I barely remember writing my last couple columns, the essays relating my recent hospital stay, surgery and new, Draconian food restrictions. For the past few weeks, I’ve been stoned outta my gourd on hydromorphone hydrochloride and/or acetaminophen and hydrocodone, known on the street as Dilauded and Vicodin.
If you’re interested in a drug-dependent lifestyle in which nothing bothers you at all, I highly recommend either. If you want to be able to remember your life (or live a long one) then they’re probably not the drugs for you. Frankly, I’ve grown tired of seeing the world through Frank Zappa’s granny glasses and am, as of this morning, not taking anything despite the fact I feel as if I’ve gone 15 rounds with Mike Tyson in his prime.
I figure it’s time to cowboy up and face the pain like a man. Which is to say, curl up in the fetal position and pray Sweet Annie hasn’t yet grown tired of waiting on me hand and foot.
At any rate, the columns I wrote while experiencing the real-life equivalent of The Magical Mystery Tour album generated a lot of reader mail. It was split fairly evenly by gender. Women wrote expressing concern over my well-being and recovery; men wrote to commiserate over the fact I must now eat healthy food instead of anything that tastes good. A sociologist might be able to glean something about the nature of the sexes from this, but not me.
Grace wrote to add her positive comments to those I made regarding my surgeon, Dr. Amparo. Grace said by the time she was through her own surgery, Amparo felt like a “good friend.” Several other readers and former Amparo patients also sang the surgeon’s praises.
Amparo’s a good doc, for sure, but I won’t know if I’ll be able to consider her a good friend until I’ve seen the bill. I like her a lot, but something tells me we’re just going to be acquaintances until the surgery’s paid off, sometime around my 83rd birthday.
Jeanie made my day with a letter saying she, too, was going to give healthier eating a go. However, she admitted the juicer she’s planning to buy might occasionally be a delivery system for rum-laced drinks rather than spinach smoothies. Jeanie also referred to me as a “cool writer,” so she’s on my Christmas card list for life.
Raymond wrote to tell me about his new, doctor-ordered “No Food Diet,” and the angst he endured while cleaning out his cupboards of every food item he ever loved. “I was in tears seeing all these treasures going down the drain,” Raymond wrote. “Red baron Pizza, Little Debbie goodies, Oreos, Nutter Butters, four bottles of kosher dills, Hormel chili, White Castle cheeseburgers, Hudsonville French vanilla ice cream, ketchup, mayo, relish, anchovies, tuna fish, ham, Ramen noodles, chips, chips, chips, dips, dips, dips, and a pizza cutter, four pizza pans, and three cases of pizza napkins.”
All I can say, Raymond, is that I feel your pain, brother.
Perhaps my favorite letter came from Doris, a 90-something sweetheart I recently interviewed for an unrelated story. Doris is one of the single coolest people I have known and if I were 40 years older, I would find a way to make her my girlfriend.
Anyway, Doris — a dyed in the Dacron feminist — suggested I use my “sick time” to write a trilogy of historical books entitled, “Women — The North American Treasure.”
Ever the realist, she admitted I probably wouldn’t be ambitious enough to accomplish this project because, and I quote, “No one is ever as sick as a man.” Apparently, I am not Doris’ first brush with the male of the species.
My long-time nemesis, Elroy, penned a letter describing the ground chuck burgers he was grilling as I lay sucking back lime Jell-o in the hospital. His graphic description of juicy burgers, aged sharp cheddar and frosty cans of sweet, domestic beer brought tears to my eyes.
Elroy also offered to date Sweet Annie if things didn’t go well in surgery.
I’m gonna get you, Elroy.
As to all the other readers who took the time to send letters, get-well cards and emails, all I can say is thank you. I’m a big, whiny crybaby when it comes to pain (and pretty much everything else). Your missives brightened up what might otherwise have been a difficult time for me.
Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com
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