More Cutting Remarks

By Don Shearon First Published April 1, 1977When I dropped my latest – and almost my last - dime into the turnstile leading to the Jefferson County Memorial Hospital (JCMH) revolving door, maintained, I suspect, for my own especial convenience, I thought this trip was one merely for carrying out a series of testing procedures.In fairness to my physician - a man for and in whom I have unlimited respect and no-holds-barred confidence - I believe he, too, was of the opinion that in response to his suggestion I was wrapping myself almost inside one of those gosh-awful hospital gowns simply to undergo tests.There was a little matter of checking in somewhat sooner than initially planned, following my waking up in the small hours suffering some pain at the base of my rib cage on the right side. While bothersome to a degree, it didn't appear anything to get too excited about.My first couple of meals at JCMH were quite normal - not exactly in the gourmet class, but adequate.Suddenly, I was served a breakfast consisting of a mini-bowl of Cream of Wheat, a squirt of skimmed milk, a tiny glass of juice and a dish of the inevitable gelatin dessert.Lunch looked almost like a carbon copy, with a mini-mini-bowl of half dissolved Bouillon cube in tepid water and,again, a gelatin dessert of unidentifiable flavor. But this time minus the juice, skimpy as it had been at breakfast.Meal after meal, the pattern varied but only slightly.As a first-time candidate for surgery, I wasn't alert enough to read the signs of a surgery preparatory diet, consisting principally of recycled dishwater. So it was with some surprise when, late one afternoon, my physician parried a remark from me about hoping I was paying off-season rates at the resort, based upon the sort of meals I was being served. Quite casually, he said the next day would dawn as C-Day, as in Cutting Day.I would be better off, he explained, without my gall bladder.Now, I've been told for years that I have more than enough gall to supply at least six individuals but, until then, this drastic method of corralling the oversupply had not been suggested.Similarly, I've often been accused at blabbering, but never of bladdering.Nothing at all was said about stones, either before or since the operation. This lends credence to the belief that the principal stone in my makeup is out resting squarely between my ears.My stay in the operating room and into convalescence was going to be just a little different than the ordinary procedure in dealing with defective gallbladders, I was told.Because my breathing apparatus doesn't function too well, I was to be hooked up to some sort of contraption that would be doing my breathing for me while the surgeon whittled away.Little did I realize what was to be involved!The sharp-edged, oversized flexible plastic tubing was jammed down my throat while I was artificially asleep, so I don't know how it felt being put into place, but after 20-plus hours I was awake enough to know when the thing came out - really wide awake before the process was completed.Phrasing it as gently as possible, it felt as though a piece of my larynx came along with it! And I'm not certain such was not the case.Bit by bit, I was disengaged from all the other machinery and tubes and wires that gave me something of the appearance of a creature from another planet. By the end of about the third day I was freely ambulatory, or would have been had the strength been there to amble.

Richard Mick

Breakfast of Champions

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