the break-out (with panache)

good sunday evening, my dearest, darling readers.

i just organized one of the slickest, coolest ev-er hospital escapes, ev-er (worth repeating the annoying ev-er] -- and i am world-famous for my slick and cool hospital departures.

i simply played my FAMILY card, whilst weeping from the glaucoma drops placed stealthily in mine eyeballs.  my world-class, one-of-a-kind, uber-compassionate professor of a brother has been stricken with the universally unjust plague of c-word curses, metastatic renal cell carcinoma, and i must be by his brave side, pronto!  that was my first missile volley aimed at the almost english-speaking hospitalist in charge of deciding whether i could be discharged or not.  as she did not immediately begin writing discharge orders, i loaded volley number two:  my blessèd 86 year-old sweetheart of a stepmom, weighing only 81 pounds, has three [3] wretched bedsores, and my truly saintèd sister had been forced to remove her from her idyllic beachside cottage to an ugly institution of a rehab center for wound care and for fattening-up!  clearly, what this saintèd woman needs is fugly me, spoon-feeding her peaches and cream!

i glanced at the hospitalist, who still was staring laser-eyed at my feigned tears, and was, most importantly, still NOT writing orders for discharge, sighed, and played my final card in my deadman's hand of aces-over-eights.

the FRED card, i played the FRED card!  "my poor partner of some 24-odd-years, Fred, is completely lost without me..." poor fred couldn't handle the sassy-mouthed Marlinspike Hall staff, and running a medieval Haddock-family owned manor is no easy business, letmetellyou!"  then i slowly added on his never-ending battle with the militant lesbian feminist existentialists at his church, emphasizing his christian and druid tendencies.  i may also have leaked a few details about life with Bianca Castafiore, the Milanese Nightingale who treats us to unending, unerring iterations of Gounod's Air des Bijoux...




...and yes, i may have done a very garbled interpretation of my BFF Bianca.  because it was at that precise point that my tenderhearted hospitalist began scribbling orders into my chart.

while she was writing, i layed upon her distracted ears all the sob stories emanating from lincolnton, north carolina, site of the other wing of la familia -- or, more accurately la cosa nostra -- with exceptions being made for the innocent drug cartel mafiosi children under the age of 13, and for my bio-mom, of course, and her various rockin' and law-abiding POAs.  whether the hospitalist was actively listening or not, her writing speed advanced considerably.

then she paused to consult ms. prissy infectious disease doctor who was vacillating, irritatingly, between continuing i.v. vancomycin [boo!  hiss! though it worked well, or got the work started well!] or clindamycin in pretty pink pill form [no need for an i.v. to finish the vanco's work!], and sputtering about clostridium difficile at soul-decimating intervals.

so i launched into the ultimate deal-closer -- who will properly groom, entertain, and oversee the intricacies of feeding the Feline Triumvirate?  whom does Dobby truly trust with his most intimate secrets?  whom does Marmy Fluffy Butt allow to even touch her pristine long hairs?  and to whom does Buddy the Maine Coon whisper his sweet, babyish "gentle giant" heart's desires [just before declaring jihad].

***  please keep in mind that Buddy is not muslim, he is simply a confused, sweet, and gentle heart trapped inside a territorial, prey-oriented maine coon's body.  granted, he does take the following statement as his raison d'être --  but only if you substitute "feline" or "confused maine coon" for any war-like islamic statements -- which also are far less than true for most bona fide muslims, as well:

"But in a place where muslims [FELINES] are oppressed, tortured,  dishonored,  and targeted for their belief in Allah and His Messenger [THE MOST HOLY CONFUSED MAINE COON SPECIES],  the leadership [CONFUSED MAINE COON] of that place [MARLINSPIKE HALL] may declare a Jihaad [A CAT-WHOOPING] to defend themselves."

at this juncture of my speedy narrative, my darling chinese hospitalist slammed shut the chart, after flipping up the red "flag" denoting "urgent doctor's orders," and left me with these words of wisdom:

"you gotta take life easy, ms. profderien, you gotta take life easy. not good for body if you don't take life easy, got it?" 

she's a good'un, she is. and dr. chaya is her name-o.

There was a doc who had a patient,
And Chaya was her name-o.
C-H-A-Y-A
C-H-A-Y-A
C-H-A-Y-A
And Chaya was her name-o.

okay, enough of my silly stuff.  fred arrived, saved the day, got my wheelchair out of the bathroom (i could not figure out where the nursing staff had stashed it!), loaded me up, and off we went to the elevators, which led us to the 15-minute "patient loading zone," and my liberation.

before busting me out of hospital hell, fred was able to pick up the kick-ass antibiotic that dr. chaya browbeat our famously lazy local pharmacist into filling on an ASAP STAT status.  i noticed that her english suddenly and markedly improved when she was instructing said pharmacist in how rapidly she was going to fill that rx.

hmm.

and off we went to fret over much more important people, that lumpy grader boob, that "baba," little wise brayden... unfettered fretting, unleashed from the i.v. and the infernal touching of caring care givers -- anathema to those with CRPS.

remember the chant for lumpy GB (and Brayden Martin, as well):  "shrink, tumors, shrink!" alternating with a vigorous counterchant of "pain, pain, just plain go away!"

much love to you out there, and thank you, dr. chaya.


© 2013 L. Ryan