I first broke the news about this back in this post, so I’m finally getting around to going through the whole saga. Just to get this out up front, I’m fine and I was never in any real danger – so there’s no REAL drama involved here. But there was quite a bit of artificial drama created by yours truly, who generally acts like a little girl when it comes to certain things. Going under the knife is one of those things.

So, I found out about my inguinal hernia at my new hire physical 4 years ago. It didn’t come as a great surprise, seeing as how I’m an idiot that doesn’t lift with his bad knees and used to sell and deliver heavy duty truck and trailer parts. At the time, the doc told me about it and told me that it wouldn’t be a problem unless it got bigger. His suggestion was to wait until it bothered me before having surgery. Sounded like a good idea to me, since surgery implies expensive stuff – insurance or not.

Well, I’m not really sure how I managed to exacerbate the problem but one morning in July I did. REALLY did. I just woke up early one morning with the feeling that my nuts were being run through a wringer. For those of you keeping score at home, this is not one of the more pleasurable things in life. On closer inspection, I discovered a bulge about the size of an extra large egg on the left side of my groin. Oh, so that’s what the problem is……

I managed to hobble my way into work and got an appointment for the doc later that morning. And “hobbled” is the right word. I was literally taking very small steps while walking around bow-legged in an effort not to pinch or squeeze the “egg” in my crotch. Not that it really helped because I couldn’t determine rhyme or reason or pattern or logic in what set the pain-o-meter off. I could move the exact same way and one time it was fine and the next time brought back the ol’ nut wringer.

So I get to the doc’s office and the receptionist tells me that I’ll have to see his PA (Physician’s Assistant) because the doc got hung up out of the office. Apparently, the look of abject pain didn’t answer her question about whether or not that would be okay. I told her that I’d let the janitor look at it if he could give me a surgical consult and some pain meds. So they show me back into the exam room and the PA comes in. She tells me, again, that if I’m not comfortable with a woman examining me that the doc is now on his way back. I repeat the comment about the janitor, to which she replies that I look like I’m in pain. Ya think???

Well, she takes her look and gives me the facial equivalent of, “Holy shit – look at that!” The next thing she asks is what I want for the pain. Nice, the doc is giving me a blank check on the pharmacy. Unfortunately, they can’t get me in for a consult with the surgeon until the next day so I can’t get anything really good – I still have to drive and function and stuff. What she gave me (and I can’t remember the name of the stuff for the life of me) was super-duper Tylenol. It was like 1500mg of time-release acetaminophen. Unfortunately, this made the pain tolerable but did nothing to stop it.

Next day comes along and I get to meet the surgeon finally. Cool – I’m expecting to be on the table by Friday (it was a Tuesday, btw), Monday at the latest. The surgeon takes a look, has me cough, pokes and prods and such and shocks the hell out of me. He says that he can fix the hernia on the right side while he’s in there fixing the left side. What hernia on the right side??? Sure enough, he has me do the cough test on myself and there is one – small, but there. Then he informs me that he’ll put in a couple of extra stitches on the way out of my belly button to fix the umbilical hernia I also have. What??? Another one I don’t know about? Shit, this is getting worse as we go along. By the way, I also have one above my belly button that I’ve had for at least 10 years. We can’t fix that one on this run, though. Super…..

Now for the next bit of good news – he can’t get me on the schedule for 2 weeks! Not next Monday, but the NEXT Monday. And what can he prescribe for pain that won’t turn me into a zombie? More of the same stuff I’m on now. Awesome. Well, I guess this is what I get for never going to the doctor. So I wait. And worry. And generally act like a little girl.

See, I’ve never been knocked out for the purposes of improving my health. Granted, I’ve been knocked out before and drank myself into a coma more times than is reasonable or healthy, but I’ve never been put to sleep. Just the phrase itself reminds me of euthanasia, and I’m not quite ready for that yet. So, my healthy skepticism of the medical profession in general coupled with my great distaste (I prefer “distaste” over “fear”) of the unknown and the fact that I know I’m going to be completely out of control of my fate and that I’m going to feel markedly worse when I wake up, you get a thoroughly freaked out Bill. Good times. I even went so far as to update my will and create a living will, which I’m told is standard practice and common sense but strikes me as a bit overly-dramatic.

