Well, I guess it’s been long enough that I can’t use back surgery as an excuse for being lazy anymore. If you are keeping track, I had surgery number 3 in late February. One more and I can redeem my points for a keggerator.

It all started in late December when my right leg started hurting more than usual. Then just for fun the left one joined in to a lesser degree. By the New Year I knew what I was in for. I told Sara I was going to have to have a pretty big surgery. She either didn’t believe me or didn’t care. Probably both, but that’s why I married her. I don’t like the guilt that comes when my not feeling well makes someone else not feel well. That’s why I am such an asshole to everyone I know. That way they are happy when I am suffering and I can do so in peace.

Anyway, By mid January I was in the kind of pain that can make one travel through time. In doing so I was only able to travel forward and thus was unable to prevent the birth of any Kardashians or kill the creator of Two and a Half Men before he had a chance to set situational comedy back 25 years. I can, however, tell you that 2014 is going to be a big year for the leaf blower industry. That’s all I can say.

When I’m miserable I try not to bitch too much (this blog notwithstanding), choosing instead to make jokes about it. Plus if you’ve ever had the pleasure of a ruptured disc you know it does for pain tolerance what college does for alcohol tolerance. I closed the side of my index finger in the hinge side of my tool chest yesterday and just pulled it out without reopening it. Left about the first 22 layers of skin and nerve just hanging there grossly and I realized I had become a monster.

As my back was deteriorating I was seeing doctors and spending absurd amounts of time and money on MRIs, various 3d x-rays, and other crap so my doctor could figure out what to do. When we moved into our new house I was crawling around on the floor (my preferred ambulatory method) taping the baseboards so our friends could paint the walls for us and at one point I realized I couldn’t physically stand up because my right leg just wasn’t participating and my left one was just sort of like “fuck you, man.” I did that elbowey Army crawl that is way cooler when soldiers do it and made it to the door and managed to shut myself in while I figured out what to do. I thought I was crying but it was actually sweat dripping off my nose and I could taste that taste you get when your adrenal system produces life-saving amounts of whatever chemical it takes to keep you conscious. That. Is messed up.

Eventually I was able to get it together enough to ooze down the hallway and slide down the stairs on my ass, in a way that used to be fun when I was younger and less handicapped. I got to the recliner and halfway passed out; glad no one had to see any of that.

Finally I went in to see Dr. Edwards, who is the best back surgeon in the universe and actually bottles his own brand of spinal fluid. I also learned that I would be having surgery at Atlanta Medical Center, which by all accounts is a pilot program for Obamacare. Most of the people there don’t even know they work in the medical field and the rest actually want to kill you.

So I’m getting the most skilled surgeon at the worst hospital in Georgia. It was like having Air Force One fly you to a Somali prison for rape week.

Having had an operation at the same hospital ten years ago, they pretty much had to promise me that the facility’s staff was now retard-free. It wasn’t. More on that later.

Dr. Edwards looked at my MRI and x-rays and pointed stuff out to me. Usually I just sit and say “oh yeah, I can see that” even though it really just looks like a pile of oysters to me. This time it was pretty obvious what was wrong.

“If you look between the Portuguese Man O’ War and the flame thrower, you can see the ruptured discs.” He said. Because these are the same two discs I had trouble with before, he said he’d check it out in surgery but that I’d probably come out with some extra titanium.

Fast forward to February 23 or so. I was in the pre-op room at the Atlanta Center for Medical outcasts and the criminally insane. They give you a gown, a plastic bag with red socks in it, a bag to put your clothes and belongings in, and a three page brochure advertising tombstones. I put the gown on and when I opened the sock bag I found three socks. If you are a man, you know there was absolutely no hesitation when it came to finding a home for the third sock.

Ten minutes later I was about to bitchslap the nurse who was violently digging an 8 gauge needle into the back of my right hand in a vein attempt. Finally I said “I know you really want to get this thing right, but I’m about to run out of here screaming and I’m not wearing anything under this gown except a sock.”

“They didn’t give you two?” she asked, pulling the sheet up to reveal my feet.
“Nope, they gave me three.”

She looked at me for a couple of seconds, went back to stabbing me in the hand, and finally said “Oh…what..you? Crazy. No you di’int.”

I smiled and drifted off into a drug induced coma. Seriously, whatever they give you before surgery is what we need to be dropping on the mountains of Afghanistan. In fact, any society that considers religion more important than education could use a lethal dose or two.

