Posthuman Blues

I'm back home after a brief stay in the hospital, aching but thankfully bladderless. Apparently Dr. Leir was hustled out of the OR shortly after the surgery began, having brought a variety of unconventional surgical instruments onto the premises.





Also, he insisted on wearing a disturbing latex mask made to resemble an archetypal "Gray" alien. Fortunately another surgeon was on call and was able to complete the gall bladder removal in a more orthodox manner.

With the exception of Leir, everyone was helpful and understanding . . . although I was annoyed when my request to keep the disenfranchised gall bladder was dismissed because of recently enacted OSHA regulations. I remarked lamely that this refusal to my own body part -- moreover, one I had every intention of proudly displaying in my living room near the ruddy glow of my lava lamp -- was "totalitarian," but let it go.





After coming to in the recovery room I enjoyed ice cream and Coke. Then proceeded to pass out in the bathroom, where I was lifted to my feet by giftedly strong nurses and escorted back to my bed, where I whiled away a few hours looking at my new scars -- four of them, all surprisingly small -- and plucking away EKG 'trodes before falling asleep.

Right now at least 40% of the pain is from my shoulder and neck (!), where the air used to inflate my abdomen for surgery is in the process of escaping the fleshy balloon of my dauntingly vulnerable carbon-based physique. (Imagine a really bad toothache. Now imagine that the tooth is your arm. That's what it's like.) So I'm walking mincingly around my apartment drinking Gatorade and waiting to regain equilibrium, afraid to sleep too much but not at all keen on going "out."

Somehow, online seems the best "place" for me now.