Requiring assistance to bathe and dress is profoundly humiliating for a proud man. Fortunately I am not a proud man. In fact, I rather enjoy the pampering and extra attention. After all, a skilled professional washing your armpits and extremeties is surely one of life's great joys.
Initiates in the Bacchian Mysteries of Ancient Greece must have experienced similar cleansing pleasures when being ritually purified by their high priests, except I'm just going to lounge in bed all day watching Antiques Roadshow after my scrub-down, rather than dancing myself dizzy and sacrificing a bull while screaming obscenities into an ear of corn.
But I draw a very distinct line when it comes to somebody else shaving my face. The chin is sacred ground as far as I'm concerned: it should not be desecrated by some over-talkative, razor-wielding maniac who thinks he knows in which direction your stubble grows, even if his razor does feature two lubricating strips and an omni-adjustable head. I will either shave myself or cultivate a beard of Victorian proportions, no matter how much it itches and prickles and looks ridiculous hanging beneath my hairless head.
And so, since I suffer from restricted movement, most of my post-operative period has been spent observing five o'clock shadow sprout into eleventh hour facial hair. Alas, instead of endowing my appearance with an aura of Socratic wisdom and sagacity, my new beard makes me seem like the sort of sad, middle-aged buffoon who attends Renaissance Fayres dressed as a desperately unfunny court jester whom even kids find boring. What was I saying earlier about not being a proud man?
The Apple and Its Discontents
I used to eat an apple every day, even before I knew that my arteries were beseiged by cholesterol and required extra help. Alas, such daily apple crunching precautions did not, as the proverb promised, keep the doctor away. In fact, at the height of my bypass crisis, the number of doctors I saw daily trumped the number of apples I was eating by a factor of three to one. Personally, I believe that new-fangled farming techniques are to blame; modern pesticides seeping through the apple's skin, into its very core, polluting all its medicinal properties with a chemical form of saturated-fat, undetectable by nutrition experts, the Food and Drug Adminsistration, and the sort of misguided old wives who fabricate quaint tales about apples keeping doctors away.
At any rate, I am still eating apples, mostly of the organic Gala variety, but I don't bother to eat one every single day. You might just as well maintain a strict mango eating regimen, as far as I'm concerned, if you think it will reduce your visits to the local health clinic. Currently, I am swallowing a Simvastatin a day, which, although it does not keep the doctor away either, does happen to be recommended by him to actually lower cholesterol levels. I also don't need to worry about fruit flies and other undesirables congregating around the Simvastatin's rotten core when I can't find a garbage can nearby (another huge benefit it can claim versus the simple apple).
At any rate, I am still eating apples, mostly of the organic Gala variety, but I don't bother to eat one every single day. You might just as well maintain a strict mango eating regimen, as far as I'm concerned, if you think it will reduce your visits to the local health clinic. Currently, I am swallowing a Simvastatin a day, which, although it does not keep the doctor away either, does happen to be recommended by him to actually lower cholesterol levels. I also don't need to worry about fruit flies and other undesirables congregating around the Simvastatin's rotten core when I can't find a garbage can nearby (another huge benefit it can claim versus the simple apple).
Waters of Lethe
My shoulders are aching terribly, as if I were the bottom rung of a inverted human pyramid formed by a troupe of sadistically fat acrobats.
Never having experienced serious agony previously, I have never been prescribed any sort of pain-killers before. In fact, I have always believed that pain killers carry rather disreputable connotations, associating them almost exclusively with bankrupt rock-stars, extremely desperate drug addicts and other varieties of lowlife who can't afford proper heroin; or neurotic, ineffectual housewives unable to face the daily grind of vacuuming. An ignorant prejudice, perhaps, but I have always courted superiority, even when confined to my sick bed.
Apparently, my shoulders are forced into performing double their usual amount of labour -the poor darlings - because the recuperating muscles in my chest must remain untaxed for a few more weeks; hence their relentless aching complaints.
The doctors started me off on morphine, then downgraded my suffering to a couple of paltry Percocets. Currently I subsist on a potent cocktail of Tylenol and the first series of Downton Abbey, which is absolutely guaranteed to numb the senses.
Never having experienced serious agony previously, I have never been prescribed any sort of pain-killers before. In fact, I have always believed that pain killers carry rather disreputable connotations, associating them almost exclusively with bankrupt rock-stars, extremely desperate drug addicts and other varieties of lowlife who can't afford proper heroin; or neurotic, ineffectual housewives unable to face the daily grind of vacuuming. An ignorant prejudice, perhaps, but I have always courted superiority, even when confined to my sick bed.
