I'm too sexy for my Intravenous therapy.
I was poked and prodded and pumped with drugs, all of which may sound like a swell holiday for some of you San Francisco fetish connoisseurs, but was wasted on me. I took refuge in old movies (acquired from the vast DVD selection at, eh-hem, my local Amoeba Music); mostly Hitchcock or anything with Marilyn Monroe in it. (Was it the drugs? Something about being stoned on Dilaudid made Monroe my most sought-after visual stimuli. Her cooing voice, cat-nap eyes – all of it was like a fresh washcloth across my bedridden brow.)
One of my visitors was Smithy, who graciously allowed me to show her my favorite old Disney cartoons while she managed to eat her depressed, hospital cafeteria pizza with lady-like refinement; which comes as no surprise – Smithy could gut a gelding and make it look like common table-manners.
The boyfriend did his duty and stayed by my bedside most all days, though I expelled him over nights, knowing that his inability to sleep in such a noisy atmosphere would end in him being hospitalized ‘round about the time I’d check out. Credit is due him, for I’m certain the drugs I was on did not make me a compelling conversationalist. “I’m so tired… so tired… these drugs make me so tired… Help me to the bathroom.” What can you do with that?
My condition remains enigmatic (in the words of my Gastroenterologist) and further tests will have to be done – all of which vexes my colon, who refuses to study. I seem an unlikely candidate for digestive issues, as I’ve inherited my Mother’s goat-like capacity to consume difficult and rich foods with aplomb. (“Why yes, I’d love another scoop of foie gras ice cream on my cheesecake with bacon sauce.”) One can only conclude that the terrorists are winning, and my large intestine is their next block to crush in the foundation of our proud Nation.
aka Ground Zero
I also read two books, taking alternate turns with each: Edith Wharton’s Pulitzer prize winning novel The Age of Innocence, and Georges Bataille’s sexually perverted novella, Story of the Eye. It was perhaps a questionable choice to combine the two under the influence of Hydromorphone, as I was, and led to some confusion when the two stories melded into each other like some kind of wet dream-turned-nightmare. I’m left with impressions of each book that are certainly tainted.
“Explain to me, please, why, in the scene where Newland Archer is listening to the Countess Olenska explain why she fled her wealthy estate in France, does he suddenly lock her in a closet and pee on it?”
Naturally, I had the boyfriend retrieve my stereo from our home so I could keep music playing in my (somehow gloomy) white surroundings. I found that Blossom Dearie was most pleasing, and cheered me. Also regularly selected was jazz pianist Ahmad Jamal.
I’m now back home, and while I’m not at my best, I’m well enough to write a blog, so that’s what I’m going to do now…
…Oh, wait. I guess… never mind.