Over the next few days my neurosurgeon, Mr Henry Marsh or one of his cohorts visits me frequently, and despite scoring very very low on the Glasgow coma scale, he assures me that my mobility will return in a few weeks. Apparently, this sort of hemi-paresis is common and transient. Yeah, who are you kiddin’?
But I got bigger worries at the moment, my bowels haven’t moved since the morning of my last surgery. I’m constantly urged to go by the nursing staff, but lying horizontal on a cardboard bedpan with nothing but a flimsy curtain between you and a ward full of mix sexed visitors kind of contracts one’s anal sphincter, if you know what I mean! Where’s the amyl nitrate when you need it? Being pumped with codeine and liquid morphine doesn’t help much either. The codeine is naturally constipation causing on its own, but the morphine is causing me to be extra lethargic and apathetic. Must say though, it is an interesting sensation being eaten alive by your mattress. Now I know what it feels like to be a ‘smack head’. If I ever get out of this shit in one piece I’ll certainly be able to relate with the prisoners I interrogate back at the ‘nick’. I momentarily contemplate asking one of my visiting colleague friends/family to bring a COZART Rapiscan test in for a laugh. Imagine, he’s a serving police officer, well half of him is, and he fails the opiate part of the standard drug test for prisoners. What a hoot that would be!
On the eighth day I put my foot down and demand the works, multiple hi-potency enemas, after all the visitors have gone home. I’ve been preparing for this for the last few days. I’ve been turning my nose up at the bowel impacting crap they call dinner and have been secretly gorging on fresh fruit, bran flakes and senokot. Yeah, I’m in pain, so much so in fact that I’m convinced the Devil himself must have conjured it up especially for me, Private Hell number 56,170866 I’m also pretty confident that the catheter isn’t helping my bowels much either. So much so in fact, that I actually tried to rip it out the previous day whilst squatting on the toilet. Despite repeated tugs it didn’t budge, lucky for me. According to the nurse, if I had been successful I would have ripped my prostrate gland and bladder out through my piss aperture. Mmm, nice! Probably would have looked a lot like a frog vomiting his own stomach up. Now there’s an image if you haven’t already eaten your dinner tonight.
Suffice to say the industrial strength enemas were successful, “CLEANER, CUBICLE THREE!”
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3 comments:
All that illicit fruit, bad man.
Love the frog description, just as I'm devouring a 9oz fillet steak.
But seriously I'd have asked for a visit from SO19 and demanded to be shot. As anyone who has seen South Park will know, the last thing you do before you die is, shit yer pants.
TTFN
I started glancing through your blog in my lunch break today and I've had to rush home and read it all the way back from the beginning. Crikey - I'm in shock AND awe - and yes I guess as a human I'm inherently nosey, but you've made me laugh AND cry my way through two cups of tea and a hot cross bun; and now I've just realised it's bed time and I've missed Gordon Ramsay! Oh, and I'm a slow reader too.
Bye for now
Hey K-type, thanks for tuning in. I'm glad you enjoyed the blog so far. Been a bit busy lately, but I aim to continue the story very soon.
And hey, 'nosey' is good. Its not a private blog, its for anyone that wants to drop by. I've tried to make it informative yet humorous. Bitter-sweet, just like life. If you can take anything positive from it: Mission accomplished.
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