10-02-2005
Sunday morning, late. I've been playing the piano and singing a little. As always, this impromptu concert is performed in tacit understanding for my wife, who is puttering in the kitchen. Some classic pop, some ballads, some show tunes, a little bit country, a little bit rock-and-roll. I play with some emotion, so my wife knows I still love her after all these years. I know she'll find an excuse to make contact at some point . Sure enough, in she comes with a question, where does "From This Day On" come from. I answer "Brigadoon" and she, having shown she loves me, goes back into the kitchen. You can see part of my formula for a long marriage. Romance- comes and goes. Fidelity- overrated. But putting a little schmaltz in your music to your woman lasts a long time, maybe forever. Love, on all levels, is much easier now than in angst-ridden youth.
As is self-evident, my operation and hospital debacle was reasonably concluded,and I've been assured that my current resemblance to Herman Munster is temporary. This result was accomplished not through bravery on my part (see last blog) but with a good surgeon and timely administration of vicodin. Although vicodin is not LSD or pehote (ah, my '60s), it does blow a goodly amount of wind under your wings. It's no damn fun getting high legally, I discovered, or maybe I'm just over that particular hill.
Today's hospital is insurance-run, with very little regard for patient amenities, witness that I was boote out the day after surgery. A second casualty of the system is food. For dinner I was served a bowl of broth that somebody whispered "beef" over, along with a cup of tea which was either green or brown depending on which angle you viewed it. The finale was a cup of jello of indeterminent flavor, at least I couldn't determine it. My breakfast, I was told , was a dietary upgrade. This consisted of some tasteless scrambled eggs (saltless and pepperless), some strained oatmeal (I now know what they do with my re-cycled cardboard), and coffee, which I'm saving for my friend Dave's boat to get the barnacles off. Yet another systemic loss is those lovely, helpful, smiley nymphets we used to call candy-stripers. Nowadays the volunteers are all 75 years or older. A pathetic scene was this poor 90 pound septuarian forced by some arcane insurance law to push me (at 230 pounds) out of the hospital in a wheelchair. We almost lost her when the wheels got stuck at the elevator door.
Enough rant. I survived, as did the hospital. There was some doubt as to the latter. It's rumored that I'm a somewhat difficult patient. I'll save my bitching about anonymous bloggers 'til next time.
Sunday morning, late. I've been playing the piano and singing a little. As always, this impromptu concert is performed in tacit understanding for my wife, who is puttering in the kitchen. Some classic pop, some ballads, some show tunes, a little bit country, a little bit rock-and-roll. I play with some emotion, so my wife knows I still love her after all these years. I know she'll find an excuse to make contact at some point . Sure enough, in she comes with a question, where does "From This Day On" come from. I answer "Brigadoon" and she, having shown she loves me, goes back into the kitchen. You can see part of my formula for a long marriage. Romance- comes and goes. Fidelity- overrated. But putting a little schmaltz in your music to your woman lasts a long time, maybe forever. Love, on all levels, is much easier now than in angst-ridden youth.
As is self-evident, my operation and hospital debacle was reasonably concluded,and I've been assured that my current resemblance to Herman Munster is temporary. This result was accomplished not through bravery on my part (see last blog) but with a good surgeon and timely administration of vicodin. Although vicodin is not LSD or pehote (ah, my '60s), it does blow a goodly amount of wind under your wings. It's no damn fun getting high legally, I discovered, or maybe I'm just over that particular hill.
Today's hospital is insurance-run, with very little regard for patient amenities, witness that I was boote out the day after surgery. A second casualty of the system is food. For dinner I was served a bowl of broth that somebody whispered "beef" over, along with a cup of tea which was either green or brown depending on which angle you viewed it. The finale was a cup of jello of indeterminent flavor, at least I couldn't determine it. My breakfast, I was told , was a dietary upgrade. This consisted of some tasteless scrambled eggs (saltless and pepperless), some strained oatmeal (I now know what they do with my re-cycled cardboard), and coffee, which I'm saving for my friend Dave's boat to get the barnacles off. Yet another systemic loss is those lovely, helpful, smiley nymphets we used to call candy-stripers. Nowadays the volunteers are all 75 years or older. A pathetic scene was this poor 90 pound septuarian forced by some arcane insurance law to push me (at 230 pounds) out of the hospital in a wheelchair. We almost lost her when the wheels got stuck at the elevator door.
Enough rant. I survived, as did the hospital. There was some doubt as to the latter. It's rumored that I'm a somewhat difficult patient. I'll save my bitching about anonymous bloggers 'til next time.
posted by Papa Bill | 9:31 AM
1 Comments:
Drugs other than those listed here may also interact with Hydrocodone. Talk to your doctor and pharmacist before taking any prescription or over-the-counter medicines, including herbal products.
Post a Comment
<< Home