What
Day is this?
Date?
To both I gotta answer, there’s a calendar right behind you—I’m cheating when I answer this one!
Your name?
You should really know this—you’re my nurse, dammit.
Where are we?
Don’t you know? Do you want latitude and longitude? If so, beats the fuck outta me.
Why are you here?
Shouldn’t you know that? Here, just in case, let me show you this big-ass scar on my thoracic spine.
They used to ask more questions, like who’s the president. I think they were just asking for entertainment value. Ya know, to hear my curse laden responses which I generally ended with—‘I won’t say that grifting fucker’s name.’
Now? They don’t ask but I’d happily reply Biden/Harris is our team in the White House!
I was finally moved out of my post-op room into a regular space on Thursday late afternoon. Normally I spend a day or two in the ICU but not this go ‘round. Why not? I’m guessing, but I believe all the folks who had to put off ‘elective’ surgery due to the COVIDiots, were packed in there. Just FYI, post-op is below ground. NO VIEW!
So, how’m I doing? Better than my month-plus crap out, that’s for damn sure! I’m not in primo condition but I’m sure as fuck stronger than when I went into the OR. YEA me and YEA steroids! I can now, soon at any rate, get back to rehabbing from this past March’s brain surgery.
Something funny-ISH—given that I’m here every six months for some odd neuro slice, you get real familiar with the staff. Nurses remember you and vice versa. Sadly(?), I’m on the favored repeat customer list. One more and I get a free mocha and an apple twist, or something.
Next? Rehab—my full time gig.
This new room has a great view but I’m probably only here for the day and then off to Rehab Central. Gotta be better at walking and stairs before I get home to .la famiglia.
