SURGERY: CRUEL & UNUSUAL in Adventures From Prison

There is something terrifying about being chained to a hospital bed and being forced to watch Daytime television. It’s like having your eyes taped open and being shown a car accident over and over again. You know how it will end each time but a small part of you hopes and prays that something will happen to change the outcome and when it doesn’t a small piece of your soul dies. You hate yourself for getting emotionally invested, but each time – like a parasite – it burrows inside while you scream in terror.
And that, my friends, is how I prepared for my surgery. My two escorts sat on either side of me glued to the TV while I was poked and prodded by eight different med students and a few real doctors. They didn’t ask what I wanted to watch, they just grabbed my remote and wouldn’t give it back! So I got to watch as a woman sued the Meth-addicted teen she invited into her house that (surprise) spent the rent money on drugs, and as a daughter tried to get her parents to forgive a loan, on the grounds that they were nudists and therefore didn’t deserve her money.
By the time the anesthesiologist arrived I was more than ready for unconsciousness. With some reluctance to leave the TV my escorts pulled on surgical gowns and followed as they wheeled me into the O.R. The door opened revealing a standard operating set up and the surgeon was yelling at the nurses because they had taken too long sterilizing it between patients.
I looked up at the nurse pushing me wanting so badly to say something to the effect of “Should we take their sharp objects away?” but decided that being a smartass to the people about to slice my face open wasn’t a very good idea. The arguing surgeon stormed away and another nurse came over, still obviously annoyed at her team leader.
“Move over here,” she growls gesturing to the operating table.
“Hi,” I said, being sure to jingle my shackles. “How are you?”
“Uh…” she said, taken aback.
“I’m kind of stuck,” I tell her with a grin. I feel the tension lessen. (Okay, now they can play with pointy things).
She chuckles, then tells my escorts to unchain me.
I’m set free and slide over to the operating table. One of the med students comes over and chats with me as they prep my body.
A drape goes over my face.
“Here comes the good stuff,” someone said.
For the first time in my life I get STONED. (I swear to God they could have chopped off my arms and I wouldn’t have cared.)
I remember bits and pieces. Smells. Sounds.
Then I’m back in bed and the TV is now talking about the best way for women to deal with beard burn after sex.
A nurse brings my lunch – the smallest can of Ginger Ale I’ve ever seen, a package of Lorna Doone cookies, two graham crackers and a pack of saltines.
I learn that aloe is the best for beard burn.
My soul dies a bit more.
An hour passes and my head clears.
“Time to go back,” the escort tells me after he has jotted down the recipe for crust-less strawberry pie.
They help me out of bed. I get dressed awkwardly. My shirt is on backwards and inside out.
“Good enough,” the guard said.
I sit down in the wheelchair and they recuff my hands and feet together.
It isn’t until I’m back in the van, the hospital shrinking in the distance that I realize I’m a little sad the adventure is over.
That was the most fun I’ve had in years.
Man, my life sucks!!