One of the weirdest things about anesthesia is the part where you wake up having basically been skinned and gutted and remember none of it. Sort of like the girls my brother dates, your insides are sore, you’re not sure where you are, and you’re about to get a huge bill in the mail. And there is tiny part of you that knows you could have AIDS.

In the recovery room I was told that the two discs were actually fragmented and part of my L4 vertebrae called the Pars Interarticularis was cracked. What can I say? If you’re the kind of guy who does shit right, you make no exceptions. The doc had put a couple of plates that spanned from my tailbone to the second vertebrae and fastened them in with screws.

Let’s talk about the screws for a second. I think of the spine as a pretty robust yet delicate collection of bones and nerves and jelly and woodland creatures. I had this image in my mind of two screws about an inch and a half long each, neatly plugged into the appropriate places in my vertebrae. The X-ray showed a cartoonishly exaggerated version of that image. Each verte-brah had two screws in it and the screws were exactly the length and thickness of my pinky finger. A few weeks later I also found out that they cost $2400.00 each so holy shit on that too.

Now the good part – Recovering from surgery at Atlanta Medical Center. Like I said, I had an operation there 10 years ago and was assured by all of the surgeon’s staff that management had changed and it was a whole new place now, so I was giving it the benefit of the doubt. The benefit faded when the sun began to set on my first day there and Sara and I tried to figure out how to turn the lights on.

Of course there is a big goddamn light switch on the wall, but that switch turns on 4000 watts of tanning bed lights. There are lights mounted above the bed that are designed for reading and watching TV. We also couldn’t figure out how to turn on the television without walking over to it and standing on a chair, which I was not able to do.

So we waited patiently for a nurse [sic] to come in. “Ma’am? We can’t figure out how to turn on the reading light. Is there a remote or something that controls the reading light and the Television and stuff?”

The nurse [sic] turns on the 4000 watt light and looks at us like we’re stupid. I took that opportunity to hit myself with a dose of morphine so no one would get hurt.

“Yeah, we were able to find the light switch, but how do you work the other light?”
“I guess that’s the only one there is.”

I was thinking “Don’t you fucking WORK here? And isn’t every room essentially identical? How about thinking about the question before you try to answer it, you moron?”

“mmm. Okay, what about the TV?”
“Isn’t there a remote?”
“No, we haven’t seen one.”
“I guess it’s gone. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Eventually we found a control panel between the mattress and the bed frame that controlled the lights and sort of controlled the television (it had one button – that button turned it on and changed the channel). I asked Sara what she thinks it costs to stay in a nice room at the St Regis Hotel. “About a thousand a night or so. And that comes with a touch screen climate control, a television in the bathroom mirror, heated toilet seat, 430 cable channels, and a guy driving a Bentley that will take you anywhere you want to go. Why does this room cost more than that?”

That was the first of several dozen times we looked at each other in bewilderment. There are a billion examples, so I’ll choose the best ones.

I can’t count how many times I requested a new bed. Nothing is comfortable about having a nine inch gash in your back, especially when you are not able to elevate your legs or head if you want to. The buttons on the bed were for entertainment purposes only. Sure, there was a diagram and the buttons were shaped like arrows indicating what you would get, but if you pushed the “legs up” button, your legs would go down. Push it again and your head would be elevated. A third push made the toilet flush. It was bizarre. But even more bizarre, EVERY SINGLE NURSE [SIC] that came in had less idea how to operate the bed than I did. They’d fumble with the buttons and ask something ingenious like “Did you try pushing the buttons?” “No, fuckwipe, I just screamed at them and then I got a crayon stuck in my nose and forgot what I was doing.”

I started to wonder what it takes to pass the nurse exam. Candidate sits at a table across from the examiner, who asks “What do you want to be?” “NUUUUUHHHSSSE” the candidate honks. Then the examiner says “Okay. There is a stack of three blocks on the table. I’m going to go type up your certificate and I want you to try not to knock them over while I’m gone. If you do, it’s okay, but try your hardest. Congratulations.”

Another gem was the Hemogeyser. When you have a big wound that is all stitched up, they install a perforated tube next to the incision. This tube is attached to another tube that empties into a small container called a Hemovac. The Hemovac’s job is to suck all of the blood and guts out of there as they build up so you don’t explode. About once a day it fills up and some unlucky nurse gets to empty it. They do it by unhooking it from me, carefully popping the cap off, and pouring it onto an English muffin so the patients can have pizza the next day.

