Chapter I - Viva Opium!

December 7th, a day that shall live in infamy. Sixty-seven years to the day that those filthy Nips pulled their sneak attack on battleship row, a bolt of lightening struck me in the ass. As I bent over to zip up a bag of luggage I was packing for a meeting in Atlanta, something akin to a pit bull reached up and bit me on the left butt-cheek. A shot of boiling acid must have been injected into my ass because the back of my leg was obviously on fire. I tried to sit, stand, lay flat on my back, my stomach, anything to ease the flow of flaming napalm running down my leg. Nothing worked. It was getting late, so I decided to self-medicate by taking a couple of Vicodin, drinking three fingers of scotch and going to bed.

When I awoke on Monday morning, my leg was still smoldering. There was no way I was going out of town like this, so I cancelled my trip and called my primary care doctor for an appointment. After an examination, my doctor’s 12 years of medical training and his 20 some-odd years of experience as a physician lead him to the sage prognosis that I had pinched a nerve in my lower back. He prescribed more Vicodin, a muscle relaxant and told me to lay flat for a few days. He said I should be better within about a week, but to call him back if nothing changed. After a $25 co-pay and $50 for prescriptions, I went back to bed.

Over the next three days I was high as fuck. I would stay awake only long enough to take more drugs, eat and piss. The pain was getting better, but I noticed that my legs were beginning to get numb. At first, it felt like my feet were going to sleep or were really cold. Over the next couple of days the numbness slowly spread from my feet, to my calves, to my hamstrings and to my ass. I began to have a hard time walking, but I wasn’t sure if it was the numbness or the drugs. It still hurt like hell to stand up, but because of the copious amounts of Vicodin in my system, I just didn’t care.

Thursday morning is when I got scared that something was seriously wrong. In addition to my legs and ass, my butthole, taint and nutsack were now numb. I frantically called Dr. Feelgood and reported my condition. After explaining what a “taint” is to a 60-year old doctor, then being informed that the proper term for it is “perineum”, I was told to go to the emergency room for an MRI. The wife and kids were already gone to school, so I decided to cowboy-up and take myself on in. I popped a handful of Vicodin, waited a half-hour, and then got dressed. I literally couldn’t keep my balance to walk, plus the burning pain was getting worse. I grabbed a chair and used it like a walker to help stabilize myself and began to hobble out to my truck. It took me about 45 minutes to traverse the 30 feet that separate my house from the carport. The pain was becoming more and more unbearable and I began to realize that driving myself to the hospital might be a big mistake. As I got to the truck, I could no longer hold myself up with my legs. I tried to climb in, but the pain was nothing like anything I’d ever experienced. It literally took my breath away and brought tears to my eyes. I can’t imagine that being on fire would be any worse than what I was feeling. As I stood waist-deep in the pool of acid, unable to get in my own truck or make it back to the house, I admitted to myself that I was in real trouble and needed help. I called 911 and requested that an ambulance come pick me up.

It seemed like forever, but the paramedics arrived within about 10 minutes. After listening to my list of symptoms and my apology for being such a pussy that I had to call them, they tried to figure out how they were going to get my big ass on the stretcher. We all debated for a while, but couldn’t come up with an easy plan. The only way to get on the stretcher was to climb my ass on there. They lowered it to a little below waist high, set a backboard on top of the pad and pushed it right up against me. All I needed to do was sit down, lay back and swing my legs up. The paramedics helped by holding my shoulders and tried to lift my legs as gently as possible, but the pain was indescribable. I screamed in a high-pitched voice like an 8-year-old girl who just got a pony for Christmas. A symphony of falsetto obscenities spewed from my lungs and I begged God to make the pain stop, but he wasn’t listening. Tears were streaming down my face and I had to force myself to inhale. I was in such pain that I think it scared the paramedics. Mercifully, they slid the backboard over a bit, centering my body on the stretcher. As one paramedic began to strap me down, another radioed the hospital to let them know we were coming. They took my vital signs and talked to the hospital a little more before wheeling me around to the back of the ambulance and loading me inside.

