A Memorable Memorial
The Source
It was the first knock-you-out surgery since I had my tonsils removed at age five. . . a bit of cutting on my mouth that required a day’s stay at Memorial. I thought I was there for a medical procedure and had no idea it was a “Meet and Greet” party. Memorial Hospital is under going a an appendectomy of its own as its front entryway is totally torn up so I was met at the door by Mr. Hi Can I Park It For You? I told him that he could and then entered the lobby to find Mr. Can I Help You? I told him I’d already given my car away but could stand to see a surgeon. He led me down the tarped hallways to Mrs. Are You Here For Treatment? I informed her that was nearly always the reason I visited hospitals unless I was delivering singing telegrams. She didn’t get it, but said, “Oh, I recognize you from the TV commercials.” My TV fan introduced me to Mrs. How Are We Going to Pay for This?, and then she handed me off to Miss Please Have a Seat. After only a few moments of sitting Mrs. Please Follow Me asked me to please follow her where we walked a very long distance to find Mrs. Please Take Your Clothing Off who greeted me with what seemed at the time like an inappropriately wicked smile. I asked her if she was carrying a cell phone camera and she assured me she was not. Side note: Passavant’s beds are more comfortable than the Memorial Slabs of Death, but the Springfield hospital does offer each surgery recipient a plastic sheet that looks like a large expanse of bubble wrap. When they hook it up with a shop vac to a hot air blower under your bed it provides a nice comfy blanket while you wait the remaining hours for Mrs. I’m Here To Check Your Vitals to come in. Mrs. Vitals was followed in quick succession by a twelve-year-old kid who claimed to be Mr. EKG, Mrs. I’m Your Surgery Nurse, Dr. I’m Your Anesthetist, Miss I’m Your Anesthetist Assistant, Mrs. I’m the Assistant to Your Surgery Nurse, Miss I’m Here to Check to See What Everyone Else Forgot, Mrs. Oh Sorry…Is This Stall Taken?, Miss I Need to Mark Which Side of Your Face We’re Removing, and Miss I’m Sorry But Your Surgery Has Been Delayed Two Hours. Miss I’m Sorry quickly returned to tell me it would be more like three. The doc using the cutting room ahead of us had miscalculated the time it takes to replace a knee. Both my knees were working fine and I offered to kick Mr. Doctor Who Can’t Read a Watch. I swear that they hadn’t given me any loopy pills yet. All these people actually came in to visit. When my doctor himself finally made an appearance he asked, “Have they been in to check on you?” I informed him that the entire medical staff of Memorial Hospital had been nice enough to stop by for a chat and to introduce themselves. It was sort of like a family reunion where you really don’t know anyone but they look vaguely familiar. But Dr. Cutter was not my last new friend. As soon as he left I was visited by Miss I Need To Know How Tall You Are, Mr. I’m the Guy Who’ll Be Taking You To Surgery But It’s Been Delayed Again, and Miss I’m a Cosmetic Surgeon But I Do More Than Boobs and Stuff. (I’m not kidding…she told me that.) Okay, I’ve got to stop here and say that this lady was gorgeous. I mean, I fell in love with her the moment she walked in the door. She was young, olive skinned, beautiful lips, a sincere smile, and she kept rubbing the top of my head. I was on the verge of becoming Mr. Are You Married and Will I Be Well Enough to Take You on a Date Tomorrow Night? when Miss I Think We’re Ready for You Now came in followed by This Will Make You a Little Sleepy as she inserted a patch somewhere I couldn’t reach. Miss Sleepy was understating it since that’s the last thing I remember before Nurse How Do You Feel? told me where they’d hidden my pants. When I returned to the more normal pastures of Jacksonville I told a medical professional about the never-ending stream of visitors I’d met prior to my surgery. He informed me that this was now the official way of getting everyone on the payroll. Damn. I thought it was my good looks. However, it did give me idea. I may fix myself up a homemade badge and start wondering the halls of the Springfield hospital introducing myself to patients as the institution’s Director of Social Medicine. They could call me Mr. Hey…Feel Like Some Volleyball after Your Lobotomy? or perhaps Dr. Jamming With the Oldies Down in the Hospital Cafeteria. It might be a way to pick up a few stray bucks here and there. I need something to cover the co-pay.