HIPPA? No, J-O-E!
The blood pressure monitor betrays me immediately—its shrewd little beep tattles to my neighbors that I’m nervous, even though I’m trying very hard to look like I’m not about to come apart at the seams. I’m sitting in a weird vinyl chair in a “room” made of four gray curtains—basically a medical pop-up tent of doom. On all sides, other patients are waiting for their turn at disfigurement. I can hear their sighs—equal parts fear and boredom.
A door slams open and the surgeon booms, “How are you doing under there?” A gravelly voice answers, “Not good.” Without missing a beat, the doctor replies in a deadpan voice, “Well, alright then.” and closes the door behind him.
My daughter’s shoulders shake as she tries not to laugh. I’m not nearly as disciplined. We await my turn at the chopping block well past my scheduled appointment time. We entertain ourselves by eavesdropping as nurses buzz in and out of these curtained confessionals while they tend to the anxious and the anesthetized. I remind my daughter—half joking, half not—about my DNR, should anything go terribly awry when the surgeon removes the melanoma from my leg.
“Mom, you can’t go brain dead from five inches of your leg being cut out.”
“Well, what if they accidentally nick my femoral artery? While trying to stop the bleeding, they could slip in the puddle of my blood, stab me in the brain, and—boom—coma.”
We’re mid-debate about the likelihood of this medical domino effect when the squeak of wheels announces the return of Mr. ‘Not Good’ as he’s rolled out of surgery and parked in the cubicle next to mine. The nurse leans in and gently promises to go fetch his wife.
“What’s your wife’s name?” she asks. “Smith.” “Not your last name. Your wife’s name.” “Joe.” “Jill?” “NO. JOE. J-O-E. JOE!” “Sir… not your name. Your wife’s name.” “Oh. Ethel.”
This exchange happens mere inches from us, but I am almost positive the people in the waiting room can hear every detail. My daughter and I are trying to swallow our treasonous laughter as I wipe away my tears of hysteria with the hem of my greige hospital johnny. We are caught by the nurse as she finally arrives to collect me for The Coppertone Baby’s Revenge Surgery —a procedure name I made up that sounds far more glamorous than “cancerous leg chunk removal.” She apologizes for the delay, but I assure her that it has been worth every highly entertaining minute.
Six internal stitches and nine staples later, my silent assassin is evicted. I’m ushered back to the curtained closet to change out of the hospital-issued ball gown. My daughter and I head to the nurse’s station to schedule my follow up appointment. The nurse is entering my information when the door bursts open so hard it nearly knocks me over. I jump out of the way just in time and send up a silent prayer that I didn’t just pop a staple.
It’s J-O-E - armed with a walker and the confidence of a mafia don who owns the joint and is surrounded by people who owe him money.
“2:00 on Monday—yeah, that’ll work for me!” he bellows down the hallway.
The nurse tries to explain she’s already helping me with my 2:00 on Monday appointment, but this only makes him louder. I stare at the floor - my laughter no longer absconded by my grey curtain shield.
“Smith! Joe Smith - Monday at 2 works for me! Yup, I’ll take that one!” He doesn’t even stop to confirm the time - just keeps shouting personal information as he walks down the hallway. We watch him continue to use his walker as a battering ram, smashing his way through multiple doors to get to the parking lot, and talking all about his procedure to the ears of God and half of Hilton Head Island.
The nurses are horrified by what just happened and keep apologizing. My mascara is making me look like a Jackson Pollock original, and I’m laughing so hard the staples in the back of my thigh are in danger of popping open like a macabre piñata - if they haven’t already broken free after my jump out of the way of Joe’s walker/snow plow. I grab the next available appointment and hobble out to the car, trying to wipe away the evidence of my laughter before it dries into a Rorschach test of trauma and joy.
Somewhere in the chaos, I realize I’m a few shards closer to setting off the alarms at the airport, but survived without my daughter having to read up on my DNR requirements. J-O-E helped my daughter and me laugh our way through an otherwise fingernail chomping afternoon. My Yelp review for this appointment: Zero dignity, moderate blood loss, new fancy bling, and five stars for entertainment value. Waterproof mascara is highly recommended prior to arrival.
Tracy Winslow is best known for her poker face and resolute calm in the face of adversity. When she’s not busy owning the premier yarn store in the Low Country—Shrimp and Knits—she can be found participating in staring contests with sharks, walking on beds of nails, and modeling the latest in Frankenstein hardware. Check out www.shrimpandknits.com for all your fiber needs—and for classes and events designed for people who don’t knit or crochet!