Anyway, one of our fine healthcare professionals came in to empty it while my parents were there. She disconnected it, and then pushed down on the top of the flexible container with the heel of her hand while she pulled on the cap. Imagine kneeling on a squeeze bottle of your favorite condiment and simultaneously opening the top. My dad and I had just enough time to exchange knowing glances before the cap gave way and about 12 ounces of liquid horror went spraying into the air. It was on my pillow, the nurse, the sheets, me, and pretty much everything within three feet. She got cleaned up and brought me a new blanket, but left everything else. I got to sleep in a biohazard until the lady came that night to change the sheets. I still have the blue foam pillow they gave me for my legs, and yes, it still has evidence of the mishap on it.

At one point a therapist came in to help me walk a little and tell me what I could and couldn’t do. One of the things she said was no sex for six weeks. I looked at Sara and said “Oh, I don’t know if she can wait that long for all of this.” I was standing at my walker wearing a hospital gown and red socks. I hadn’t shaved or bathed in almost three days, and hanging from the walker was a small bag of blood and a large bag of my urine. I pouted my lips at Sara and gave a weak but suggestive pelvic thrust for effect. The nurse thought it was funny.

The next day a few things had to happen – they had to take me off of the morphine drip, they had to remove the Hemovac, and they had to remove the catheter that had been installed (thankfully) while I was unconscious.

Fist thing in the morning they said “okay, we’re going to take the happy juice away and switch you over to percocet for the pain. We’ll bring two ever blah blah or one every yaddah and we’ll start in a couple of hours” Fine. All clear on that one. So the Morphine was gone at about 7 am.

Then the catheter had to come out.
Having never had a catheter I decided to take a peek at my junk out of morbid curiosity. I shouldn’t have. It was the stuff of nightmares. That tube is of a far larger diameter than it needs to be, and my wang was apparently recoiling in protest and trying to hide inside my body cavity. It looked like a pathetic stack of buttons with a pencil sticking out of it. How the nurse kept from laughing when she took it out I do not know. The actual removal was not as painful as it was astonishing – apparently it is about fourteen feet from your pee hole to your bladder (and that’s not an attempt to brag about my manhood) and every inch is lined with nerve endings.

By about noon I was in agony. Why? Because no matter how many times I asked, no one could come up with a percocet. I got a lot of “Oh, okay. Yeah, I’ll be right back”, but nothing ever came. I continued to writhe and not sleep until about 8 pm when one of the few nurses worthy of the title came in and said it was time to take the Hemovac out. She said it wouldn’t hurt as much as it might feel “weird”. So she starts pulling this thing out and at first it felt weird. Then weird gave way to “Holy shit is she rubbing a lemon zester across my spinal cord right now?” and I began to protest loudly.

She said “usually these things are only about four inches long” and showed me a good nine inches of plastic that could be used to grate cheese. I said “Sweet baby Jesus swaddled in gauze, that hurt like hell.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Yes. Mind-bending, skull hammering pain. But I think I’m part of a Nazi experiment right now because no one will do anything about it.”
Looking at my chart (which I think was a drawing of a puppy based on how little information it seemed to be communicating), she said “When did you last have a percocet?”
“Hmm…I think around November of ’08 or so. Hey Sara, do you remember when I had that root canal?”
“Wait. When did they take you off morphine?” (Turning the chart to the page with the unicorn)
“13 hours ago.”
“Oh. Wow. Yeah. I’ll be right back.”
And finally, some fucking hustle out of one of these people. I made sure to write down Brandy’s name as she was the first nurse I had talked to who knew where she was.

By the time I was discharged from the hospital I and my mom and wife were spending most of our time trying to convince my dad that firebombing the nurse’s station was not going to improve the quality of my care. He and my mom were pissed like only parents can be, and I remembered how lucky I am even at 37 years old to have a family that cares about me.

Recovery alternately sucks and is boring, but the good news is Physical therapy has provided lots of stories and I’ve had time to build lots of stuff around the house…which, if you’ve been paying attention, is always a gold mine.

33 Responses to “And no, I do not think the government could do it better. Or cheaper.”

  1. on 06 Apr 2010 at 2:26 pm Brennan

    Good to see you back. Hopefully, your stories of physical therapy induce as much laughter as this one did…

  2. on 06 Apr 2010 at 2:34 pm Brook

    Dusty…

    Sorry for the pain (as a fellow back sufferer) but damn funny on the nurse situation.

