My Nano is Not a Pet
I am a big fan of audible.com. Except for the check-out part when they insisted I inform them of my audio device's nickname. Sometimes I call it, "Hey, whose got my nano and give it back right now," but really, does anyone out there give their mp3 player a nickname? I just bought Milton and Tolstoy. You would think the site would sense that I would be more comfortable being asked if my audio device had a "library identifier."
I have developed a kidney stone, which is really more information than anyone needs to know. I raise it only because it is kind of a funny condition. When the starfish-shaped raggedy ol' stone is at just the right angle, it feels like a knife with a rotating blade is spearing my lower body. As my various organs play internal hot potato, it feels like labor, the kind of labor that never takes a break. By the time I got to the ER, I was bent in half, with hands immobilized into a lobster-like dehydration clinch. Octagenarians at the ER intake windows were making way for me. I got a $75 parking ticket, but it was a small price to pay for all the morphine I wanted.
I love morphine.
But before the ER team got it into me, I lay on the table sounding like a four year old crying, "Make it stop, please make it stop" and thinking
1. I would make a lousy spy. Two seconds of torture and I would give everything up;
2. Little kids whose limbs have been blown off in Middle East bomb attacks don't seem to complain as much as I; and
3. This is a 10 . . . this is a 10 . . . this is a 10 on the hospital emoticon chart.
The doc told me I was a classic textbook case. I felt kind of proud, but I don't know why. Anyway, I was so nice when I left, that I have a standing invitation for more morphine whenever I need it.
I also have a doctor assigned to tracing the glacier-like advancement of my stone. He is a urologist, which means that his practice is mostly men, men with testicular cancer and prostrate issues. I go in, pick up a copy of Forbes and pretend to read. All the nurses are women and pretty, although yesterday I did happen to see where they put all the homely, heavy women in that practice. They are stuck in a room called "Billing," where they share cubicles and tins full of homemade cakes. No one is supposed to see that room, but I discovered it as I searched for the the stairs. A two story office building with only an elevator in view is a bit ridiculous.