Sick With It

Funny thing, being ill. Aside from the existential aspect of it, one becomes strangely popular [at a very unfortunate time!] And not, say, popular with hot women or rich generous benefactors. No, the death watch people come out. And they are looking for that one greasy, binary bit of news: Are you or are you not going to make it? And if not, when will you be kicking? [And if you do kick, as JW asked, can I have your guitars?] These folks practically salivate for this information.

So sadly, one has to face a particularly thick brand of inquisitor, one who assumes sort of a journalistic function, trying to "fix" you, factually. In their inartful clumsiness, they try to nail you down. This despite their utter lack of medical training. So you can say the whatever words you wish, but it doesn't really matter. Because, think about it -- you can't nail down the health of an individual any more than you can nail down the flight of a hummingbird, the rhythm of a song by the Shaggs, or the plot in a Henry Jaglom movie. Can't be done.

And getting information from me, good straight honest information, is even in the best of circumstances a useless endeavor. I tend to lie all the time, seeing no distinction between lying and an incomplete and misleading truth.

So these odd people came and went. And when they did ask questions, I tended to answer using the words of others. My brother, a doctor, whomever. I mean, what the hell do I know? I had a carcinoid tumor. The surgeon removed it and a bit of lung. I should be fine. We'll know more next week.

For example, my sister [who should know better, as she knows me and is medically trained] asked me how long the surgery was expected to last. I could care less! I mean, it wasn't going to be 5 minutes long. Nor was it going to take 2 hours. And she wasn't waiting for me in the lobby. And I would be blissfully under the influence of Versed.

Let us now sing the praises of the following three drugs, in order of wonderfulness: Versed, Dilauded, Vicodin. When the Dilauded hits your bloodstream, everything is wonderful. I could sit through Ron White talking about his everyday observations after even a small hit.

Speaking of Ron White: First, who does he know? He was on Craig Ferguson last night! Craig, how dare you! Did you owe someone a favor? And please, Ron's latest hair style is completely ripped from Clay Aikens [someone with tons more credibility and talent than RW.]

So, hopefully the weirdness is over for a while. But if I get bad news from the doc next week, then all this starts anew. Which is another reason one should hope for a short painless death.