Part 3: Hobbled and Humbled: Post-Op hallucinations and a myriad of misspellings

Be sure to read “Hobbled and Humbled” Part 1 and Part 2 before you dive into this hot mess.

I nodded off no less than eight times trying to come up with a title for this piece.

I’ve since gone over what I have adozens of times and still can’t tell if it reads.

Let’s just go with it and move on.

The general anesthetic administered prior to my operation packed a Hammer of Thor-like wallop. And the post-op pain medication trickling from my IV is coursing through my body like a slow-moving mass of warm, rice pudding.

It’s a feeling so delectable that I’m hardly bothered by the plastic tube sticking out of my bandaged leg — draining a mixture of dead blood and some other vile fluid.

I want say pus, but it’s too runny.

Something gross. That I know for sure.

My thoughts are disjointed and nonsensical, a grab bag of errant left socks and leftover fragments of previous conversations the beginnings of which I’ve long forgotten.

Joe Namath is keeping me company, but he’s getting boring …

I want that massage I was promised before class starts …

Every once in a while reality makes a reoccurring visit preceded by stabs of pain.

Where’s my nurse?

I need my meds drip jacked up!

This one goes to Eleven!

She comes in, then it’s back to La La Land where I’m asking my fourth-grade teacher for permission to go to the bathroom .

Me: Can I go to the bathroom?

Ms. Glaister: I don’t know. Can you?

Me: May I?

Ms. Glaister: Yes. You may.

She was the worst.

My first draft chronicling my recovery was amusing in the narrowest sense, in that it only I found it funny, and I’m heavily medicated. I cleaned it up a bit.

One unvarnished recollections goes like this:

The dpp===[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[

(I’d nodded off at the keyboard. My right pinkie resting on the bracket key and my other hand squeezed between my thighs.)

When I am awake I see people who aren’t there.

A friend whose face I can’t quite make out is complaining to me that Donald Trump owes him 150 bucks and, surprise, surprise, the rust-colored muskrat won’t pay up.

Wait, did a nurse named Marta really just offer me baby food?

Who tossed that pillow across the room?

The airborne cushion that may or may not actually be here nonetheless leaves a multi-colored tracer that lingers until my chin drops to my chest, stirring me back to consciousness, or its closest approximation.

I’ll come out on top of the love triangle with Leia and Han ….

An entire years-long struggle for a young space maiden’s hand set against our battle against The Empire occurred in a scant few minutes of semi-consciousness.

My space opera is cut short by the mounting pressure on my bladder.

I rally just enough consciousness to pee in the bottle the nurse left.

That’s enough for today.