O.K. CORRAL

         How incredible modern medicine is! You are resting on a gurney, staring up at a man in a green gown who is removing excess body hair from around your navel. To your left and right are television monitors tuned to a test pattern of glorious colors. The surgeon, with her hair pinned up under her cap, says hello. You’re telling the barber to save the hair for a transplant to the bald spot on the back of your head. Suddenly you wake up and you are in another room with strange faces around you. You wonder if you can learn this presto-change-o act.

         You remember your wife ridiculing you when you wanted to park and take her up to her open-heart surgery four years ago. Now you assure Margaret, your employee, she will still have an employer next week when she offers to come to the waiting room and sit until you are called. You’ve given your best friend the same absolution. A gall bladder removal is a simple walk in the park.

         The drop-off was at 8:30, almost six hours ago. Now nurses in various outfits are putting pitchers of ice water and Styrofoam cups on the utility table by your bed. "Yes, you can now drink water." You do so greedily. Your roommate has been brought up from the "O.R." too. His wife is by his side. Later you learn he has had his knee replaced and will be there longer than you. Knees are big in the surgery world today. Doctors are knocking them out right and left. At this point introductions are made.

         Pam calls at four o’clock. The dulcet tones of your voice reassure her that all is well, as she assured you it would be. You wonder if she thinks you are a big baby, but you have never been in a hospital before with the exception of trips to the emergency room for asthma attacks. She doesn't talk long but tells you she will call back later in the evening.

         What is this? They have delivered dinner to your roommate. You learn that meal policies have changed. You now must call the food service people and order your meal from a menu that is on your night table. You blew it, but just as you are feeling sorry for yourself, a tray appears with soup, custard, pudding, tea and what appears to be a container of liquid protein drink. "No solid food" is written on the checklist that accompanies the meal. You wonder which angel brought about this miracle, but really don't care. You haven't eaten since yesterday.

         Not only can you eat but also you can get out of bed. The man opposite is confined until the physical therapy people make their first appearance the next day. You can take a stroll on deck and look out at the sea. You also have won sole possession of the bathroom and you realize it is time things got back to normal. You step in, pull the door shut, stand over the toilet and are about to push off when you remember you must use the plastic collector sitting on the back of the porcelain. You pick up the container, open it, and give a push. "Yeow! Look, blood!”

         You were told they would use a catheter during surgery, but you tell the nurse anyway when you see her. She clucks her head knowingly, but as the evening rolls on, you begin to realize that each time you try, less is coming out of you. Phone calls from Margaret and Pamela distract you from your problem, but later as lights get low, you mention it to the nurse again. "Well, tell us every time you do, we want to measure it." You want to heed her doctrine, but there is nothing to measure.

         A drip is still a drip; the fundamental things apply as the evening goes by and by eleven you are getting very uncomfortable. You can't expel anything except through your mouth, and for that they have been giving you medicine through an IV though you have no nausea. Sleep in a hospital is difficult in best of circumstances. When you are plodding into the bathroom to give it that old college try every five minutes it is impossible. You bring the container back to your bedside so you don't keep your neighbor awake.

         At two the night nurse enters. You tell her your problem. She brings in a machine, smears you with glop and does a bladder scan which reveals you are carrying over 1,000 liters of fluid. This angel of mercy deftly inserts a catheter and drains you. The pressure is gone; you feel better but for the rest of the night 'tongue awareness' hits you, except it is not your tongue you are aware of. You lie in bed and listen to the night sounds of the hospital: murmured voices, footsteps in the hall, the coasters on the vital sign lady's cart. You know it is morning when you hear "Dr. Johnson, call 4333."

         Your surgeon enters and asks how you feel. Your problem is out of her department, but she makes notes. Your regular doctor follows her. He will get in touch with an urologist. The morning rolls on; you are given a clean "Johnny", towels and washcloth, soap, toothpaste and toothbrush, and a comb while a basin is filled with warm water. While you sponge yourself, admiring your swollen tummy and the bandages, your bed is changed. You remember to call and order breakfast but forget to order necessities like butter for your bagel. Room service is a learning experience.

