In the ER, I told my mother that I was hungry and I wanted nothing more than a cheeseburger. If it wasn’t an appendicitis, I wanted to get a cheeseburger. Sadly, after being pumped up full of iodine, my cheeseburger craving was over.
Before I’m wheeled out of my hospital room to the OR, my nurse-until-seven, Melissa, asked, “Do you have any piercings? Anywhere? Belly? Tongue?” I shook my head. I’ve never been one for body stuff like that and I had no intention to have any.
The surgeon (whose name I will not mention, but his office is in McAllen, TX and he’s the most unhappiest, rudest, annoying as hell, condescending assholes I have ever met in my short time in this earth) explain to me that I will be having a laparoscopic appendectomy and what the was. All I heard, to be honest, was that it’ll heal quicker, less chances of an infection, and recovery time will be quickened and I can be strolling sans cane, though I still have one because I roll like that and because it helps me keep my balance, but I’m needing it less and less and I was just sent home two days ago.
I look at my mother before I’m wheeled out for surgery, I tell my mother, “After this, no matter what they feed me, you got to tell me it’s a cheeseburger. I don’t care if it’s soup, you tell me it’s a cheeseburger.”
I don’t remember much of the leading steps of the surgery, minus the narrow bed and my Nip/Tuck reference. When I awoke, I had this Darth Vader mask over my face that spewed smoke, a blanket around my head, a soreness in my throat and a violent need to pee. My mother was brought into the recovery room, instructed not to talk to me. I could hear their chatter in my sleep. I opened my eyes and they closed. Typical TV fashion, I heard them say he’s coming to. I opened my eyes again, and, again, they closed. Third time charm, I opened my eyes and turned to see my mother and I started to talk. My mother didn’t know what to do. I asked, “Why do I have a sore throat? And why do I need to pee?”
“He needs to pee.”
The doctor assists me with this by giving me a container to pee in. I can’t seem to stay up, he then tells me he’ll help me more, by grabbing my penis and holding it for me into the container, meanwhile looking away. This doesn’t help me, it just confuses me and makes me think what the hell is going on.
“Would you like to get up?”
I nod. I sit up. I stand up. I almost fall. Back in bed. And that’s when I see it. This globe hanging down me. It’s filled with a dull red liquid color that’s too light to be blood. I don’t know what it is, but it turns out to be called a JP drain, which later learned means Jackson Pratt drain. This was my hour glass to health as once it stopped filling up, I was that much closer to getting home.
I’m wheeled back to the the room where I begin my struggle to learn how to pee again, a feet that takes me hours. I was threatened by one of the nurses – not really threatened – if I didn’t pee more problems were to come. Thankfully, I learned how to pee.
Backtracking, while I was still in the recovery room, my throat was being most bothersome. They removed the mask because I asked if I could. They removed it for me. They told me that I wasn’t going to be able to eat for a while and that when I laugh or cough to use a “clutch” which can be a pillow or a blanket in order to push out the gas trapped inside me. I’m told to walk around because that helps with the pumpking of the JP drain and the leakage around the hole that the tube that it’s placed in. I complain about my throat again, hoping they could explain it to me. They don’t. Instead the doctor gives me a cup of ice. This, my friends, is all I can eat for the next couple of days. I grabbed some ice chips, sucked on them and said to my mother, “This here. This are cheeseburgers.”