I had my pre-surgical testing and stuff the Friday before at the hospital. I was not pleased about several things coming from this. First, they wanted my blood – well, a vial. After the Navy used me as a pincushion/dart board for all those years I got used to needles. I can handle shots, but feeling my life force leaving my body through a needle is something different. I almost always get lightheaded and have occasionally passed out. For the record, I did not pass out this time. The second thing that annoyed me was that the hospital was running NetWare for Windows. Great, I can’t even get a medical facility that’s left the 20th Century. Thirdly, they gave me the “Do Nots” list for the day before the surgery.

Included in this was Do Not take your meds for 2 days prior to the surgery because it had something to do with conflicts with the anesthesia or bleeding or something. Also, Do Not have anything to eat or drink after midnight the night before. Okay, they’re checking me in at 0800. Not great, but I can live that long I guess. By the way, Do Not have any nicotine after that stroke of 12 either. Look, I have to get up at 0630 to get everything situated to get to the hospital on time. You’re telling me that you want a freaked out Jarhead coming in for surgery and you’re going to allow him not food, nor coffee, nor nicotine for 8 hours? And you think this is a good idea? Right….

Well, I do almost all of this. I had some water about 0200 and a cigarette about 0300. I don’t think this will affect the success of the surgery and will probably spare a few people my wrath. Plus, they tell me that once I wake up I have to piss before they’ll let me go home. So I was trying to stay hydrated as much as possible because I was dead set on this being an outpatient procedure.

Everything was pretty cool at the hospital, though. They took me right back and got me dressed out. I never felt the nurse stick me for the IV. The coolest thing I remember is that the doc had prescribed a heartburn med through the IV and while the nurse was giving it she told me that I might get a metallic taste in the back of my mouth. As soon as she said this, I got the taste. This IV thing is some cool shit! What else can they deliver this way?? Nothing else that I remember.

They gave me Versed for my happy dose. I remember signing the consent form and I remember the anesthesiologist starting what I have learned is called an “IV push.” My next memory was from the operating room. According to Whit and her brother, who is an OR tech at the hospital, when the doc came in I tried to introduce him to Whit. Reportedly, the conversation went something like, “Hey doc! This is my,,,my,,,ummm,,,Fuck it.” It is also alleged that I said my nose itched and my attempt to scratch it resulted in me poking myself in the eye on the other side of my head. Repeatedly, without success. Since I don’t remember this, I question the veracity and refuse to take responsibility for anything else I said or did while under the influence.

I remember being in the Operating Room and I recall that they had folded the wings of the tables out so that I looked like they were about to crucify me (or had already). Had I not been so completely stoned I probably would have freaked the fuck out. I also remember them putting the warmest, most snuggliest towels ever all over me. Then somebody asked me if I was going to sleep and I replied that I was almost there. She told me to take a deep breath from the “oxygen mask” she had. My last conscious thought was that I couldn’t exhale into the thing because of the pressure.

When I came to in recovery, the first thing I did was look over at the anesthesiologist and say to her, “You tricked me.” She smiled at me and got my nurse. The nurse started checking vitals and such when the urge hit me. I asked her for a urinal, to which she responded that she’d get one in just a second. I told her that I was about to have an accident and that she should hurry. She handed me one of those blue plastic pee jugs and as she walked to the door said that she’d give me some privacy for a few minutes. Before she got the door open, I was done. I was surprised how dehydrated I was. For all the urge of my bladder feeling like it was going to burst, I squeezed out maybe an ounce of what looked like sweet tea. Whatever, I checked the box – let me out of here.