         The urologist pops in, asks many questions, does a probe, pronounces that famous male gland is not enlarged and gives several possibilities. He prescribes a pill and the use of a "Foley" for a few hours. "Foley" is hospital slang for a bag that will collect urine from the permanent catheter they insert. Foley is also the name of the company that makes the bag! You had heard the name before and always wondered where it was derived. Your male nurse does the grunt work and then insists walking is just the thing, so you walk the halls carrying your "Gucci Bag" as personnel call it. You are collecting a lot of hospital slang now, and could probably pass for an orderly next week.

         At four, Pamela calls. She has expected you to be home and when she couldn't find you there, panicked and left work early to come home and call the hospital. Relieved to find you alive, she tells you she will call later. As she hangs up, the wrecking crew enters to remove the Foley. If you do well passing fluid, you can go home that evening. Fear enters your heart. What if you get home and find you cannot function? The fear is wasted, because when you try, little happens and you aren’t going home.

         At ten your young nurse blows a gasket because you have not called her every time you have dribbled a few drops into the container. Were you going to ring her when you tried twice while Pam was on the phone, you holding the container in one hand and the receiver in the other? You decided to forgo using the bathroom and keep the container at bedside when you realized that if she called and there wasn’t an answer, she would have assumed the worst had happened.

         Debbie, Nurse Ratchet her fellow nurse calls her jokingly, says another catheter will have to be used. She begins the preparation and says the standard nursing line "I will be right back." "Right back" could mean two minutes or next month. Thirty minutes later another nurse shows up. You realize Debbie probably would be doing her first and has sicced this more experienced person on you. You lay in the position used previously and hear her say, "I've never done it this way before." You know you are in bad shape when you can't respond with a lewd retort.

         She manages the job while you stand, a painful position. You fall asleep from relief. You dream of writing and in your dreams typed pages appear. "Computer withdrawal," Maralyn Polak called it the next day. The night nurse jolts you out of the dream at midnight, a male with a reassuring voice. You will not make the same mistake with him. The first two times you produce a dribble you call him. He is more understanding. "Only call me if you are uncomfortable."

         Your dreams produce more of the great American novel, but when 'vital signs' wakes you at four, the ideas milling in your head go up in smoke. Night nurse follows to hook up the IV for the nausea medicine and asks how you are doing. Another bladder scan says 680 liters. He is much better with the catheter. Blessed peace but no more sleep follows. The urologist's medicine begins to work, but not on your liquids.

         When the first pagings emit from the loud speaker, you feel much better. The surgeon says she is finished, make an appointment for Monday. Your doctor says going home is up to urology. That practitioner does not show but the day nurse examines your liquid production. It is not enough, but the hospital does not want you anymore. You are sent home wearing a Foley bag, which even now is strapped to you as you type. A larger bag is given for nighttime. The nurse explains how to use them. You get dressed; Margaret appears. Your roommate waits for you to depart before he gets on his walker for physical therapy.

         Your animals are happy to see you. The cat demands yogurt while the dog wants to sit out in the snow. You call Pam at work to let her know you are home. The computer is turned on. Fifty-four emails await you. You plow through them, notify your friends that you have survived. Canned soup is made. You fall asleep at 6:30. Two hours later Pamela calls. While she is telling one of her lovely tales of family intrigue, coyotes are howling outside. You take the dog out after the phone call; Margaret pulls up while you are outside and you chat a bit. Later you write more emails, set up the night bag and sleep some more. The words do not appear on the wall again.

         On this the third day after surgery, you reconcile yourself to living with this arrangement until you see the urologist this coming week. You realize you're reaching that age where prostates enlarge, knees need replacing and hair is lost. Strapping your Foley bag to your leg, you think of Wyatt Earp preparing to accost the Clanton's at the O.K. Corral. Autumnal is the adjective that describes your feelings best. Then you think of Maralyn, Margaret, Carol, Jackie, Rosemary and your other loyal readers, and most of all of Pamela, and you pull your hat down to keep the sun out of your eyes when those desperadoes do appear.