It all started in the shower.
I was doing what I do daily, while
singing, "How Great Thou Art."
Isn't it amazing how beautiful our
voices sound with the acoustics of
a tile enclosure? If I were not electronically
challenged, I think I would install a recording
studio.
Anyway, I had reached the part about," Mighty
Thunder" when I notice a suspicious lump in my
groin. Since I have had the experience of two
hernias before, I realized that this was an
encore.
So, being a veteran and enjoying the privilege of
medical care, I headed to the emergency room
at the Stratton V.A. Hospital in Albany. I
explained my symptoms to the admitting nurse
and she took me into an examining room, told
me remove all my clothes except my shorts and
gave me a gown to put on. I am sure you are
familiar with the hospital gowns that cover
everything except your rear end. It never ceases
to amaze me that we can put a man on the
moon but not invent a better cover up. Is there
anything more ludicrous than a grown person,
male or female, trying to keep their dignity in
one of those monstrosities? Anyway, I was
instructed to lay down and cover myself with a
sheet, And the wait for the doctor began. I
could think of a thousand places I would rather
be. Patience and prayers were the order of the
day.
Finally, the curtain parted and in came the most
beautiful woman I had seen in a long time. She
looked like a young version of Sophia Loren.
Could this angel be my doctor? I had never been
examined in all my eighty eight years by a
female physician. My face reddened and my
heart beat faster. She introduced herself and
must have realized how apprehensive I was
because she engaged me in conversation.
"Mondello", she said. "That's a resort town in
Sicily. Have you ever been there?' I told her I
had and she explained how she was from
Greece and often went there as a child. So we
made some small talk about Sicily and finally
she said, "OK! Let's get down to business!. She
yanked off the sheet and flippantly disposed of
my shorts tossing them on a counter nearby.
And there I was.. my shrinking manhood
exposed for all to see.
She then began the intimate examination
involved in diagnosing a hernia.
Believe me, she was quite thorough.
When she finally finished, she said, "Now that
wasn't so bad was it?
I blushingly replied, "No, but now you have to
marry me."
She laughed and said, "Oh! That's right. You're
Sicilian."
And so began my hernia adventure,
The diagnosis was confirmed and the wheels
began to turn. An appointment was scheduled
to meet with the surgeon who was privileged to
repair what was broken.
My surgeon was a man of about sixty and I
was immediately put at ease when he described
his credentials. He explained that the procedure
would be a simple one with a small one inch
incision, a two hour operation and home the
same day. Probably back to work in a week. He
asked me if I had any questions. I had only one.
Was he apprehensive about operating on an
eighty eight year old patient. He said, "Ordinarily
I would be concerned, but you are in better
shape than I am." I wasn't sure whether I
should be encouraged by that.
Anyway, the date was scheduled and the die
was cast.
The worst part about the morning of the
surgery was the fasting and getting up at 4:30
to be in Albany at 6:30 for the cutting. From
thence on everything went according to plan.
My reliable daughter Marianne was my
chauffeur and companion. My, just in case,
prayers were said and I was wheeled into the
operating room.
Like most things in life, unfortunately, things
did not go according to plan. The two hour
operation turned into a three and a half one.
The one inch incision became a seven inch scar
(There went my bikini days for ever) and I was
hospitalized instead of going home the same
day. A previous operation in the same area
prevented the ordinary access to the damaged
site.
However I survived. My last will and testament
went back in the safe and I went home happy
to be alive.
When my children were young and innocent, I
would show them my belly button and tell them
that it was where the Indian shot me with the
arrow. They would stare at it with amazement
allowing their unspoiled imaginations to run
rampant. Now I will tell my Great grandchildren
that the Indian hit me with his tomahawk.
Same story only magnified.
So I allowed myself to be spoiled and enjoyed
the recovery with a minimum of discomfort. I
was a survivor. Scarred, embarrassed and
bruised but still counting my Blessings.
P.S. Unfortunately, there was no, "Big Fat Greek
Wedding."
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