    B

  3. on 06 Apr 2010 at 2:37 pm FFS

    I nearly vomited on my keyboard at the description of the hemogeyser…

  4. on 06 Apr 2010 at 3:01 pm Ryan

    Welcome back! You’ve been missed. I’m glad you made it out of that poor excuse for a hospital alive. You should get a metal or small parade for making through 13 hours of inept care without pain meds.

    Now, please, tell us more…

  5. on 06 Apr 2010 at 3:08 pm AndyR

    Dusty,
    I can only imagine the pain you must have been in. Hopefully all the nurses (sic) will one day have to experience the same level of incompetence!

  6. on 06 Apr 2010 at 3:21 pm John

    Way to make me feel guilty for saying my back hurts.

  7. on 06 Apr 2010 at 4:03 pm Sarah

    Gross. Super, super gross.

    If you have insurance (or don’t), it makes the catheter, lack of pain meds, hemogeyser, inept nurses, hospital food and everything else seem like a pleasant, booby-filled dream.

    Feel better soon.

  8. on 06 Apr 2010 at 4:11 pm Jack

    Hey man,
    Sorry to hear about your hospital stay. Hopefully, your surgeon got it right and soon you’ll be back in top form.
    I hads spinal surgery many years ago to ‘correct’ my scoliosis. Well, at least I still get vikes.
    And yes, I too was catherterized. Not fun.
    Feel better soon.

  9. on 06 Apr 2010 at 4:13 pm Andrea

    Hey Dusty! Great to hear from you, although I hate to hear about the nightmarish hospital experience you had. I happen to work in a recovery room, and although my hospital is a nicer one, I am sometimes actually scared for my patients when I transfer them to their room. The best part of my job is administering good drugs, and let’s face it, that’s usually the only decent part of being in the hospital. There is no excuse for not addressing pain- it’s now officially recognized as one of the vital signs, and should always be addressed. I hope you never need another surgery, but if you do, I sure hope you have a better experience! I am going to print this blog and pass it around to some of the nurses I know, maybe it will end up helping someone else!

  10. on 06 Apr 2010 at 4:21 pm Chelan

    Clearly the two issues that need to be resolved before your next surgery are:
    1) How to get your insurance to pay for post op recovery at the St. Regis Hotel?
    2) Is is really about 14 feet from our pee hole to our bladder?

    Good luck!
    Chelan

  11. on 06 Apr 2010 at 4:32 pm Michael

    My friend who works on hospital equipment has always maintained that nurses are, on average, the dumbest creatures on earth. I’ve always thought he was full of it. Or greatly exaggerating.

    He is going to love this.

  12. on 06 Apr 2010 at 4:47 pm TotallyCaffeinated

    Thank God I had my surgery a year ago, at a place where every nurse I had was more than slightly intelligent. They literally pushed drugs at me from morning till night (gotta love oxycodone!). I had a MUCH better experience than you. But your post made me laugh so hard that I may have popped a year old stitch or two! I really missed you Dusty!

    And by the way, if you ever need surgery again, come to Seattle at the University of Washington Cancer Center … wow they have the best staff ever! Not that I’d wish Cancer on anybody … but if you have it … BEST care!

    <3 you and hope you have a quick, easy and humorous recovery.

  13. on 06 Apr 2010 at 7:13 pm Candi

    Oh, Dusty this was too funny and too sad! I am in my first term of nursing school. I am going to print this and copy it to take in to my classmates so that I can inspire them to do better.

    I will tell you that you are sadly not too far off on the intelligence levels of the nurses now. The class I am taking is Anatomy and Physiology, and a student last week asked the teacher, “is there such a thing as the Vulcan death pinch?” He was totally serious.

    Hope you feel better soon!

  14. on 06 Apr 2010 at 7:34 pm Skitzo Leezra

    HaHaHaHaHa!
    Guess that will show your ever lovin’ ass that one blog post a month ain’t cuttin’ it, Fat Boy!
    Ready for me to give Mr. Dusty AKA my Louisiana bayou-made voodoo doll a rest? Before you answer, let me state that said accessorized doll is now sporting a very entertaining red sock.
    Just sayin’.
    Skitzo Leezra

  15. on 06 Apr 2010 at 7:51 pm Nightmare

    And You will be calling in this week yeah?

