I suppose I was dark and foreboding enough in the last page, so I’ll tell a more complete story here.
I walked into the clinic late in the morning, and after a brief wait I was on a table, arms strapped to the bed, an IV in my arm and breathing some gas. I don’t like needles, but if I can focus on something else I can relax enough not to vomit. The gas and the pre-op banter was enough for me, and I quickly went down.
I woke up happy as a sailor in a whorehouse and about as inebriated. I was laughing, vomiting up blood, and laughing some more. I was in a room with at least two other patients waking up, one of them a male who wanted very much to stay asleep and one of them a female who felt like a good weep. We were segregated with curtains, but I could hear a lot of what went on. I would laugh, tell the guy to wake up, vomit a bit more, try and convince the woman to stop crying and have a good chuckle, admire my bloody sheets (I recall comparisons to tampons, in fact, which sent me into hysterics), and contribute to the problem once again. I’m sure the nurse on duty was very much amused.
I eventually was managed into a wheelchair and driven to a friend’s house, where my gauzy mouth, benumbed mind, and general demeanor added to the world’s levity. Oh, and the patient was amazed at the unusually large amounts of blood. The patient was amazed at the unusually large amounts of blood. The patient was amazed at the unusually large amounts of blood. Sorry… thought this was Mad.
Sooner rather than later, the high wore off. To describe the remainder, I’ll let the inestimable Johnny Cash explain why this episode continued my distaste for opiates and pain pills:
(Except, of course, replace ‘lonesome’ with ‘throwing-up sick’. And ‘sleeping city sidewalk’ with ‘sound of blood in the sink’.)