I’d been meaning to have a few truckloads of caliche brought in to re-surface my road, but just hadn’t gotten around to it. The ambulance ride sure made me wish I had, because every pothole in that sumbitch we hit made me scream. The ride to the hospital took about 15 minutes and the guy in the back with me was monitoring my vital signs and talking to the hospital. He hooked up an IV in my arm and gave me a shot for the pain, but it didn’t do any good. I asked him for a rig of heroin or if I could smoke some opium or some shit, but was denied. I’d have to wait until I got to the hospital to get anything stronger. The paramedics wheeled me into the emergency room and handed me off to the ER docs. They asked me a bunch of questions, took more vital signs and finally got around to getting me something to dull the pain. They injected a cocktail of pain medication and Valium into my IV and told me that I’d be heading upstairs to have an MRI. After a few minutes, the drugs took effect and took the edge off. I was still in a lot of pain, but at least I could breathe without screaming.

A procession of doctors, nurses and admissions people paraded through the room before the MRI Tech got there. He took one look at me and said that I was too big to fit in their machine. Now, I realize that I’m a big, fat, overgrown cow-bellied bastard, but what the fuck? When I asked him about what kind of half-assed midget MRI they had, he informed me that he didn’t think my chest and shoulders would fit through the opening in the tube. About that time, a doctor walked in. They discussed sending me to Ft. Worth to a larger MRI and whether a CT Scan would work. I think I pissed them off when I said, “How ‘bout we get a fucking tape measure, get some dimensions and figure out if my fat ass will fit in the machine you’ve got here?” They both left the room, then the MRI guy came back with a plastic ruler. He made a half-hearted attempt at measuring the width of my shoulders, then went upstairs to measure his machine. 45 minutes later I was headed up to get the MRI.

They loaded me onto the conveyor table feet first and ran me into the hole until my shoulders hit the sides of the opening. The MRI guy told me to lay still and left the room to see if enough of my back was in the machine to get a good picture. Once he was satisfied that it would work, he started the machine. The MRI took about 30 minutes to complete, then he backed me out of the hole. I asked him when the doctor would be able to look at the film and was told that it had already been e-mailed to the surgeon for review. By the time I got back to the ER, I was hurting pretty bad again. The nurse gave me another shot and said that they’d be moving me upstairs to a room pretty quickly. The Valium relaxed me, but the pain medication didn’t seem to work as well this time. I was still in a great deal of pain an hour later when they came to take me to my room.

As luck would have it, Weatherford Regional Medical Center is undergoing a big expansion project and the whole place is torn up by the ongoing construction. The nurse told me that, due to the construction, there was a shortage of private rooms. I would be placed in a semi-private room with another patient until a private room was available. At this point, I could give a shit less where they put me, as long as I could get another shot to extinguish the molten lava running down my legs. When I got to my room, I asked the nurse, Crystal, to give me another shot for pain. This time, the shot did absolutely nothing. Before, the Valium at least relaxed me a bit but this time; nothing… I waited about an hour and called Crystal back down to my room to tell her that the shot didn’t work. She said that I was under a different doctor’s orders now and that he hadn’t prescribed Valium with the pain killer. The doctor was on the floor making rounds, so she said that she’d talk to him about increasing my medication. About 20 minutes later, she came back with a syringe full of heaven…

Dilaudid is like synthetic morphine, and the good doctor prescribed me a healthy fucking dose. He also prescribed double the amount of Valium that I was getting in the emergency room. Crystal injected the syringe into my IV, then “pushed” it with some saline. No sooner than she took the saline syringe out of the IV, a warm, peaceful wave of sweet relief rolled throughout my entire body. I was blanketed in a fluffy, warm comfort that I can only describe by comparing it with what a junkie on TV looks like when they shoot heroin. Just like when a junkie shoots up and releases that rubber band strapped around their arm, my eyes rolled back into my head and I drifted off into blissful euphoria. Also like a junkie, I slept so hard that I didn’t even realize that I’d pissed all over myself.

I think Jeff used perineum in one of his songs once.

aw, shit, the one ton infield's going down.
next up, Tit reveals he has hep-c.

btw, it goes without saying I hope yer ass gets better.

Damn man, numb taint? That just isnt fair to anyone.

I'll get nothing so romantic. I'll just drop dead of a heart attack.

Kinda makes my herniated disk that I've been tolerating for the last 3 years seem not all that bad.

Chapter II - Here's Donnie!