Apparently, my shoulders are forced into performing double their usual amount of labour -the poor darlings - because the recuperating muscles in my chest must remain untaxed for a few more weeks; hence their relentless aching complaints.
The doctors started me off on morphine, then downgraded my suffering to a couple of paltry Percocets. Currently I subsist on a potent cocktail of Tylenol and the first series of Downton Abbey, which is absolutely guaranteed to numb the senses.
The Six Week War
The healing process, much like the Middle Eastern peace process, is interminable and exhausting. Two opposing sides, the Trans-Medicated Republic versus the rogue state of Ouch, negotiate ceasefire deals around a heart-shaped table. But somehow talks always break down before any compromises are agreed; only another stalemate is achieved; the two armies entrench themselves in the frowns on your forehead, erect roadblocks in your nose, and trade insults in the night. Everyone knows that the Trans-Medicated Republic will ultimately emerge victorious with its unstoppable strategy of overwhelming force; but even in defeat the rogue state of Ouch will never really surrender. Alas, there will always be small pockets of resistance fighting in the mountains of the mind; guerrilla units comprised of aches and itches making plans to disrupt the system whenever and wherever they can. Apparently the price of plaque free arteries is eternal vigilance.
Future Echoes
Recovery is really a dress rehearsal for senility: the slow shuffle to the footlights clad in an ill-fitting costume of dressing gown and slippers, and then the hoarse delivery of your single line soliloquy: "Can someone help me with the toilet, please?"
It's not a great role. Indeed, audience members may be unpleasantly reminded of your previous performance in that other dreary, one-act tragedy: Chronic Back Pain, originally written for Lon Chaney declining years by Samuel Beckett in his most minimalistic mood. Lights, camera, medication.
This imitation of old age is the result of a doctor's stern caution not to exert oneself, coupled with anxious contemplation of the long vertical scar running down the center of your chest. Major incisions take an eternity to mend and are extremely uncomfortable during the healing process, mostly from hourly aches and pains and the tedium of restricted movement. It's like walking around with a Fed Ex address label securely stuck to your breast bone and "Handle With Care" plastered between your shoulder blades. Simple, everyday tasks are now physical problems and frustrations of the most mind-bending kind. Putting on a shirt becomes a course in advanced Tai Chi concentration and technique; threading your legs into underpants is like trying to navigate an M C Escher maze; and wiping one's backside is, well, let's just say that a friend in need is a friend indeed.
Fortunately, being a student of the Stoics, I am not grumpy or downhearted like the aged often are. I strive to play the part of a grand old man rather than a mean old one. As Marcus Aurelius said, "Nothing happens to any man that he is not formed by nature to bear" - which almost sounds Shakespearean, albeit a lecture to his son by the doddering Polonius.
It's not a great role. Indeed, audience members may be unpleasantly reminded of your previous performance in that other dreary, one-act tragedy: Chronic Back Pain, originally written for Lon Chaney declining years by Samuel Beckett in his most minimalistic mood. Lights, camera, medication.
This imitation of old age is the result of a doctor's stern caution not to exert oneself, coupled with anxious contemplation of the long vertical scar running down the center of your chest. Major incisions take an eternity to mend and are extremely uncomfortable during the healing process, mostly from hourly aches and pains and the tedium of restricted movement. It's like walking around with a Fed Ex address label securely stuck to your breast bone and "Handle With Care" plastered between your shoulder blades. Simple, everyday tasks are now physical problems and frustrations of the most mind-bending kind. Putting on a shirt becomes a course in advanced Tai Chi concentration and technique; threading your legs into underpants is like trying to navigate an M C Escher maze; and wiping one's backside is, well, let's just say that a friend in need is a friend indeed.
Fortunately, being a student of the Stoics, I am not grumpy or downhearted like the aged often are. I strive to play the part of a grand old man rather than a mean old one. As Marcus Aurelius said, "Nothing happens to any man that he is not formed by nature to bear" - which almost sounds Shakespearean, albeit a lecture to his son by the doddering Polonius.
The English Patient
Lunch in the hospital was served by a silent woman of Arabian aspect, whom I nicknamed The Femme Falafel since the food she delivered usually resembled that Middle Eastern speciality, even though it might actually have been fish cakes or even chicken marengo. It was quite possible, therefore, that the Femme Falafel herself was not really Persian, as I imagined, but Italian or Israeli or quite possibly the progeny of Armenian refugees. She merely nodded and smiled hesitantly whenever I thanked her; uncomfortably aware that she carried consignments of tasteless, anonymous substances containing roughly fifty percent of the recommended daily allowance of gloom and despondency. She probably thought that my thanks were muttered ironically; a sort of gallows gratitude from a condemned man.
