Bylined newspaper columns, especially with pictures of the writer, are personal columns. Jim’s Jottings is one of those.
Regular readers (last week’s) may remember I said that would be the last you’d read of THE Open House. I lied.
I didn’t mean to, but to write this column, which is intended to promote sympathy, The Open House has to be referenced.
On a regular golfing morning, the Thursday before the party, I’d made an appointment with a urologist. (I told you it was personal.)
He wanted a look-see. ‘Will I be able to play golf this afternoon?? I asked. ‘Sure,? he said, practicing bedside manners or some other charade.
I can’t imagine why anyone would take up this line of work (Oh, yeah, money!), and they probably have great conventions trading jokes they’ve played on patients.
‘I told this guy he could play golf that afternoon. Hell, he won’t play golf for a week!? Chuckle.
When I came to from this look-see I had a catheter, a plastic bag, a pleasant overseer and a missed tee time.
I should have suspected something when the doctor and his helpers all told me to have someone drive me to the hospital and once arrived asked the name of the person who brought me.
This would be the day daughter Luan learned things about her father she certainly didn’t want to know.
I wasn’t there, but she said when the doctor showed her living color photos of the stones in my bladder, then produced a vial with the now-chipped stones, she welcomed going back to reading the really bad book she’d selected.
The attachments put in and on me were still there on the friend-and-relative-meeting, greeting day. I wasn’t comfortable.
You probably know how difficult it is to look attentive when you’re experiencing any kind of discomfort. Not that this was ‘any kind? of discomfort.
You wonder, ‘Did I answer that question, or was it the last question?? ‘Was I asked a question??
‘Is my agony showing?? ‘Do I care if my agony is showing?? ‘Maybe I could tell them of my suffering and they’d suggest I sit down, which is what I want to do.?
About the only good thing about that plastic bag was that at least every two hours I could seclude myself, although the re-sterilization of the affected area was no fun at all.
Had enough ‘personal? column stuff? Heck, it’s just getting interesting.
Four days have passed, the party’s over, it’s time to go see my efficient, professional, ever-friendly Dr. Jeffrey Greski. The nurse-dressed gal asks, ‘What are you here for?? ‘Just to see you, baby? was a thought, but ‘To have the catheter taken out,? was my answer.?
‘Maybe he’ll want to leave it in another week,? she threatened. ‘I’ll ask. If he says it’s to come out, I’ll be back and remove it.?
‘Won’t that be embarrassing for me?? I asked her. ‘It shouldn’t be,? she said, ‘A part’s a part!?
Before I could say, ‘Yeah, but it’s my part,? she said, ‘Count to five!? She told me later the catheter was out before I started counting.
You didn’t think I was watching any of this procedure, did you? I was too embarrassed.