Tuesday, January 17, 2012
This morning ,wind driven light snow blows off the roof creating an illusion of a blizzard. It only makes me more depressed. The weather guys are off a bit, predicting light snow after midnight Monday night. Yesterday, I religiously check the radar and weather forecast for two states before another run to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester for a 1:00 pm appointment. Rochester. My derelict father's name was Chester. Mom referred to him as Chet. Can I turn it into a word play. Naw. I wouldn't do that to you.
Never have 51 miles(Lacrosse to Rochester exit) seemed so interminable. Flat, Minnesota farmland of indescribable sameness. You know I'd find a way to describe it accurately, if I could. Maybe it's the billboard-20 miles out from the Rochester turn off- highway 52. XITT 209. That's all it said. Black letters with no serifs against a snow white background. Not even an icon, or two, or three.
Yeah, I'm at the computer, terminally bored from fright and a feast of unpretentious repetition. I even went so far as to ingest some coffee laced with a healthy dose of local honey ( not her). Fooling with downloads, again.
I lay there for 90 minutes staring up at ceiling tiles. Remind myself to cancel any Mayo appointment when they call, mid-trip asking, "Can you get here by noon?" Obviously they have no idea how far away we live. "No, way, "I repeat.They shove me to the end of the line behind dog-bites, bed wetters and people with small fractures . Adding an additional bit of trauma, the consulting physician drags my wife back in recovery to report that the Dr.L__ couldn't perform the endoscopic ultrasound. "The stent was in the way." I'm still under the influence of an unknown narcotic used in anesthesia to cram a tube down my throat. A narcotic, the nurse says, when she tells me "Do not even attempt to drive after the procedure." Screwing with her mind, I make no promises. She tells me that if were stopped, it's a felony. I make note to let Dawn drive the whole way, knowing that Nurse Ratchitt will turn in our license plate to the state patrol. Remember this. Before being threatened with the police for driving under the influence, the!@#$'s ask me to make life threatening decisions about my care.
I look up at Dawn for a signal that, yes, she'll help me throttle the F-R when one choice is to stay overnight, have them remove the stent in my throat the next morning and repeat the procedure. Choice behind door number two, is to take a biopsy with a needle. "There's no guarantee that the biopsy procedure won't contaminate areas on it's exit.Number three is so onerous, I don't remember. Perhaps it was the narcotic that made me woozy. You don't need any more details.
On the way home, I don't say more than three words. "Stop slowing down," were the 3 words. We get back to frantically hungry critters, happy to see we're not dead. I make myself breakfast, the one I'd missed 12 hours before. What? Why didn't we stop? There aren't a whole lot of places where I can feast on a low residue diet. Even then, it grosses Dawn out when I throw up in a napkin at the table because I forgot to chew slowly. Sorry for that image, but somethings can't be tamed.
We watch a tribute to Betty White on the tube just to calm down with goodness.
I'm better now that I've vented.