Back in 2006, Delirium Books publisher Shane Ryan Staley created a subscriber-based newsletter called the Delirium Insider. It offered exclusive information on upcoming Delirium releases. It also offered original flash fiction and several non-fiction columns. I was fortunate enough to be given the opportunity to write a regular column about my real-life experiences, twisting them into something unnatural (and entertaining), of course. My column was called Disturbances: Surreal Thoughts on Real Events. I wrote four essays in the short time the Delirium Insider was available. I will reprint three of the four here over the next three weeks.
Episode #1: Last Flight Out to the Wormhole in my Mind
They cut me open.
It’s okay, I let them.
Actually, they cut me open, played with my intestine a bit, pushed it back where it belonged, installed a little synthetic mesh, and sewed everything back up tight.
I had a hernia. I don’t know how or when it happened. It could have been caused by coughing up phlegm during a bout with a chest cold. It could have happened when I was down on my knees, lifting the couch in anger to look for the TV remote. Or it could have happened at work. All I know is I was in the shower one morning soaping up my groin at the same time I coughed, and I felt this egg blossom beneath my fingertips. I looked, I inspected. I coughed again. It’s the scientific process, you know. I repeated steps A and B, and still got result C. Shit, I thought. Shit, shit, shit. I’ve got a hernia!
Next step: call a doctor? Hell no. Check it out on the Internet first. Maybe there’s something I can do to fix it myself. Maybe, with rest and lots of deep abdominal massage, I can push my intestine back where it came from. Ah, here’s a good site, www.hernia.org…
I jump to the FAQ section. You know that saying about once you see something you can’t unsee it? Well…on the second page of this FAQ there’s a picture of these African bushmen, about ten of them lined up in a row as if for a family portrait, each standing naked as the day they were born, each looking as if they’re carrying twin bowling balls between their legs. The caption reads: “Ignoring a hernia, once diagnosed, is like playing Russian roulette!”
Holy fuck! I’ve seen pictures of the aftermath of guys playing Russian roulette and they weren’t half as grotesque as the picture of these guys with their intestines spooled out into a sack between their legs.
Next step: family doctor. For real. “Drop your drawers. Yup, you’ve got a hernia.”
Another step: the surgeon. “Drop your drawers. Yup, you’ve got a hernia. It’s a good size one too.”
I guess he never saw that picture of the African bushmen.
So, long story short, I sign on the dreaded line to let them cut me open. In all my 40-plus years, I’ve never been “under the knife”. Never experienced anesthesia. This ought to be interesting, I thought.
They schedule me for surgery on January 2, 2007. I arrive at 9:00 a.m., get called at 9:15. I’m the last patient of the day. I strip off everything except for my socks and get into my gown. 9:30: the nurse comes in, takes my temp, checks my lungs, sticks an IV needle into my arm, and then shaves half my pubic hairs off. “It’s mainly for the tape,” she says.
10:00 to 10:30: my wife and daughter sit with me, and comfort me. My wife jokes about life insurance while my daughter looks bored, wanting Mom to hurry up and go shopping. I kiss my wife goodbye, tell them I’ll see them later as they leave.
10:45: I’m wheeled out into the hall and into the elevator. Scenes from the movie Jacob’s Ladder flash through my mind. Fortunately, we end up several floors up and not in the basement. I’m wheeled into a sterile-looking room and parked in a holding area. I feel like an airplane that has taxied out onto the runway and is waiting for take-off.
10:45-11:00: a variety of doctors and nurses visit me and tell me everything will be okay. One nurse tells me, “The IV might feel a little cold,” as she begins the drip that will “relax” me.
??:??: I don’t know what time it was when they come and get me, but I’m pretty relaxed. The airplane begins to taxi down the runway. It passes through a pair of doors and into an operating room where a stainless steel bed awaits. The nurse asks me to scoot over, so I scoot. I lay my head back and…
1:00 p.m.: I hear laughter. Two women talking. I open my eyes. There’s a clock across the room. I try to focus my eyes. I feel nauseous. I drift off.
1:05: More laughter. I open my eyes again. This time I try to lift my head. My mouth is dry. A nurse comes over. “How do you feel?” “Okay,” I tell her, “it’s just hard to focus my eyes.” “Do you feel nauseous?” “Yup,” I say. She floods my IV with anti-nausea meds. I close my eyes and lay my head back.
1:10: I open my eyes again. I’m determined to wake up this time. “How do you feel now?” The nurse is back again. She has dark hair. She’s a middle-aged woman. I don’t know her name. “Better,” I tell her. I keep my eyes open. She leaves for a minute but returns to tell me I’m ready to go. I close my eyes as they wheel me away.
1:20: I’m back in my hospital room. The plane has returned. It was a short flight, only there’s time missing. About two hours-worth. I must have flown through a wormhole. I call the stewardess to bring me some ginger ale. I’m thirsty as all hell.
That was three days ago. I’m good as new now. Only my pubic area looks like a half-shorn sheep. The left side of my groin is missing most of its sensation. My left testicle looks like it was used as a punching bag for Mike Tyson, it’s bruised red, and the skin on the underside of my scrotum is nearly black. I called the doctor’s office and the nurse tells me everything’s normal. Needless to say, there’s still some residual pain.
That’s what the oxycodone is for.
I’m home, in my room, sitting at my computer. I hear the plane taxiing in the driveway as I write this. The stewardess is knocking on my window. Every night she promises me she’ll show me where my two hours went.
I have to go now. I’m off to find that wormhole. Don’t wait up.
#
Originally published in the Delirium Insider, January 2007.
Ugh. That picture’s still there.