Room 313 is a semi-private room. I was in bed “A” and a dude named Donnie was in bed “B”. Donnie was sleeping when they brought me into the room, so I didn’t say anything to him. He was a white guy who looked to be in his mid-thirties and was clean cut. I was surprised, because with my luck, I’d figured I’d be matched up with some homeless Mexican meth-fiend and get spend the weekend fighting with him over whether we were going to watch ESPN or Sabado Gigante on Univision. I suppose it didn’t really matter; I was looking forward to mainlining my way back to ecstasy every three hours anyway. Soon enough, a nurse came in the room and woke Donnie up to check his blood pressure. She asked him some questions, but he didn’t say much. I assumed that he was still sleepy and might even have been a little pissed that she woke him up. Then Donnie started talking…

A deep voice began “speaking” in some guttural, stuttering tongue that was unrecognizable to the human ear. The sudden realization that I was sharing a room with a fucking retard hit my like a baseball bat square in the forehead. Donnie sounded like a combination of Warren from “Something about Mary” and Porky Pig on steroids. I dreaded the moment when Donnie would turn his attention to me and begin the verbal assault. As soon as the nurse left the room, Donnie began to carpet-bomb me with a painful, stuttering Q & A session. "Whaa yheu naam?" "Whaa w..w..w..wonngh wiff yheu?" I kept waiting for him to ask me if I’d seen his baseball. I did my best to avoid as much verbal interaction as I could, but Donnie was a talker. Donnie was also a call button pusher. The nurses had to hate him because he was constantly summoning them with the call button for absolutely nothing. Everything from, “I’m cold.” to “What’s for dinner? to “I just peed.” Sometimes the nurse would leave the room and he’d hit the call button again before she’d even have time to get back to the nurse’s station. He was a very demanding retard.

While he was out of the room having some tests done, I got the whole story on Donnie from one of the nurses. Donnie had been in a car accident about six or seven years ago that seriously fucked him up. He was jogging early one morning when he was hit by a car and suffered severe head trauma. Donnie had a Master’s degree and was a CPA before his accident. Now, he could hardly talk, couldn’t walk, and couldn’t wipe his own ass. The nurse said that Donnie had been living with his parents, but they were forced to move him into an assisted living center because he needed more care than they could provide. He was in the hospital because he had a blood clot in his leg and the doctors were afraid it would break loose and cause him to have a stroke. After learning all of this, my feelings toward Donnie changed a bit. He was still an annoying pain in the ass, but at least he wasn’t a retard.

Beyond brain damage, a life-threatening blood clot and an affinity for The Hallmark Channel, Donnie had another major affliction that commanded my attention. The poor bastard was constantly puking. He’d eat something, and then puke. He’d drink a few sips of water, then puke. The nurses would spend 20 minutes cleaning him up and changing his clothes, then he’d hurl all over himself again before they could get to the end of the hall. He vomited so much on Friday, that I began keeping a record of the eruptions on Saturday. At 6:12 AM, Donnie had his first reversal of the day. He blew beets again at 8:22 AM, 9:51 AM and 11:05 AM. Donnie then decided to throw everyone a curveball by shitting all over himself at 12:15 PM. Even though they had a diaper on his ass, the clean-up took the nurses forever and funked up the room something fierce. Thank God we had already eaten lunch. After he dropped the duce I quit recording the times. Shitting the bed just kind of made throwing up all over yourself not as interesting anymore.

damn damn damn, Elmer.

Nurses don't get paid enough.

Doesn't your wife work per diem, and makes $50/Hour?

Hi VBF!

couldn't you use a poop cleaning nurse?

pretty much.

Chapter III - This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs...

Nicole was the name of my daytime nurse on Friday. She asked me how I was doing and wanted to know if I was comfortable. I quickly explained to Nicole that my entire goal in life that day was to say absolutely as medicated as possible in order to avoid the realization of what a shitty situation I was in. I asked her if she knew what the results of my MRI showed, but she had no idea. Nicole did say that that a surgeon named Dr. Largent was supposed to be coming to see me and talk about my condition. Knowing that the doctor would be there relatively soon, I decided to put off getting another fix of hospital horse. For some odd reason, I felt like I would need a clear head to understand exactly what he was going to tell me. By the time he got there, I was wishing that I’d gone ahead and taken that shot. Dr. Largent finally showed up around 8:30 AM just as the fire in my legs re-ignited. The good doctor told me that my MRI revealed two ruptured disks and one herniated disk in my lower back. The ruptured disks were pressing on the nerves in my spinal column and were causing the pain and numbness in the lower half of my body. Doc Largent said that he was referring me to a specialist for further evaluation. The specialist would decide what type of surgical procedure would be necessary to correct the problem. I was told that the specialist, Dr. Brown, would be coming by later that day to examine me and go over the procedure. The only ray of sunshine in the dark cloud of this conversation was that Largent was increasing my pain medication frequency from once every four hours to once every two hours. The good doctor wasn’t even out of the doorway before I was hitting the nurse call button. Within a few minutes, Nicole showed up with my dope. As she injected the sweet, merciful nectar of the Gods into my bloodstream, she said that she was surprised that the doctor had increased my dosage. Drifting off into peaceful nirvana, all I could utter in response was, “I’ll see you in two hours…”