There is no reason, as far as I can see, why hospital food should be so shapeless and so bland. Surely it must take a reverse alchemical process of some magnitude to transform golden carrots into base, colorless root vegetables. Incalculable time and effort must be exerted turning the fruits of the sea into the prunes of the kitchen, and yet hospital cooks accomplish such a feat with apparent ease. For pudding there is a choice of transparent sponge or jellied tap water. "Food dolorous food," the patients want to sing, paraphrasing the cast of Oliver despite lacking the energy to dance as well. "Gray cabbage and beige chard."
An old proverb claims of medicine: if it tastes bad then it must be good for you. This is fine for cough syrup and other drugs, but why must the awful flavor be included in the hospital menus also? I suppose I could ask the Femme Falafel, but I assume that she would simply draw a discreet veil over the subject.
There is no reason, as far as I can see, why hospital food should be so shapeless and so bland. Surely it must take a reverse alchemical process of some magnitude to transform golden carrots into base, colorless root vegetables. Incalculable time and effort must be exerted turning the fruits of the sea into the prunes of the kitchen, and yet hospital cooks accomplish such a feat with apparent ease. For pudding there is a choice of transparent sponge or jellied tap water. "Food dolorous food," the patients want to sing, paraphrasing the cast of Oliver despite lacking the energy to dance as well. "Gray cabbage and beige chard."
An old proverb claims of medicine: if it tastes bad then it must be good for you. This is fine for cough syrup and other drugs, but why must the awful flavor be included in the hospital menus also? I suppose I could ask the Femme Falafel, but I assume that she would simply draw a discreet veil over the subject.
Ailing To Byzantium
Male patients gain a great deal of gravitas in hospital. In their cotton johnny gowns, with their ascetic pallors and beatific beard growths, they resemble a council of early Byzantine bishops, temporarily at a loose end while awaiting the latest news from Nicaea.
Obviously, this saintly countenance could simply be a symptom of too much time spent indoors watching the History Channel; or perhaps sixty milligrams of pure gravitas are always included in the array of intravenous drips hanging over the patient's bed; or maybe it's just that the patient's cheeks hollow and lose color because his martyr's diet of shapeless, unappetizing gray hospital sludge makes Jack Sprat's fabled fat-free dinner look like a dazzling smorgasbord of nature's most succulent bounty.
Alas, the physical trappings of holiness do not confer upon patients the ability to perform the miracles of holy men - if they did, the patients could easily conjure away their own diseases with a single incantation: "Take up thy bed and walk," they would announce solemnly to themselves (except, of course, the bed would belong to the hospital and far to heavy and cumbersome to carry).
And so these patient's must languish on those beds, surrounded by floral offering from well-wishers and work colleagues, waiting for test results and consequent medications; and I imagine this is pretty much how the aforementioned Byzantine bishops spent their days; although they waited for complex doctrinal ratifications rather than test results, and for the approved bottles of communion wine instead of medications by the dose. They hid behind the sword of Constantine like we patients hide behind the staff of Aesculapius, neither group really knowing for sure what is going on behind the scenes.
Obviously, this saintly countenance could simply be a symptom of too much time spent indoors watching the History Channel; or perhaps sixty milligrams of pure gravitas are always included in the array of intravenous drips hanging over the patient's bed; or maybe it's just that the patient's cheeks hollow and lose color because his martyr's diet of shapeless, unappetizing gray hospital sludge makes Jack Sprat's fabled fat-free dinner look like a dazzling smorgasbord of nature's most succulent bounty.
Alas, the physical trappings of holiness do not confer upon patients the ability to perform the miracles of holy men - if they did, the patients could easily conjure away their own diseases with a single incantation: "Take up thy bed and walk," they would announce solemnly to themselves (except, of course, the bed would belong to the hospital and far to heavy and cumbersome to carry).
And so these patient's must languish on those beds, surrounded by floral offering from well-wishers and work colleagues, waiting for test results and consequent medications; and I imagine this is pretty much how the aforementioned Byzantine bishops spent their days; although they waited for complex doctrinal ratifications rather than test results, and for the approved bottles of communion wine instead of medications by the dose. They hid behind the sword of Constantine like we patients hide behind the staff of Aesculapius, neither group really knowing for sure what is going on behind the scenes.
Too Much Information
After heart surgery, each new day seems like a precious gift; then you get constipated.
Constipation is the sick man's burden; a scatological limbo between light and dark stools; the evil magician's rock that must be abracadabra'd away from the secret cave's entrance before the treasures within can be revealed. If I sold prune juice by the bottle I would brand it 'Open Sesame.'
