15,895. POST-OPS NINE

POST-OPS NINE

It was the ending that had to come, and even now I hesitate to write this in fear of jinxing my own days, for even now it is still the very last day of a very last year. Doctor meeting after doctor meeting, one after the other, always ended conditionally with, 'If all stays well you should be out of here by Monday or Tuesday.' That was five days, for a major heart surgery. If it came to be, I'd be OK with that. Leaving the hospital was fine with me; as much as I liked the room and situation I'd somehow created. But the sneaking suspicion (as well) with me was ''If you're not dead by Tuesday, we'll let you go home.' I've always been manic-depressive, and a complete downer regarding myself. (After all, as a child, who or what teaches you self-esteem? I had none. Whatever I may have had, was eventually scolded or beaten out of me by systems, parents, and rules with regulations  - an entire bullshit ball of wax that every adult I ever knew was intent on proving, and/or improving. I couldn't lower the ante, because there was no ante. (Look it up; it's then entry-price you must pay to enter a game  -  usually cards or gambling. Maybe even Bridge, but who knows? Who the heck plays Bridge now anyway. It's up there with Pinochle, to me, in the list of long-lost, goofball, adult games). So the day dawned, for my leaving, Monday, I think it was, December 19. It was one of those days too close to Christmas for my taste : people scurrying about with small, ribboned boxes, or flower-pots entwined with Christmas messages, etc. The nurse-station kept getting gift-food deliveries; noisy bustles and chatter, Everyone was happy and content, as if some supply ship had just rolled in and docked in a Shanghai harbor of the mind. Maria had the overnight off, so I never saw here again; but good old Rochelle, my cool bluster-mate of sarcasm, cynicism and activity, took me over. I had some 5 hours for departure. Breakfast came first, and I cancelled any future meals; lunch and dinner were over for me. She eventually, after one last visit from the doctor team, disconnected me from all those wires and tubes and relays which had been tethering me. I was given a squeeze bottle, again, of disinfectant soap  -  told to shower and coat myself in this soap, by squeezing it and covering my body and patting myself down. Did, and done. I had an old bag of clothes  - the ones I'd come in with  -  in my little locker, and it seemed a shame to put all that old crud right back on, but I said nothing and didn't care anyway. If it killed my disinfected skin tone, whatever. I cleaned up, trying to remember what few items I'd brought; rounded everything up, and plastic bagged it. Then I just sat there, in the chair they used to move me to so as to get me out of the horizontal bed position. I gazed out the large window. I sat still. The entire world before me redefining itself. A lot of the attendants and nurse-people had always seemed amazed (annoyed?) that I never had the TV on. So, big-deal me, I flipped on the flat screen. The remote was complicated for me, and annoying too. I'm not a TV guy, so it as new to me. Some soccer thing has just ended, or was in its last flings, and a million talking dictators were going on and on about that. To me, soccer is like a big blood-splatter; people running for miles to kick a ball into a huge net. Sorry, I passed on that too. The commercials on each channel were for idiots, and often the same  -  so many medical commercials for pills and potions and diabetes levels and diets and weird new diseases, I thought it was hospital-sponsored special TV at first. It does seem, at first blush, that the American people take no offense at being made fun of and/or portrayed as medical pin-cushion endlessly portrayed as zombies to be medicated and 'cured' or something/whatever, only so that they can apparently return to the fold as active, shining, moronic and dancing consumers. The old ones, with grandkids. The younger ones as avid sexpots always with their new 'come-on' look. If there was ONE days of real crisis or need in their lives, these idiots would not be able to handle it. (Which is, of course, the idea  -  compliance and passivity, and the Government will do all). So I switched over, past the news and babble shows, mostly all about nothing, and ended up at an old favorite, CNBC, I think it was, a financial news network show where they anxiously and with great trepidation and anxiety, go on about every absolute little overnight and current market activity for the stock-market's morning opening. I got to see Maria Bartiromo in action; David Faber; even Sue Herrera was on screen somewhere for a moment (I thought she'd been pastured for old age a while ago); Erin Burnett, and  -  let's never forget  -  the absolutely crazed madman named Jim Cramer. An absolute speed-freak of fast-talk and illogic. The stock market is one thing, and I guess American business is another, but the gents and ladies are nothing less that speculators, gamblers and swindlers, in the guise of financial wizards. I'm sure they're all crooks, trading their minds way with every tip and advanced notifications about the stocks they then 'report' upon. By that, they can create their own market conditions merely by commenting, and they can but the resultant dip (price drop) or sell at the rise, they've just created. It's a national swindlers' hall of fame convention, everyday. So, I turned all that off too. Like Jesus said, 'Let the dead bury the dead.' I was alive, and out of there. My ride was arranged; my family had arrived; Rochelle wheeled me down to the large and happy hospital lobby, with all its Christmas and holiday hoopla; we turned to each other, said our goodbyes as I was loaded into a warmed vehicle, and driven away. Goodbye to all that!