By the time the doc came back by, the nurse had rounded up Whit and everybody else had been by to check me out. I was waiting on him to come by and give me his blessing to leave. Oh, and drugs too. And boy, did he! He tells me that I’ll be in excruciating pain for a week and then I’ll feel better gradually. Because he’s such a swell guy, he gave me 30 of the big Lortab with a refill! And the refill is good for a year, for some reason. Well, whatever – let me out of here. So I manage to get dressed with minimal difficulties and Whit goes to get her truck to take me home.

This little candy striper offered me a wheelchair ride, which I refused on the grounds that I managed to dress myself without pain, thus I could make it to the front door on my own. My nurse then explained to me that the reason I had no pain was because I was feeling no pain at all because I was still stoned out of my gourd. While she was explaining this to me, I noticed that she got kind of blurry and then briefly cloned herself before my eyes. I took this as a sign that I should probably not try the whole walking thing at this moment.

So I got home without further incident. Let me preface the rest of this by saying that I rarely get sick. Sure, I get the sniffles and allergies and such, but if I don’t make it to work I’m simply using these symptoms as a crutch or an excuse to sleep in. The last time I was actually, honestly, really too sick to go in was about 4 years ago when I had walking pneumonia. Hand in hand, when I’m really sick I’m not such a Tough Guy. More accurately, I’m pitiful. So when we walk in the house I plop my ass down on the couch while Whit makes supper and whatnot.

When chow is ready and she tries to bring me a bowl on the couch, I promptly assert my manhood and walk (hobble) to the table and eat. Then I hobble back to the couch and assume the position again. Before being drugged, I made the rational decision to sleep on the couch for a couple of days rather than try to negotiate the stairs to the master bedroom by myself because Whit had the night shift for the 3 days following my surgery. This proved to be prophetic.

WTF WordPress? Actually, it’s probably the server. I already typed this stuff in and it puked the post. Anyway, I wasn’t gonna bother with anything today because I’m laid up on the couch with a dose of the crud, along with Whit and the Heathen. But this is turning out to be one hell of a game so I’m going to pick this up midway through the second quarter and do my best.

So, the savior of all mankind – the $700B federal bailout of the financial markets – was finally passed by both houses of Congress and signed into law over the weekend. Hoorah. Pardon my lack of enthusiasm, but I’m on the side of (depending on which poll you look at) the 70 – 85% of American taxpayers who think this was a BAD idea. But I understand the rationale and I can see how it works. I just don’t like the direction that it points the country. And before you get into this lengthy diatribe, let me say that I will not be discussing the effects it had on Wall Street after one whole day.

First, let’s examine how we got in the mess. I think we can all rationally agree that the root cause was greed. Now, Gordon Gekko (one of my personal fictional heroes) and his mantra notwithstanding, greed wasn’t good and certainly didn’t work here. I’m not very religious, but it’s one of the 7 Deadly Sins for a reason, folks. Anyway, all of these bankers and lenders that jumped, without much forethought or reservation, into the “subprime mortgage” lending business are reaping their whirlwind now.

I’m certainly not an economist but I understand more than just the basics, so let me put this in a nutshell: They gave people, who have either proven themselves unworthy of borrowing or NOT proven themselves worthy, loans for more than what most of the property was worth (mostly houses, but some cars and even credit cards), that in the standard market said people would not be able to afford. Or phrased a la an analogy, the lenders gave them $250,000 for a $150,000 house when they could only afford a $100,000 house. And both parties thought everything would be okay with this.

Well, that thought process, while without the backing of logic, wasn’t without precedent. The stock markets, thus the economy, was at an all-time high and growth rate. Everybody was doing great financially. It was like the good old dot-com days all over again. Ummm, yeah. That turned out well, didn’t it. See, if you remember the dot-com bust from days past you’ll remember what happens when an economy grows faster than it can sustain itself. See the Federal Reserve looks at things like this and, in a effort to curb this nasty thing call inflation, takes steps to try to keep growth steady and solid. Rather than watch the economy get so gluttonous (another of those Deadly Sins) and eat its own head. But, if you listen to some of those pie-in-the-sky “economists” and lenders, the whole dot-com economy bust was based almost solely on 9/11.

