No pictures, no show.
There’s an explanation behind it too. Yes, I did wear Bruce, and they were proudly displayed in the hospital where a surgeon (who else, really? a cook) cut me open like two pounds of pork. Clean cuts too. A tear in arthrodial cartilage (cartilago articularis). Anyway, now I’m walking with crutches — more on that next week.
There was an interesting moment in the operating room though. I’m being wheeled in on the motorised hospital bed like a panda to slaughter, without the bamboo, and there stands in front of me a bear of man, all red beard, tattooed arms and flaunting a skull embellished do-rag. With an axe this guy wouldn’t be as scary as with a scalpel or, in this case, masses of intimidatingly complex machinery that keep the patient alive. From behind this Shadow of Bane of Death comes out an angel of mercy: the anaesthetist (or anesthesiologist), pretty as a picture. And in no way did the bentsodiatsepine affect my judgement.
Her: Hi, I’m Dr. <Gorgeous>. How are you doing today? We’re gonna start by inserting the cannula for the general anaesthesia.
Me, with the best possible Joey Tribbiani-grin: Hey, how ya’ . . . *snooooooooooooooooorrrreeeeeee*
Now kids. Remember that
morphine is yummy drugs are bad for you, don’t do ‘em.
Week thirty-four here.