My Unfortunate Incarceration: The Final Chapter

Most great sagas are told as a trilogy, the original Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, Debbie Does Dallas. Mine should be no exception. What a fascinating tale this has turned into. If you're just dropping by, you really need to catch up or you'll be left wondering, in the words of David Byrne, "how did I get here." It's not really that hard to figure out since you already mastered working a computer, but if I didn't build a little drama into the proceedings I would feel like a slacker.

(Cue old time announcer voice or whatever voice spoke to you yesterday): When we last heard about Brian, he was being pushed through the bowels of the hospital in a ridiculously small wheelchair by a weary aid on his way to a hospital room.

Back to first person narrative. It was almost 4 am by the time the under-muscled aid managed to maneuver my bulky frame to palatial room 4114. My worst fears were abated when I realized I would have what hospital folks and university housing officials call a "single." I couldn't imagine a worse fate than being cooped up with another sick person for days on end. Is that insensitive? You betcha. Let's be honest though, the last thing you need when you're in a lot of pain is to listen to the moans of a stranger. I don't want to have to be polite and hear about another person's ailments and make crazy smalltalk. I don't want to be subjected to endless hours of shared TV and pleas to stop shouting at Oprah that she's the personification of pure evil. Who needs that when they're feeling punk? I want to be the center of the universe until I'm able to simply walk away from uncomfortable interpersonal contact.

The admitting nurse was very friendly and tried to make me feel comfortable, or as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. I was swarmed by the nurse and her aid who worked at a frenzied pace to take my vitals and settle me into bed. Then the interrogation began. Holy cow do they make you answer a lot of questions when you're admitted to the hospital. All this will come as no surprise to those of you who are regular guests of the health care system, but it was new to me. Do I drink, smoke, have a history of any diseases, have I ever touched a yak inappropriately in a Central American nation? What about my family? Have any of them ever died, thought about dieing or tie dyed a shirt before a Grateful Dead show? Any yaks in their history? That's a lot of pressure to put on a guy who's abdomen feels like it's a sirloin on a skewer at a Brazilian steakhouse. What if even one of my answers is wrong? Could the outcome of my care be tipped in the wrong direction because I didn't count one cigar last year as enough to label myself a smoker. Can I take a retest? When my inquisitors finished with me it was well past four. I assured "Wife" I would be fine and sent her home for some well deserved rest and thought about getting some sleep myself.

One of the great ironies of life is that you are sent to the hospital to get well and rest and while most times you can get well, rest will never come. The noise level in a hospital in the middle of the night would rival a Who concert circa 1968. I don't know what the nurses, aids and other staff members are up to during the wee hours, but might I recommend soft soled shoes and alarms with adjustable volume controls. Maybe I was a bit scared of my surroundings (shut up, I'm man enough to admit it), but the combination of pain, noise and and a mattress that would have made the toughest princess weep with pea pain made sleep almost impossible. This would be the case for my entire stay. Not only couldn't I sleep because of the surroundings, I had to get up about every hour and make the trek to the bathroom. I was being pumped full of so much IV fluid that I developed a dromedary hump. Unfortunately my hump couldn't contain my bounty and since I couldn't tap myself to relieve drought in Africa, off I went. To describe the bathroom as small would be on par with telling you this post is a tad lengthy, a huge understatement. Have you ever tried to use an airplane bathroom while holding a scarecrow? No? Good. Let's just say I muttered more expletives during my visits than are heard during a David Mamet table read.

I could go on to explain the mind numbing boredom that overtook me for the next few days or the fact that inevitably, if I did fall asleep, someone would burst through my door and flip on the lights with all the subtlety of a DEA agent at Pablo Escobar's house, but that would seem whiny and even more self indulgent than the trilogy has already become. The fact is, if you've been in the hospital, you know all you can think about is getting sprung. It was really comforting to get a lot of well wishes from friends and family and to have some folks drop by for a visit. One of my nurses was even a big fan of the radio show. Two of my neighbors, Larry and Bill cut my lawn while I was inside. (I know that's a prison term, but it fits.) That renewed my faith in mankind. I guess I'll have to give them back some of their Christmas lights now. Finally I am home and safely ensconced in the loving embrace of my big chair and luxurious mattress. Next week I get some tests and I'll be on meds for a few weeks, but those are small things.

Should I leave you with some inspirational words, or a lesson to take away form all of this? Would it seem too maudlin to cue the harp music and thank all the people who nursed me back to health? Probably, so let's leave it at this...sometimes what you think is a little gas can turn into a real pain in the ass. Ending on a rhyme? It's about time.

I will make my triumphant return to the airwaves Saturday night/Sunday morning from 1-5 on WGN. We'll be playing Mother's Day trivia on the Arcade to honor our mommies and if you play your cards right, I may even bring some of this saga to life. Who am I kidding, there's no chance I don't tell this story. Have a great weekend. Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers. Stay well. Later...Brian