So, what’s happened more or less is that Newton’s Third Law has hit the financial sector. See, because we were having such a tremendous upswing we were simply due for a tremendous downswing. Well, because that downswing started causing some of the oldest and most respected names on Wall Street (e.g., Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch, AIG, Wachovia) to outright fail it shook confidence on Wall Street. Say what you want about the motives for saving corporate America from itself, but this action was prompted by saving the failing mortgages of voters, who probably are too stupid to be voting anyway – and it’s an election year. And because 95% of Americans’ only view of the economy comes from what the Dow did today (and another 4% add mostly biased media coverage that doesn’t like the current administration), they all freaked out. Which means that the government HAS to do SOMETHING, right? Here’s where I start to get concerned. read this entry »

Like I said back here, The Ex finally got off the stick and got my Money Sewer, or the house we built, refinanced back in late April. Well, there were a lot of headaches from all corners of my life about this damn thing and I was happy to get rid of it. I got a pretty sizable payout from the refi, but not nearly as much as half the equity. Since it doesn’t fall under capital gains for either of us, I’ll tell you it was more than $19,999. I was good with that.

Still, I heard from every direction that they couldn’t believe I’d let the old home site go (we got 10 acres from my folks, right behind them, for a whopping 10 cents per), or that I was letting her off too cheap, or that I should make her move out, or whatever. Matter of fact, the only person who was really happy about this (aside from me, of course) was my Mom. She was glad to know that the whole thing wouldn’t be going to a stranger.

The house was on the market for a couple of months – my aunt is a realtor – and got a few serious nibbles. I’m pretty sure that this was what got The Ex off the stick. That, and she got engaged so she could afford it without my paying half the mortgage. Oh, did I forget to mention that? Yeah, I was still paying half the mortgage in addition to all my other bills. I was happy to – I didn’t think it would do the Goon any good to have to deal with BOTH parents uprooting and getting adjusted to new living quarters in the wake of the divorce. Unfortunately, I was essentially paying the whole mortgage (counting my new place) and trying to deal with all the other living expenses that were no longer shared. It put me deep over my ass in debt in a big damn hurry. read this entry »

Okay, as I said in my last post this may not make much sense and may not be 100% factual. It’s been 8 months and LOTS of booze since then, so I’ll just give you what I remember and embellish and make logical inferences from there.

I remember going to IHOP for breakfast that morning. After that was done, we went to some sporting goods store (something like Dick’s, but I can’t recall the actual name) to look for flags for the truck. Getting vehicle flags AFTER you’ve arrived for the game is like unzipping after you take a piss, but whatever. I gave in by rationalizing that we weren’t actually in New Orleans, so we could fly the colors on the way into town. Well let’s see – we’re in Louisiana, but not in the town where the game will actually be played. We’re in Louisiana, where they have this little school called LSU that happens to be playing for the National Championship. Next week. In the same city Georgia’s playing their bowl game. Yeah, nothing but purple and gold, with a healthy leavening of Saints gear, as far as the eye can see. Whit asked one of the stock boys if they had any Georgia gear and he looked at her like she asked him if she could shit in the aisle. Nice one, baby! Well, it’s her first game (as an adopted fan) so she gets the pass.

We leave in plenty of time to get to New Orleans. I told her that I wanted at least 3 hours to park, eat and troll Bourbon St. The only other time I was in New Orleans was when I was in the Corps, for a day, on business. I was afraid I’d missed my chance at the One True Happiness, so I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss out this time. You know, in case it wouldn’t ever occur to me to come back. We got there in perfect time and then drove around a bit trying to find parking (which wasn’t as hard as I thought), then an ATM because I didn’t think to get any cash to pay for said parking (which was more difficult than I thought it would be). We briefly considered parking in the Auto Zone parking lot (which wasn’t explicitly off-limits, and apparently free), but when I saw the sign for the French Quarter pointing in the other direction I killed that idea. So we finally found an ATM, which I had to jump out and use while Whit waited in traffic. Aside, God bless the girl, but she found the idea of going around the block (if traffic actually moved) foreign. I love my Small Town Girl. read this entry »