Chatty Cathy

While I was waiting in one of the hospital beds for my second cataract surgery, an older woman was escorted by me and deposited in the bed next to me.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know," she started. "My mother had it and now I have it. It makes me sick sometimes."

"Hmmmm," said the clearly uninterested nurse.

"Yes, it's true." Totally unable (or unwilling) to read the room, she continued on relating her complete family history. "Now my father never had it and my sister doesn't have it, isn't that funny?"

"Huh."

"But my sister has GERD. Do you know what that is? Well, it's when stomach acid comes back up. I don't have GERD but I have Crohn's disease. Did I tell you that? Yes, I was diagnosed with it back in..."

The nurse politely excused herself and ran for cover. However, the anestheologist soon became her second victim.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? It was diagnosed back in the 90's and it causes me to--"

"Do you smoke?" The anestheologist was not nearly as patient as the nurse had been, abruptly cutting off the old woman's reciting of her medical history.

But she remained hellbent on being heard. "No, I've never smoked. It's kind of disgusting if you ask me. My dad, he smoked. And that's what got him in the end, the cancer. But I've never had any desire or interest to--"

"That's interesting," replied the anestheologist. "Excuse me."

She rushed off but my bed neighbor was not discouraged as she latched onto another poor passing unsuspecting nurse.

And the hell began all over again. "I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? And my mother had it but my--"

The nurses all had a hasty escape plan, but alas, I was bed-ridden and helpless. I wished fervently for the drugs to kick in and put me to sleep. This was far worse than the unseen guy who sits down on a toilet stall next to you and wants to chat about the baseball game last night. Far, far worse.

Mercifully, after another half hour or so of her incessant rattling, I was wheeled away to surgery. With a smile on my face. Probably a first time for that reaction.

Early the next morning, I had a post-op visit scheduled with the doctor. My wife and I sat in the waiting room. The door opens and it's Chatty Cathy again! She sits across from us. And a fresh new hell opened up all over again.

"Did you have surgery yesterday, too?" she launched.

"Yes, I did. I--"

"What color are your eyes? I can't see from here. Did you have surgery for distance or close up? I had surgery to fix my close vision. Can you see better? I think I can. I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? Yes, it's true. My mother had it before me but my sister never had it. Isn't that funny? But she has GERD, do you know what that is? It's when your--"

"Stuart?" I nearly kissed the nurse as I escaped the nefarious clutches of Chatty Cathy. 

God must've been particularly unhappy with me those two days.

Speaking of which, check out my book Godland. It's a midwestern nightmare. Farm noir. Suspense and horror collide. You've been duly warned!

Hospital of Horrors!

Hey, it's a new week and what does that mean for me here at Tornado Alley? Why, another new medical crisis, of course!

Except for when it's not. As I kept explaining to all of the medical experts who wanted to study and dissect me, "Dammit, sometimes a fall is just a fall!"

I see a little background is needed. Couple Sundays ago, my full bladder woke me up at 5:30 A.M., business as usual. Except I got up too fast, became dizzy.

Calamity occurred. Lots of high-speed thuds, bangs, and cracks ensued as I renovated the bedroom in a hurry. As a last minute Hail Mary before I fell, I snatched onto a book-rack, pulled it down on top of me, and gashed my head open on the cedar chest at the end of the bed. Blood flowed. We're talking George Romero gushers. On the floor, I sat up, felt the blood pouring from above my eye. My wife rushed to the rescue.

Not one for drama (although my wife would beg to differ), I jumped up, showed her how okay-fine-and-dandy I was. 

Um, except not, I suppose. The next thing I know I'm waking up on the bathroom floor and my wife's on the phone calling 911.

I say, "Hey, that's not necessary. I'm fine."

She tells me to stay put and I fight her on it, stupid me. I tell her I need to go to the bathroom.

She says, "Yeah, no. You've already gone."

Consciousness swims back in. So does a gross liquid warmth in my boxers. "Oh," I say.

Along with the first responders, I find out exactly what happened. Apparently, I made it as far as the bathroom, passed out again, fell to the floor, and started "gurgling." Then I went dead silent for 90 seconds. My wife thought I had a seizure.

But I was intent on showing the cops, medics and my wife I was okay. Just a little wet, humiliated and bloody. When asked who our president was, I scoffed (perhaps a little too long as I don't even like mentioning the Orange Dorito's name), then gave the appropriate answer. Regardless, the medic wanted me to go to the ER.

My wife decided to drive me as a luxury cruise in an ambulance was beyond our budget.

Alright, I've never lied to you guys (exaggerate is a different beast), so it's truth time. Sunday night, I had beers. Too many. So it didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out what had happened.

But bring on the brain surgeons the hospital did! Along with every type of medical doctor, specialist, intern, psychologist, chaplain, and janitor they could find. I went through tests of all sorts. I was poked, prodded, probed, jabbed, jolted, shocked, studied, stared at, talked about, forgotten when it came to meal times, and bored outta my mind.

I kept explaining to everybody, "I drank too much, I'd just restarted the low-carb diet, my blood pressure medicine makes me dizzy, and I got up too fast! Let me outta here!"

No one would listen. My nurse--who I fondly look on now as a classic "frienemy"--was younger than a pesky hang-nail  and probably weighed about 60 pounds, half of that being her various piercings. We battled round and round and round. I had my jeans and shoes on from day one, ready to blow the joint. She kept telling me I wasn't going anywhere yet (even though I think she'd rather I had skedaddled). 

After a day-and-a-half of horrific boredom (I watched about every movie the hospital offered on TV, down to my very last pick, Crazy Rich Asians, a romantic comedy, for Gawd's sake!), the results finally came in. Everyone's fanciest guess was my "seizure" was delayed trauma from the blow to my head. Nurse Ratched, Jr. told me, "You know, I think you just fell."

Smartest person in the place.

Speaking of horror in the most mundane environment, check out my new thriller, Corporate Wolf. You'll believe werewolves WORK among us! I'm not kidding. Really. No lie. It's a friggin' true story.