  16. on 06 Apr 2010 at 7:54 pm warcrygirl

    Holy shit, your hospital sounds as bad as my hospital. The last time I had a stay (after having my second child) I laid in a surgical bed (NOT a maternity bed) for three days with my legs straight out in front of me. NO ONE knew how to work that fucking bed and no one bothered to contact someone on the surgical floor to ask. About an hour before I was released my three year old flipped a cover over the controls and was working the bed. I YELLED at my doctor (who I later found out had a raging coke addiction) why my kid could run it but no one else here could. He’s still afraid of me and The Captain turned 8 in August. I have to go back to have baby bits taken out, maybe I should print this out and leave it in the waiting room or something? Also: I had pizza for dinner tonight, thanks for the hemogyser visual. If I see the pizza again I’ll think of you.

    P.S. Glad you’re on the mend!

  17. on 06 Apr 2010 at 8:48 pm Chalupa

    Pizza used to be my favorite food.

  18. on 06 Apr 2010 at 9:06 pm Cecilia

    Another soon-to-be nurse here. One of the people who *didn’t* make it into the program was an obnoxious young man in my anatomy class who loudly announced to my group that women had prostates too, because basically women were built just like men, except with all their junk on the inside.

    Um, yeah.

    So anyway, if you really want top-notch care, fly yourself up to the Mayo Clinic next time. We’ll take good care of you! 🙂

    Cee

  19. on 07 Apr 2010 at 12:47 am Rene

    Been there, done that, got the 5″ scar to prove it. Did they tell you that 85% of the patients fully recover? I am a proud member of the 15%. I’ll spare you my joys. Nice to see that hospitals are the same all over the world though. One of my best ones was when before my op some -supposedly- medical person examined me. Prodded me about for a bit “does this hurt?” “YYYYYEEEEESSSS” and then, while peeling me from the ceiling said “I thought it would…”

  20. on 07 Apr 2010 at 3:06 am Dad

    Fellow Readers,
    He didn’t tell you about this hospital trying to kill him with morphine 10 years ago, or not knowing how to operate the neat-o cooling device for his back, or the phone call NON-return-policy, or their not having any idea of how to call in a prescription to the pharmacy, or the leaking window in the room that was fixed with a blanket stuffed in it, or the number of people who appear to lay awake nights figuring new ways to be dumb while on duty the next day. I guess he is saving this and more for another blog.

    Rule:
    Never-ever-never allow a loved one to stay in a hospital without a responsible adult there with them 24/7. This is to protect the patient from the “Caring and Compassionate Hospital Staff”. I have felt safer in a combat zone.

  21. on 07 Apr 2010 at 10:46 am Jodie

    Dusty, good to know that you’re getting better, even though it’s been a tough road.

    Don’t you know that there’s a shortage of nurses in this country? Evidently, there’s still a shortage at that hospital, too.

    First tip, always ask your nurse for the name of the “duty nurse” and ask if you can speak to them, at the beginning of each shift. Explain any problems and who will be needed to resolve it. That includes maintenance and any technicians. They don’t like having to provide this information, but HAVE TO, if it is requested.

    Second tip, at the first sign of trouble with the staff, ask to be assigned a “patient advocate.” Every hospital is required to have one, now. This is a non-medical staff member who is your champion. They deal with staff and even your insurance company to make sure you are properly taken care of. They also have a cell phone or pager (if they’re old school) that will be available to you 24/7.

    Dusty, if you’re going to go to the circus, stop doing it under the pretense of being sick. The clowns are afraid of those hospital gowns.

    Hope you feel great soon.

  22. on 07 Apr 2010 at 11:16 am Glen

    Get better soon. I too have found that the most humorous moments in my life had to do with getting poked, prodded or robbed by our nation’s medical establishment.

    For the record though, laughter is only the third best medicine, after codeine and alcohol.

    Best wishes

  23. on 07 Apr 2010 at 11:42 am Heather

    Oh man…where do I start? First of all, thanks for ruining pizza for me for at least the next couple of months. 🙂

    My Dad had a horrific hospital stay, and I swear to God we had to stay with him 24/7 to make sure that the incompetent staff there didn’t kill him (there were days that I thought they’d succeed). He was there for almost a month, and in that time there were only 2 nurses who were worth a damn…the rest were incompetent and lazy.

