Stuffed Kangaroos and Other Wonders

AUTHOR’S NOTE: There are those who would tell you that writing is an art form. Anyone who believes that has obviously never read this story.





Stuffed Kangaroos and Other Wonders



Mom told me there would be days like this. I didn’t believe her. SHE WAS RIGHT! Two examples of unremitting pain (Oooops, I mean two procedures.) await.

At least I get my own, personal driver. Now I know how the President feels and Bill Gates, too. Unfortunately, convicts on the way to the “Big House” get their own driver, too. Awwwww, possum soup!

At this hospital, they must be serious about good, healthy exercise. Either that or they’re all confused and figure the only patients who come here are in the infantry. There ain’t no other reason for building a parking garage a mile and a half from the hospital. Oh my!

There it is, Building C. What does that stupid C stand for? “Come in, Bobby, we’ve been waiting for you?” Nope, it can’t mean that. They couldn’t have known I’d be here at this time when they put it up there.

Of course they don’t know that I misread the instructions and started fasting a day too early. Otherwise I might almost think it means, “Chow down everybody but Bobby won’t be able to join us.” Nah, it can’t mean that. (Although I am beginning to understand the ramifications of a world wide food shortage better now.) Why do they call it “fasting”? Could it be, “I’m fast dying here.” It ought to be called “slowing” or “starving” or “suffering” or “stepping” (you know, like away from the table) or “stopping” or sashaying (you know, like out of the kitchen) or “slimming” or something like that.

My stuffed kangaroo, I forgot it in the car! Whatever shall I do without Hopalong and his long, furry tail that twists up so nicely when I’m feeling anxious? Alas, it’s too late. My check in time draws near. My fate is close at hand.

Why am I here…oh, yeah-an endoscopy and a colonoscopy. One is an exam down the throat and the other from a different direction. They sort of give a new meaning to coming and going, huh?

Now I’m here to tell you that we all make a mistake now and then. But I make them in pairs. (Or threes or fours or…) This time there is only two of them. First, I showed up. That was a goodie.

The second mistake, sadly, was larger. Nope, it was even bigger than that. Compared to that first one, the second mistake was like an elephant with a flea crawling on its rump. Yep, it was a true doozy. I asked what a colonoscopy entails (Tail would appear to be the operative word here.). Someone, who shall remain nameless, was nice enough (i.e. uncaring enough (i.e. mean enough (i.e. “twisted” enough))) to tell me! Why don’t they just call it a buttoscopy or endOHHscopy or… (Why they call putting a camera in through your mouth an endoscopy is beyond me. I bet somebody stayed up all night dreaming that one up.) Anyway, when I was told what a colonoscopy was, I was told that a camera would be…

I know, I know. With me being a person of sophistication, you figure I responded to that superb and interesting explanation with a: “Wonderful, that’ll tell me whether I’m cancer free or not”. Nah, actually, I asked a penetrating question. “They’re gonna put a camera where???????” “BUT, BUT,” I started to protest. It was useless so I asked the second most logical question. “They won’t use a Canon 35 millimeter complete with telephoto lens and cable release, will they? Whewwwww!” There was one more concern but not to worry, I don’t think getting a tripod in there is anatomically possible. At least I hope not! However, what if they forget and leave the camera in there? I’ve read about stuff being left behind (Behind? Oh my!). Well, if they forget the camera, I’ll insist on an investigation to get to the bottom of that.”

Now I sit in the waiting room filling out a few forms ( About 2,318, give or take a couple.). All the information they ask for is kind of like a background check. Considering the reason I’m here, I wonder if having my background checked is just their idea of a joke or something? It is very difficult to think as my thoughts keep going to the fact that life as I know it will soon come to an end.

Goodgoogamooga! Now they want me to take off my britches and underwear and put on an apron with arm holes in it. Fat chance! Ain’t gonna happen!

This ridiculous apron thing isn’t much good. It fits like a flour sack on a puppy. Worse, there’s a rip all the way up the back. What a draft! The abominable snowman could catch cold wearing this thing. With the way they charge, you’d think they could sew a few things up. Or, better yet, they could put on Velcro fasteners or at least a zipper. (Nope, on second thought, no zipper!) With my mind, addled by drugs, I might undo the wrong zipper when it’s time to take a whiz. That could prove interesting. I suppose we could put a hasp back there with a padlock. No, that’s no good either. When I was a kid, we had an outhouse door that closed better than this thing does.

What now? I’ve got to walk down the hall with my bare tushie swinging merrily from side to side and peeking out occasionally for everybody to see? Not in this lifetime! I’d rather take on Mike Tyson.

Phooey! If this ain’t the bottom of the barrel! We can put a man on the moon or map all of DNA and this is the latest in hospital wear? How does it look for a full grown male to be walking down the hall minus his britches and underwear with a big rip down the back of his gown? And I can’t even twist Hopalong’s tail! Dumb kangaroo!

Oh, oh! This looks like it must be the room. The cot is so narrow that even Olive Oyl couldn’t roll out of reach. Goodgoogamooga! A guy could be on the left side and the right side of that thing at the same time. These people obviously have never heard of giving avoidance a fighting chance.

“Mr. Goeman, will you please get up on the cot?” Isn’t that akin to asking a guy to put his neck on the chopping block?

Of course I will. Why wouldn’t I want to do that? Ummmmmm, let me count the ways. No, no, no! This story ain’t long enough for that. But boy oh boy, that’d make a great headstone, huh? “At age one hundred four, he died a’counting.”

“Mr. Goeman, will you roll over on your left side, please.” Now wait a minute, nobody told me that I’d be asked to do gymnastics. That oughta get me a deal on my bill.

Besides, I’d much rather lie on my right side. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear your question, I hear your question. “What difference does that make?”) I could tell you that my left shoulder is messed up from a shrapnel wound gained when I was a fighter pilot back in the Big One. Alright, alright, I’ll tell you the truth. Laying on my right side puts my you-know-what toward the wall. That’d make it really difficult to get at. Well butterfly biscuits, you can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?

Oh, okay. Goodgoogamooga! Grumpy reader!

Here she comes. Oh my.

They did both tests while I was in Yumyum Land out beyond the rainbow someplace. I only hope they did the one through the mouth before they did the other one. Now, where’s that stupid parking garage? I hope it’s closer than it was when I came here. I’m wounded you know.

“Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! Yahoo and Whoopteedoo! I’m coming Hopalong! I’m on my way! You better know your tail is gonna get a deluxe twisting!”