Laxatives, of course, are essential: bypass patients are not allowed to strain when sitting on the toilet, and so liquid plumber for the stomach must be employed. I prefer milk of magnesia, but only because it sounds like the sort of mythical elixir that Jason and the Argonauts might have sought. The embarrassing phrase "an enema," meanwhile, merely conjures unprepossessing mental pictures of an especially gelatinous jellyfish floating idly in a polluted ocean: not a very promising image when you really want a manic octopus stirring up the sea bed.
But personal comfort is not the only reason to encourage successful defecations. Like ancient Roman priests predicting the future by appraising the entrails of sacrificial beasts, modern doctors examine their patient's bowel movements for biological indicators. The shape, color, consistency and regularity of such human waste apparently reveals a great deal about the health of the humans responsible for evacuating these samples. Please feel free to Google the many possible grisly conclusions that can be drawn from such investigations in your time.
At any rate, it is amazing how smug and self-satisfied a patient feels when, after a lengthy spell of frustrating constipation, he at last regains the approval of his doctors by completing a successful bowel movement. His entire being is suffused with an almost impish glee - break out the toadstool wine, we'll celebrate. Anything is possible now, even that complete recuperation he's often heard the nurses talk about.
Constipation is the sick man's burden; a scatological limbo between light and dark stools; the evil magician's rock that must be abracadabra'd away from the secret cave's entrance before the treasures within can be revealed. If I sold prune juice by the bottle I would brand it 'Open Sesame.'
Laxatives, of course, are essential: bypass patients are not allowed to strain when sitting on the toilet, and so liquid plumber for the stomach must be employed. I prefer milk of magnesia, but only because it sounds like the sort of mythical elixir that Jason and the Argonauts might have sought. The embarrassing phrase "an enema," meanwhile, merely conjures unprepossessing mental pictures of an especially gelatinous jellyfish floating idly in a polluted ocean: not a very promising image when you really want a manic octopus stirring up the sea bed.
But personal comfort is not the only reason to encourage successful defecations. Like ancient Roman priests predicting the future by appraising the entrails of sacrificial beasts, modern doctors examine their patient's bowel movements for biological indicators. The shape, color, consistency and regularity of such human waste apparently reveals a great deal about the health of the humans responsible for evacuating these samples. Please feel free to Google the many possible grisly conclusions that can be drawn from such investigations in your time.
At any rate, it is amazing how smug and self-satisfied a patient feels when, after a lengthy spell of frustrating constipation, he at last regains the approval of his doctors by completing a successful bowel movement. His entire being is suffused with an almost impish glee - break out the toadstool wine, we'll celebrate. Anything is possible now, even that complete recuperation he's often heard the nurses talk about.
Venous & Arterial
It is remarkable how quickly a patient's self esteem evaporates in hospital: his pride is immediately and unceremoniously lopped off like an ingrown toenail; his dignity is burned away as if it were nothing but a troublesome, pus-packed boil; and then, bereft of both body hair and normal clothes, he is displayed on an adjustable bed for medical study and diagnoses. Any casual observer might conclude that the patient resembles a plucked turkey of the scrawniest kind, basted in antiseptic and wrapped in a sort of Amish drag queen smock.
Then there are the interminable examinations: scheduled pokings and proddings into orifices formerly sacrosanct; and repeated interrogations and pointed questions concerning the movement of the patient's bowels, always conducted with an arched medical eyebrow, as if the patient were a disreputable snitch filing false information on the whereabouts of a gang of crooks.
Under such conditions it is no surprise that the patient loses all his inhibitions. He no longer cares to prevent it all from hanging out. There are prostitutes advertising their wares in the windows of Dutch brothels who are more modest. The patient will agree to any outrage, no matter how absurd it may seem. Personally, if the nurses had told me that it was necessary to undergo heart surgery clad in a child's SpongeBob SquarePants costume I would have silently acquiesced. After all, one's mind begins to retreat into immaturity when someone else must wipe one's backside.
Then there are the interminable examinations: scheduled pokings and proddings into orifices formerly sacrosanct; and repeated interrogations and pointed questions concerning the movement of the patient's bowels, always conducted with an arched medical eyebrow, as if the patient were a disreputable snitch filing false information on the whereabouts of a gang of crooks.
Under such conditions it is no surprise that the patient loses all his inhibitions. He no longer cares to prevent it all from hanging out. There are prostitutes advertising their wares in the windows of Dutch brothels who are more modest. The patient will agree to any outrage, no matter how absurd it may seem. Personally, if the nurses had told me that it was necessary to undergo heart surgery clad in a child's SpongeBob SquarePants costume I would have silently acquiesced. After all, one's mind begins to retreat into immaturity when someone else must wipe one's backside.
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