Howdy yall. Home at last. Yeah, I know my most recent self-portrait was gross, but it’s got nothing on this "breakfast"–I kid you not, that’s what they called it–that I was expected to eat less than 24 hours after getting my boob scooped out.
The object pictured above is but one of the reasons this week’s mastectomy was the worst single experience of my life to date, with the possible exception of the day 6 years ago when I was served "crabcakes" made of ground drywall at a "restaurant" in St. Louis, Missouri called Jimmy’s On The Green Tavern Park Cafe.
To those of my well-wishers who have expressed in interest in the particulars of my convalescence, I am home and lounging comfortably with my dogs, my pal and volunteer nurse Rachel, and my new best friend Drain-O (a.k.a. "Bloodbag" or "Drainiac"), the little rubber tube/suction cup thing sticking out of my side that sucks out the repulsive bloody fluid accumulating in the hole in my chest that previously contained my right breast. I am in very little pain and have quit smoking and am in excellent spirits.
To those of you who have asked if you can send me stuff–and gadzooks, what sweethearts you are–I do not have an Amazon list, but if you would like to make suggestions as to what I should put on there, I guess I could start one. What I really need are mystery novels, or old movies, or even some good old patriarchy-affirming yet diverting SF. Email me.
Meanwhile, I learned a lot during my two-nighter at the hospital. Such as:
Meet Your Anesthesiologist Ahead Of Time
I rashly declined this option, assuming for no good reason that she would be the same nice, intelligent girl from last week’s biopsy, who’d gotten me under without a hitch. So when the anesthesiologist turned out, to my intense surprise and mounting disappointment, to be an octogenarian with gin blossoms, a dark unease crept over me. Nothing against old drunk guys, but from the patient’s perspective, anesthesiology is a poor career choice for them. Mine was a world class chump. After stabbing me twice in the back of the hand to jab my IV thing in, taping it at a painful angle, and finishing with a condescending pat, he caught his foot, upon his doddering exit from my midst, on the tube, and yanked the whole thing out, causing to arc across the room a dramatic jet of my personal blood. I do not remember his first name, but his last name is Eden, ha, and my advice to my fellow Austinites is this: if you see an ancient incompetent alkie with a large purple nose coming at you with a gas mask, flee.