I succeeded in my goal of staying high all day on Friday. Nicole came by about every two and a half hours with my cocktail of body-numbing serum and kept me in a constant state of Shangri-La. Every time she would come in I would ask her if she had seen Dr. Brown, but he was AWOL. As daytime blended into night, Nicole left and Sherri came in. She said that Dr. Brown had called and added some additional medications to my daily ration of narcotics. I was to get a muscle relaxant shot twice daily and a steroid shot once per day. Neither of them seemed to add to my high, so I wasn’t really concerned. I was kind of confused and wondered why Dr Brown hadn’t made it by to check me out. Dr. Largent acted as if they would be looking to operate pretty quickly. I wasn’t sure if Brown’s absence was a good thing or not. Maybe I wasn’t all that bad if he wasn’t concerned enough to examine me on Friday? Surely he’s seen my MRI and knew what was wrong. Just as well, I was so screwed up on the synthetic scag that I probably wouldn’t have understood anything he would have told me anyway.

Friday night was little more than a dark, hazy blur. I slept really hard for the first time in a week or so. I guess I had so much smack in my system that I finally just fell out. I slept clean through from about 11:00 that night until a little before 6:00 Saturday morning. When I woke up I was beginning to hurt again. My legs were starting to burn and my feet were as cold as ice. I realized that I’d slept through my last two pharmaceutical pit-stops and must have been running on fumes. I hit the nurse call button and asked for another pain shot, then waited for the Angel of Mercy to come to my rescue. Five minutes went by, then ten, then twenty. I didn’t want to piss the nurses off like Donnie and keep hitting the button, so I gave it some more time. After an hour had gone by, my legs were fully engulfed in flames. At that point I didn’t care if it hair-lipped the pope, I hit the button again. The voice on the other end said that someone would be there right away to give me my shot. Again, I waited. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, time dragged on and on. Finally at ten minutes after 8:00 AM, my new nurse, Tiffany, showed up with my fix. As politely and respectfully as I could muster, I inquired as to why the fuck it took so long for a goddamned nurse to do their job and walk 30 fucking feet down the hall to give me some medicine. She said that the night crew worked 11:00 PM to 7:00 AM and started preparing for shift change at about 6:00 AM, doing paperwork and somesuch. Then the day crew came on at 7:00 AM and worked until 3:00 PM. It takes every new crew about an hour to get up to speed on all of the patient’s charts before they hit the floor. Tiffany advised me to call about an hour and a half before shift change if I was going to need a shot while the crews were working on their handoff. That’s when I made a mental note to self: Try not to go into cardiac arrest or have any sort of life threatening crisis during shift change; you might have trouble getting a BandAid…

Good thing they got the paperwork settled.

Nurses are some of the coolest people in world, but you don't fuck with them when it comes to shift change. They seriously do not want to hear from your ass for about an hour. If you're ever in the hospital, learn when the shift changes are and make sure you have everything you need before they start. Nurses will go zero to cunt on you if you keep hitting that button.

tell them it's their effing job

yeah, and watch them forget his meds for a day

It's also their job to do the report to make sure the incoming staff knows what the fuck is going on.

Chapter IV - "Nevermind" never sounded so good...

