Medical-procedure number-one

So concludes medical-procedure number-one (Friday, yesterday; November 21, 2008).
Medical-procedure number-one was a saturation biopsy of my “prostrate.” (“Saturation” meaning 30 samples, as opposed to only six in biopsy number one.)
Actually, it’s prostate biopsy number-two. Although I’m sure the almighty Bluster-King will loudly claim prostate biopsy number-one never existed — like my living in Rochester throughout 1967, it was just a dream.
I’ve only started pursuing urinary issues since the Bluster-Boy started foaming about it two years ago, not the past 20 years on my own.
Unfortunately my biopsy was performed at a hospital, instead of a proper abandoned minimall clinic.
And it was performed at Rochester General Hospital, instead of the vaunted Boston healthcare system 400+ miles away.
The actual biopsy was only 15 minutes, but it blew the entire day.
We came prepared; magazines to read, and doggy in daycare.
The actual procedure was scheduled at 11:30 a.m., but we were to report at 9:30 a.m.
After checking in: “Please take a seat in our waiting-room. We have television if you care to view.”
Oh sure; Rachel Ray a-bellowing.
“This salad only takes five minutes to prepare.”
“Stuff all ingredients in blender, and apply chain-saw.”
BR-ZAPPPPPP-AAAA! “Only 89 bazilyun calories. I like to eat!”
After reading all about Illinois Central’s banana trains, I was called into a pre-surgery waiting-room, to have an IV hooked up.
“Wait a minute,” I thought to myself, looking across the room.
“That sounds like Hank Moran (‘More-ANN’), an old bus-driver at Transit.”
“Big poke,” the nurse said. “This is only electrolytes and saline solution, but the IV is also a way for the anesthesiologist to administer anesthesia.”
After a while the anesthesiologist strode in and suggested general anesthesia for the procedure.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“I was suggested a lower level of anesthesia so I could direct my wife home.”
“That’s monitored-anesthesia, ‘MAC,’” what I was suggested at first, the level of anesthesia for my colonoscopy.
“Ya’ll recover more quickly with general anesthesia, Mr. Hughes. Your wife shouldn’t have any problem. We understand.”
“No ya don’t,” I said. “I been married to this lady almost 41 years, and know how it is.”
“She shouldn’t have any problem, Mr. Hughes.”
“Negatory! She’s automotively challenged. You’re not! You have no idea. I gotta question everything, so she can make it home. She’s drivin’, but it’s actually me. ‘Right turn coming up; get in the right lane.’”
Finally, after 45 minutes or so, I was wheeled into the actual operating room.
“Just skooch yourself over onto this here table, Robert.”
I guess at that point the general anesthesia was administered — I remember a nurse saying “so close.”
Lights out; back in the recovery-room after the procedure. Moran was next to me, although a curtain was between us.
“That you, Henry?” I finally asked.
“Yeah, Moran!” he said. “Who are you?”
“Bob Hughes; we drove bus at Transit,” I said.
Unable to see him at all, but I recognized the voice. Moran was one of my dreaded Transit friends.
“I’m retired now,” he said. “28 years of driving bus.”
“Well, I only did 16&1/2 years; but then I had that stroke,” I said. “Did another job after that, but retired from that. So I’m retired too.”
Moran walked out; he was discharged (“Take care of yourself, Bob.” “You too, Henry”), as I was to be soon, my widdling being my ticket to leave.
I had to widdle into a urinal-bottle; “congratulations, Mr. Hughes. 250 milliliters. Way to go!” (Cue fireworks and 1812 Overture!)
Discharged into a wheelchair, and wheeled out to the old entrance; lotsa yammering about new versus old entrance. “No loop in the new entrance. Ya drive right past to the old entrance; the one with the flagpole in the loop.”
(Excuse me; the new entrance had a loop — Linda negotiated it.)
It was pushing five p.m. when we got to Honeoye Falls, but we managed to get our dog.

Medical-procedure number-two will be when Linda has a small growth removed from an inside sinus for biopsy. (There may be other medical-procedures, but I don’t know them at the moment. We’re not young any more.)

My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who badmouths everything I do or say (the “almighty Bluster-King” [the “Bluster-Boy”]), noisily insists the correct spelling of “prostate” (the gland) is “prostrate.” He noisily insists I avoid his advice to “have your ‘prostrate’ checked,” as if I haven’t already — and that my living in Rochester all through 1967 was “just a dream.”

RE: “Unfortunately my biopsy was performed at a hospital, instead of a proper abandoned minimall clinic.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston admitted his colonoscopy was performed in a storefront clinic in an abandoned minimall, and was therefore superior to mine, which was performed in a hospital. And that the Boston healthcare system is far superior to that where we live.

RE: “Doggy in daycare......” —Our dog, Scarlett, was boarded during the procedure, since we were sure it might take all day.

“I like to eat!” is something my blowhard brother-from-Boston once said. He weighs almost 250 pounds.

RE: “After reading all about Illinois Central’s banana trains.....” —I’m a railfan, and have been all my life. I had along a railfan magazine. Illinois Central Railroad. (May no longer exist.)

“IV” equals intravenous.

RE: “We drove bus at Transit......” —For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

RE: “Dreaded Transit friends.......” —My siblings all abhor the fact I was just a bus-driver; that I was just being a lazy, no-good layabout.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years. Because of the anesthesia she had to be my driver home.

“Honeoye Falls” is a small village near where we live, about five miles away. It also is the location of Honeoye Falls Veterinary Hospital, where we boarded our dog.

RE: “We’re not young any more......” —We’re both almost 65.