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A Blessed Event?

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November 10th 2013  |  0  |  Category: Fiction , Tragedy  |  Author: geedda  |  1779 views

The Blessed Event

Hello, my name is Horace Whitmore; I am a bachelor with no immediate plans to marry in the very near future, though I have a lady friend I see on occasion; we live in two different cities, making it hard to meet more often. We also have different lifestyles; she smokes, drinks alcohol and tends to overindulge in fatty, high cholesterol foods; while I, on the other hand, eat regular meals; half a plate of vegetables, a quarter a plate of protein, and a quarter of good carbohydrates as recommended by a preventative health magazine. I walk two miles a day, never use an elevator, always walk up and down the stairs. I refrain from alcohol, tobacco and trans fats. I sleep eight to nine hours a night, take showers twice a day, and watch very little television.

It sounds as if I am a healthy man of forty-nine, and seemingly in good health, but a few months ago I was struck down with an embarrassing malady; constipation, for which I was ultimately hospitalized, due to… well the inability to discharge my body’s refuse.

“Nurse I have been here two days… my stomach aches, my head hurts, I am bloated to twice my normal size, and…”

“Mr Whitmore, while it is true you have been here two days and are in pain; I can assure you, you have not bloated to twice your size,” Miss Tillis, the day nurse, said.

“Well, it sure feels as if I have expanded… way beyond my normal expanse.”

“Mr Whitmore, we are trying our best to keep you comfortable until the doctors figure out what is wrong with you.”

“I can tell you what is wrong with me, and I do not have a medical degree, Miss Tillis; I am constipated.”

“We know that, Mr Whitmore, that is no secret.”

“Then, if it is no secret, why haven’t they done something about it? I am in grave danger of exploding.”

“Oh, I do not think that is likely to happen, Mr Whitmore; our doctors are quite capable of handling this situation in a less than a prolonging manner.”

The door opened, and a doctor wearing a typical white frock with a patch that said he was an internist by the name of Wendell Meggison, MD. He didn’t look old enough to shave let alone diagnose a disease, or discomforting malady such as I was, at this time, experiencing.

“Good evening, Mr Whitmore; my name is Doctor Meggison, and I am here to help you.” He grabbed my chart off the end of the bed, stared at it for some time, clucked, ummmmed, and threw in a couple of aaaahs. “All of the tests are not in yet, but I don’t think it would hurt anything to give you an enema.”

“Enema? I have had four since I landed here two days ago, and nothing happens. Haven’t you people got anything more powerful than an… enema?”

“I am afraid not, Mr Whitmore. Nurse Tillis will assist you.” He left the room.

Miss Tillis should have been named Miss Attila, she was not gentle in the least, and her aim was off by a degree or two. She finished her chore, covered me with the Johnny, smiled and left the room. It was two hours before I got to sleep at eight fifteen. At eight thirty nine Dracula’s daughter, the Phlebotomist came in to take blood. When she says, “Here goes, you may feel a little prick,” she means my arm will feel as if it is separated at the elbow. I was now wide awake. Four hours later I fell asleep again; a half hour later a nurse came in to ask me how I was doing.

“I was doing fine until you woke me. I have slept a total of four hours in the last twenty four hour period… does that answer your question?”

“Please, Mr Whitmore, I am only trying to help you.”

“You really want to help me? Unclog my intestinal blockage so I can go home.”

“We are doing everything within our means to make you more comfortable, Mr Whitmore, but you must understand not all of your tests are back yet.”

“When do you expect them, next month?”

My roommate, the skinny little man in the next bed who has not said four words since my admittance looked over at me with a stare that said, ‘you think you’ve got troubles.’ He was, as far as I knew, in for an appendectomy, a relatively minor operation compared to my condition.

“Son,” he said, “you have to be patient with the staff.” As if he had an insurmountable, undetermined disorder. Zip, zip and he is on his way home. I am here for the duration, or until someone figures out what my problem is. Every day I grow larger and larger around my waist, and with the bloating; excruciating pain.

“I am trying, but it is hard when your stomach feels as if it has been put through an old fashion washing machine wringer,” I told my roomie.

Two days later and four added inches around my waist, I was still in agony.

“Mr Whitmore, this is Doctor William Moore from Minnesota an expert in his field,” Doctor Meggison said in the way of introduction.

“Ouchhhh! I hope your field is colon bloating blockages, Doctor,” I said.

“It is Mister…” He grabbed my chart. “Mr Whitmore. I am here to help you.”

“Well, don’t just stand there… help me. I am bloated to twice my normal size, see.” I pulled the top sheet back to expose my distended waistline. He looked at it as though he had seen a hundred like it in the last twenty-four hours.

“Hmmm, I think we can give you some relief, Mr Whitmore,” the Minnesota doctor said.

He gave me a dark, almost black liquid in a glass and told me to drink it down and head for the toilet. I thought he had lost his mind; I have taken enough laxatives since I have been here to fill aisle four at CVS, not to mention, suppositories and enemas.

The elixir tasted like fried radial tire and road tar mixed with a spoonful of turpentine. I drank it down in one gulp. That concoction had not been in my stomach five minutes when I was running to the bathroom. With an explosion closely resembling an atomic bomb blast, I lost everything I had eaten or taken in the last four days. At last, I had found relief, or Doctor Moore had found the answer, and I reeked the benefits.

“Well, well Mr Whitmore,” Nurse Tillis said, entering my room, “What happened to you?”

“I just experienced a blessed event; I passed fourteen pounds of colon blocking flotsam, and lost four inches around my waist. I am truly blessed.”

The next morning, after a good night’s sleep, and feeling so much better; I felt I could dance the Tango, but not with Miss Tillis, she was too… well, not my type. I did give her a kiss on the cheek as I prepared to leave.

I walked over to the bedside of my roomy, a Mister Feeney, a barber from Portland. He smiled at me.

“Glad to see you are feeling better, Mr Whitmore… going home I see,” he said.

“You betcha… couldn’t take another day in this place,” I said. He smiled. “How much longer have you got to stay, Mr Feeney?”

“A few more days I hope.” He smiled again. “Best of luck to you, Mr Whitmore.”

“Thank you… bye now.” The older man raised his hand and waved.

Miss Tillis showed up with a wheelchair to escort me to the front door. She did not smile, pointed for me to sit down, and began wheeling me down the hall.

“Mr Feeney will be leaving shortly he says; that’s great. He is a nice man… quiet type, not much of a conversationalist. I think he is a little apprehensive about his operation; his age and all guess I’d be scared too,” I said.

“His operation?” Nurse Tillis said. “He isn’t having an operation. He is dying of lung cancer… only a matter of days now. He has been in here for ten days, a real hanger-on. I would imagine another day or two at the most.”

Suddenly I felt so embarrassed; I had complained about a little constipation while my roommate all this time was dying of cancer, but never once cried out in pain or complained about his condition. I feel so low I would need a step ladder to reach the curb. Suddenly my blessed event seemed so trivial and insignificant. I was going home, and Mr Feeney would never leave the hospital alive.

 

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