On Saturday, I had either a real intellectual breakthrough, or a catastrophic mental collapse, depending on you look at it. I became conversationally proficient in the native tongue of the brain damaged retard. I began to understand Donnie’s mumblings and started interpreting his directives to the nurses. This was particularly entertaining in the afternoon when Shaunte’, the 3:00 PM to 11:00 PM nurse, started her shift. Shaunte’ was a black woman of considerable size, in her mid thirties, who for lack of a better description had no internal governor. Although she was very pleasant, cheerful and personable, she lacked either the tact or non-confrontational nature of the other nurses that had been charged with Donnie’s care. When the other nurses were in the room and Donnie started in on them with his stuttering bullshit, they all smiled, politely acknowledged him, then got away as quickly as they could. But not Shaunte’… Donnie started in on her with a barrage of, “T-t-t-tha doctuer s-s-sed I’m gunna git tew go h-h-h-h-home Sh-Sh-Shundey.” Shaunte’s head swiveled around on her neck like a hood sista’ getting ready to fire off a “No you didint!”, took a look at me and said, “What in the hell is this mans talkin’ about?” She looked back at Donnie and, in a slow, deliberate, louder voice as if Donnie were hard of hearing said, “Sir, I can’t understand a word you sayin. What you need?” Donnie fired of another round of thick-tongued broken English and got the same response from the dumbfounded nurse. After three or four failed attempts, I stepped in to act as a local interpreter. “He says the doctor told him that he might get to go home on Sunday.” She cocked her head to the side, looked at me with squinted eyes and said, “How you get that from what he said?” I told her I’d been rooming with Big Don since Thursday and I had heard him talk enough to know what he was trying to say. Shaunte’ looked back at Donnie, and again in a loud, slow voice said, “That’s real good Sir. I hope you get to go home real soon.” She finished up what she was doing, turned to leave the room, then stopped and looked at me as she passed my bed. She put her hand up to the side of her face, blocking her mouth from Donnie’s view, and whispered, “If you can understand that mans, you been up in here with him way too long…”

Donnie and Shaunte’ had quite a number of confrontations throughout the afternoon, but my favorite occurred shortly after dinner. As usual, Donnie ate, and then Donnie puked. The curtain between our beds was extended about half-way so I couldn’t see how bad it was, but it sounded like he projectile vomited all over his side of the room. When the eruption subsided and he caught his breath, Donnie hit the call button and exclaimed, “I-I-I-Ayeee juss thew up.” Within minutes Shaunte’ showed up to see what the problem was. I could see the look of defeat and disgust on her face as she stood at the foot of his bed and assessed the situation. I heard Donnie’s nurse call button go off again, but this time it was Shaunte’ calling the desk for back-up. I guess when faced with the gastrointestinal carnage of a grown man lying in a bed full of his own vomit, no one nurse could hope to rescue her patient alone. Another nurse arrived with a cart full of bed sheets, blankets, pillows and cleaning supplies. The two nurses dawned their personal protective equipment, discussed the mission objective and then attacked Donnie’s vomit-covered bed and body with the deliberate and swift precision of a Green Beret team clearing a mud hut full of Iraqi insurgents. Since the curtain was half-way drawn I could not see the tactics that they employed, but it was amazing how quickly the soiled linens were removed and Donnie was cleaned up. All the while, Donnie was letting them know that he “thew up” and that he was feeling better now. I took the opportunity to brief Shaunte’ on the fact that Donnie was a chronic vomiteer and that he probably puked four or five times a day. In hindsight, I should have kept my mouth shut, because I had no idea that the little bit of intel I passed along would lead to such a full-scale firefight.

Shaunte’ went to the cart and grabbed a plastic bucket. Again, as if she were talking to someone who was half deaf, she began to tell Donnie to puke in the bucket rather than to just let if fly. Donnie started mumbling and stammering in his own native tongue, then I heard him rummaging around in his bed-side table. Well, this time I didn’t have to interpret for Shaunte’; she heard everything he said loud and clear. Donnie said, “That’s too big. I use one of these”, then apparently produced a plastic urinal bottle half full of partially digested hospital food, fresh from his latest episode. I thought Shaunte’ was going to have an aneurism right there on the spot. “Goooooood lord in heaven! You not s’possed to be up-chuckin in that! That a urinal! That for urine!” Shaunte’ took a step back from behind the curtain and with a cocked head and her hand on her hip, looked at me and held up the urinal bottle full of vomit. Then, in a stern and accusatory tone, asked me if I had known that he had been trying to up-chuck in urinal. I wanted no part of Shaunte’s wrath, so I denied all knowledge of anything that had ever occurred on the other side of the curtain. She turned her attention back to Donnie and began brow beating him with specific instructions on what receptacle was to be used for piss and what receptacle was for puke. For some reason, Donnie must have felt that it was his constitutional right to puke in a piss-holder, so he vehemently stuttered and argued in an increasingly louder voice. Donnie continued barking some angry, unintelligible shit as Shaunte’ was leaving the room. About the time she was half-way out the door, the stars and moon must have been in perfect alignment because Donnie’s voice and diction became perfectly clear and understandable. For one brief, fleeting instant, Donnie was as articulate as anyone I’d ever heard speak. One, single word echoed softly throughout the room in slow motion…

Nigger.

