So this is what I do now. For the past two days, I have wiled away the hours with my right foot hiked way up in the air, like an incoherent one-legged hooker, staring blankly at whatever happens to be in front of me. My good friend Misty Brawner brought over a stack of David Sedaris books, which I gaze at indifferently whilst doing my best Jack McMurphy post-lobotomy impression, and all courtesy of my new little helper, Perkyscent. Drool optional. The name Perkyscent is ironic because, up until 5 pm, it’s a rather accurate description of the aroma emanating from my undercarriage. Five bells this eve marks my first overtures toward hygeine since this whole kluge started this past Wednesday. I am too young to be this worn out by a simple bath. Perilous. But oh-so-necessary…
I broke my left ankle. Any more details, as far as you and I are concerned are unimportant. I was expecting to be told I had a severe sprain, snag some delicious Celebrex and squeal my tires out of town in a northerly direction. Shit didn’t go as planned. Instead, I was asked “How the hell did you walk in here?” and was wheeled out of Columbia Family Medical Group by a petite Korean. The next day, I was treated to one of my all-time favorite quotes from a medical professional: “Sir, your left ankle is a miracle.” An hour later, the same person would tear into my right ankle like he was gutting a catfish. Weird.
OR’s aren’t nearly as exotic as envisioned. Part of me hoped for a merry band of army surgeons gently sipping home-made gin martinis as Klinger modelled his newest feather boa. To my surprise, it was a rather sterile, impersonal experience. I guess if I’m forced to lay naked and defenseless, with my gens splayed out for any Tom, Dick or Harry to ridicule, anonymity is the preferred state. Other than the clear beach ball that pumped oxygen into my lungs for all of two seconds, I recall nothing. Perhaps 20 or so years down the road intensive therapy will reveal some form of kinky malfeasance. My first words uttered after leaving that room were “Did I bite someone’s finger off?” No lie!
The Perkyscent, which, in case you were wondering, I *am* taking per a doctor’s instruction, and not just recreationally, has had a tragic effect on my poopworks. Ordinarily, you could set your watch to it. I was warned that my little helper may cause a temporary work stoppage. But I had noooooo idea it would amount to full blown labor strike, the likes of which nary a trickle of output has snuck past the gatekeeper since my little helper and I began our beautiful romance way back at 2 pm, this past Wednesday. TMI? FU. The good news is that my once-great appetite is now best described as Lilliputian. Castor oil is helping. Thanks Witty.
Unless you can think of another way for me to offend you, that’s pretty much all I have for now. I love the visits. (Caitlin Hubbs, you are the BEST NEIGHBOR EVER!) So I encourage you to come over whenever you want. I’m usually wearing pants, but a little notice might help avoid any awkward discoveries. As always, I appreciate your friendship. And hope that you will keep my speedy recovery in your thoughts.