    Glad to hear that you made it out alive, and perversely happy that your misfortune leads to such hilarious reads for your faithful readers.

    Heal fast and feel better soon!

  24. on 07 Apr 2010 at 12:33 pm UpNort

    Dusty,

    I too recently had surgery (unexpected open heart surgery). I’m glad I can say that my week long stay at the U of M was much better than yours. My nurses and nurse assistants were on top of everything, including percocet (wonderful drug!) and phentenol. I had one of the best cardio thoracic surgeons around.

    The last thing I remember before surgery is the anesthesiologist putting in IVs. I vaguely remember opening my eyes after being wheeled into the OR, but it’s like a dream. Those are some damn good drugs! If they asked me to count backwards (like ya see in the movies), I have no recollection of it.

    The part I didn’t like was the various physical therapists (regular PT, orthopedic PT, and cardio PT) pushing the therapy like they were trying to get me to sign up for a gym membership. I’m glad they got me up and walking around, but damn, lighten up on the everything else.

    My percocet is all gone so now I’m on straight Tylenol for pain and Tylenol PM for pain and sleeping at night if I need it.

    I couldn’t agree more with the recovery. Boring! I’m also impatient to get back to normal which they told me could take me up to six months. Right now all my energy is zapped by 7 every night no matter if I lay around all day or if I’m active. It sucks.

    Thankfully I’m young and very healthy. The doctors are more than pleased with how I’m recovering. I wish I was recovering faster!

  25. on 07 Apr 2010 at 1:10 pm Max Girth

    To Cecilia:
    Quote:
    One of the people who *didn’t* make it into the program was an obnoxious young man in my anatomy class who loudly announced to my group that women had prostates too, because basically women were built just like men, except with all their junk on the inside.

    Maybe he’s like me. I always look for a fully engorged Prostate in the “Women” I date. Nothing like planting a big hickey on a nice pointy Women’s Adams Apple. (Sometimes their junk is on the outside & bigger than mine)

    Yuk

    Welcome back Dusty, I’ve been catching your act on BlackSky. You sound surprisingly normal, and manly enough to surely punch a spider on your junk any day now.

  26. on 08 Apr 2010 at 9:39 am Skitzo Leezra Studio

    Amazing how when medical story is told, everyone else feels the need to pipe in with theirs. The comments make me feel like I am attending a ((horrors!)) baby shower and listening to the endless and let-me-one-up-you delivery stories and worse.

  27. on 08 Apr 2010 at 10:31 am Dave

    They don’t call it “practicing” medicine for nothing.

    I am heading in for the 3rd surgery on the same foot/ankle in just over 2 years.

    I feel your pain.

  28. on 09 Apr 2010 at 8:41 am Incredipete

    I went in to an orthopedist with a ganglion cyst on my wrist and left his office with a shattered radius and ulna. He used a vice to “crust the cyst” but instead he shattered the ends off of both bones, which meant I got to have surgery to remove the bone fragments and cartilidge that had gotten torn up. Instant arthritis.

  29. on 09 Apr 2010 at 8:41 am Incredipete

    And by “crust” I mean “crush”

  30. on 09 Apr 2010 at 9:19 am Janet

    I’m happy you are on the mend and back to giving us the uncomfortable giggles.

  31. on 09 Apr 2010 at 10:25 am Beth E

    Heya, you’ve been making me laugh for years, and I admit to splitting my side over this entry as well. But man, the nursing situation, that’s just horrendous. I had a much less painful experience, with very little of my own bodily fluids spraying across the room but I still wanted to bludgen(sp) one of the nurses to improve the blood flow to her brain. Some day, I hope to be a nurse (because I can do better with my eyes closed then the woman I came in contact with) and will try to incapacitate as many of the ones that are ‘practicing’ as possible. My plan is that they will be fired for stealing and using drugs, since they obviously aren’t being fired for job performance.

    Here’s to hoping you never have to have another surgery, and if you do, that you can get away from that particular death camp hospital!

  32. on 09 Apr 2010 at 12:12 pm Gravypants

    “It was like having Air Force One fly you to a Somali prison for rape week.”…Best analogy (simile ?)I have read in years. Thanks for sacrificing your nervous system for the chuckle.

  33. […] on my back and I have screws and rods in my spine. I’m not interested in doing any of this again, so I’m all about the non-impact stuff. I don’t know if I’ll ever run a […]