Dead, deafening silence filled Room 313; in fact, the entire hospital went silent. The earth must have stopped spinning and time stood still. I swear I could hear my heart beating. As I sat, paralyzed by shock and fear, I wondered if she had heard him. As the earth began to rotate on its axis again, I quickly got the answer to my question. I swear I heard someone softly whistling the theme music from “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly” as the door slowly swung open. There, silhouetted by the bright light of the hallway, stood the dark, menacing form of Shaunte’. No longer was she the pleasant, personable nurse who I had known only moments before. She had morphed into nothing short of Ving Rhames in drag. She moved as if she were in slow motion. Every footstep she took echoed throughout the vast emptiness of the corridor. As she slowly exited the darkness, the fluorescent light of the room illuminated her face, revealing a fear-inspiring scowl the likes of which I had never before seen. With the fire of racism and hatred burning inside her like a volcano on the verge of eruption, she stepped to the side of my bed, looked me square in the eye and said, “Did that mans say what I think he said?” I sat motionless, afraid to lie but also afraid to tell the truth. My only option was plausible deniability. “Huh… I was watching the news… What did he say?” There were several awkward moments of silence where she stared at me before responding. It was like she was testing me or trying to see if I would crack under the pressure. Finally, she un-clenched her fists, relaxed her jaw and blinked. “Oh nothing… Nevermind. I thought I heard him say something… Nevermind.” I began to breathe again as she turned and left the room.

of all places to drop the n-bomb, I don't think being in a hospital all fucked up would be the time/place.
I'd wanna be able to drive away fast.

Shut the fuck up, Donnie.

*ticketdropspeak* I think that's funny

Patiently awaiting chapter 5

Chapter V - The Shocker

I capped off my evening of racial tension with another pain shot and a nap. I dared not summon Shaunte’ to the room and warned Donnie that he was liable to get us both killed if he kept up his antics. I guess God watches out for retards too because Big Don didn’t have any issues requiring nursing care until well after shift change, and the new nurse was a middle-aged white woman. Our new keeper must have had the lord on her side as well because Donnie slept the entire night. Saturday faded into Sunday and night into day. I was hungry as hell when they brought the breakfast tray in at about 7:15 AM Sunday morning. I inhaled the powdered eggs, microwave sausage patty and some type of bread that I think was intended to be French toast. I asked the nurse about the possibility of Dr. Brown showing up on a Sunday and was told that if, and only if he were to make an appearance, it would be sometime after lunch. With a cow belly full of food and an IV full of elephant tranquilizer, I settled in for an entertaining day of ESPN and watching Donnie annoy the nurses. Donnie could work that call button like a champion. He got hot, so they brought him a fan. He got cold, so they brought him a blanket. He couldn’t see the TV because of the glare from the window, so he had them close the blinds. He peed, he puked in the urinal bottle, he needed a drink, and of course, he wanted to go home.

I had been lying in bed without getting up for over three days and desperately wanted a shower. There was no way I was getting up, so the nurses told me that the next best thing was to give myself a sponge bath. They got me a bucket of warm water, a bottle of some bullshit soap/shampoo that didn’t require rinsing, some wash rags and a towel. They drew the curtain around my bed to provide a little privacy and I went to work. I was going commando in basketball shorts, so stripping down was easy. I used one wash rag to scrub my pits, another to scrub my balls and the remainder for my head, face, etc. About the time I was getting done, I heard the door to the room creaking, then the curtain at the foot of my bed flew wide open. I was butt-ass naked and some 40+ year-old white douchebag was standing at the foot of the bed staring at me with a puzzled look on his face. I looked at him for a second and then said, “No thanks man. If I needed any help I’d have asked for a hot young nurse to come down here… not a dude.”

“Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Brown.” The fucking surgeon had finally showed up. I’d been waiting on this ashole since Thursday afternoon and he finally shows up at 2:30 PM on Sunday while I’m butt-ass naked, trying to scrub my taint with a wash rag. I guess no one bothered to coordinate his golf schedule and my bath time. I asked him to give me a moment while I died off and got dressed. He agreed, pulled the curtain back and began asking me questions. I told him the whole story and went down my list of ailments. He then asked if I’d had an MRI. “Yeah, I had one on Thursday. I’ve been sitting here ever since waiting on you to decide what to do with me. Have you not seen it yet?” He hadn’t, so he left the room to go retrieve my records. Moments later he re-appeared and asked more questions, specifically whether I was having trouble urinating or defecating. I explained that I couldn’t feel my bladder and had no idea when I needed to piss. About every three hours, I’d kind of roll over onto my side, stick my dick in the bottle and push down on my stomach to make myself piss. He then asked about defecation. I explained that defecating had not been a problem because I hadn’t cut a load of timber since Monday of the previous week. That was when things went from embarrassing to full on humiliating.

The doctor walked to the sink, got a pair of rubber gloves and asked me to drop my shorts. The first thing he did was poke my feet with an ink pen. I felt nothing. I was asked to wiggle my toes, which I could barely do. Then he told me to roll over onto my side… I should have known something bad was about to happen. He grabbed my as-cheek with one hand, pulled it up and stuck his finger to the rim of my asshole. He removed his other hand from my butt-cheek and then gave me a reach-around. He cradled my balls in one hand and had the finger of his other hand pressed up against my balloon-knot. That’s when it happened… He fisted me. Dr. Brown stuck his finger up my asshole all the way to the knuckle. I could tell he was cramming his hand up my ass, but surprisingly enough it didn’t hurt. All I was really feeling was the pressure. I started to look back at him and make a comment about feeling like Ralphie when Janice shoved a dildo up his ass, but decided against it. He readjusted his hand on my rig, squeezed my balls a couple of times and then gave me the shocker again. Dr. Brown’s finger was so far up my ass that I was sure I’d have an imprint of his wedding ring on my taint. He told me to “try and resist” by tightening my sphincter muscles. I then looked back at him and said, “Don’t you think I’d be all seized up if I could. I mean, I’ve only got a strange man whom I just met fingering me like I’m some kind of high school prom date.” I don’t think he was amused.

I guess the doctor had an affinity for prison rape and liked it rough; I must not have put up enough of a fight for his tastes because he quit double-donging me up the ass and took off his gloves. He announced that I needed surgery to relieve the pressure that the ruptured discs were placing on my nerves. Dr. Brown also said that he was leaving that afternoon for a conference in San Diego. He told me that he had to get to the airport, but that he’d call the nurses and let them know what was going to happen. So within a time span of no more than 5 minutes, I’d met my doctor, been cornholed, was told I needed surgery and was again sitting in the hospital waiting for someone to tell me what was going on.

What caused this? The cow belly? Do I need to wait until a future chapter to find out? The anticipation is killing me.

What hospital are you in, Elmer? I'd like to bring you a Kincaid's burger for dunch if I can.

I shouldn't enjoy reading this.

Elmer,
are you still at Weatherford hospital? man, if you are talking back surgery, i would
get a second and possible third opinion! and i definitely would not have some quack from
weatherford ( i lived there, and have been to that hospital )
that shows up for 5 minutes, after days of waiting, fingers my ass, gropes my balls
and tells me he is going to cut on me. I would ask for a second opinion while he is golfing
in SD, and get some specialist from Fort Worth or Dallas to come finger me first. I have
a few friends in the business, i would be happy to make a call and get a recommendation
if you would like.
Spam

I once pretended to have back pain so that I could get worked over by a doctor. Best deductible I ever paid.

A real man would have used 1 rag for all of that. It's all about what order you perform the cleaning.

And you must have some kickass insurance to be able to stay in the hospital that long for pain management. My wife's grandmother had a similar back problem, only got admitted because the ER doctor was a friend of the family, and got tossed out on her ass 12 hours later with a few prescriptions.

best thread ever

update?

I'm a little worried.

i hope donnie or that angry black didnt killdie elmer.

Does anyone have his number? Walt? Give him a call will ya? Tell him to post chapter 6 if he's still with us.

Texted to check in on his ass. Here's hoping he's not in jail (again)

Elmer reports using crutches right now, but still not quite walking on his own yet.