulda been a doctor, except for all that science stuff." That might not be verbatim, so maybe the quotation marks are inappropriate. But the sentiment was correct.
Still one does not need to be in the medical profession to know certain things, especially about one's self.
I had no use of my legs. My brain would direct them with such complex orders as "Move!" And they wouldn't. Above my (growing thanks to the steroids) waistline had sustained any such weakness. I had mastered the remote control for the black-and-white TV. I could cycle through all 12 channels with alacrity. The set cost two bucks a day.
One of the epiphanies I reached while a patient there was that in the two weeks leading up to The Super Bowl(r) was that half the commercials were for pizza. In '94 the pizzas were good. Noble Roman's Deep-dish particularly was alluring. I pined for one of those. And here's part of the thought processing that was askew. I never thought to order out. But I was on steroids and, no matter how good the hospital food was (and it was good), I wanted a pizza---deep-dish with lots of sause and double the order of sausage. My arms were strong. I could pivot at the waist. So when the wheelchair arrived and the attendant told me we were on our way to occupational therapy, I thought either it would be more of the leg work or, perhaps, a shop class. I didn't know.
When we arrived in the basement of the neo-Stalinist structure, I was surprised when told that the work would be on hand/arm coordination. Really? I asked. My next question: how much will this cost. Answer: $85. Per session. I told them I would decline. That came up on a charge for my bill. (I promise again, the charges will be addressed in this blog.) I was wheeled back to my room. Dinner was served, and in massive proportions. No creme brulee, but good eats nonetheless. My arms and hands worked sufficiently.
The neuro entered to give me his nightly reort from 3-by-five cards.
A gentleman took the bed next mine and braged to his wife was watching "Coal Miner's Daughter for the 19th time." I wanted to ask if he had a VCR, but thought the questionimpertinent. Besides, they had given me my sleep meds. I fell inot sleep, awakened, as I was each night at 2 am to see if I was sleeping. I never went back to sleep.
I don't recall dreams from those nine days in the neo-Stalinesque strutureep meds. By now, everytime I sat up the splittig headache from the LP hit me. I hoped the process was working. The catheter certainly worked.
Sarah wqas exhausted, She also was distraught. I was too whacked out to register such emotions.
The person from accounting revisited, demanding I sign the promissory note. Again I declined. Still the weather awas the worst ever, And I was stuck with watching "Coal Miner's Daughter, and ads for pizza.
This could not get worse, I thought---but silly me. M