COUCH POTATO

         Who are these guys in blue and orange? I must have dozed off again. The last time I looked the one team had these ugly green uniforms and it was raining, but now it is snowing. I must have hit the the channel button in my sleep. The snow is my television reception on this channel; the desire to sleep is a hangover from an intravenous feeding of morphine at five in the morning.

         I know that guy with the smirk on his face. He is Steve Spurrier. He coaches Florida. His men wear blue and orange. The coach of the other team, which I assume is Tennessee, looks like a central casting call for Mayberry R.F.D. It's dark out now. Wasn't completely dark a little while ago, or how long ago was that? Is the dog still out front? No, there she is; I must have brought her in some time ago.

         My god, it's seven o'clock. I have to eat dinner. What did the doctor write on the discharge instructions? ‘A light diet with lots of liquids, Gatorade maybe’. Coach Spurrier would like that. Wonder what we have to eat. I'll make instant mashed potatoes. I was tempted to type 'mashies' but wanted to sound mature. They will be good bland food, perfect for treating whatever hit me that the doctor could not identify.

         He wrote 'Food Poisoning' on the discharge sheet, but that was a guess. He also mentioned gall stones, an ulcer, but he did not think it was reflux because when he tried to cure that, I vomited his cure into the sink in the bay. Well, I dare him to drink Mylanta and Lidocaine and some other ingredient and hold it more than the minute I held it. "We have to control that nausea." In walked a male nurse to put an intravenous line into my wrist. It was my first IV since 1986 when they filled me with Theophilin one night.

         At five when the pain at the bottom of my rib cage was still there, and just as internal and painful as when I arrived four hours ago, the sawbucks decided on pain killers because the tests they ran on my blood and heart revealed nothing. Out came the morphine. Ninety minutes later the pain was still there but numbed a bit by the drug and we both decided I should go home. He had already lost one cardiac patient that night and did not want to lose another to some mysterious cause that would surely bring the CDC, FBI and who knows who else into the Emergency Room.

         He couldn't provide me an ambulance for the return trip, and for that I was thankful. I did not know the first ambulance would take me to this place where I truly expected the Lady With The Lamp to come out of the linen closet. The good Margaret came and took me home. Home only meant walking the dog with dull pains in my stomach and then hope for more sleep, but first my doctor's office called to see if I were still in the land of the living.

         Waking at noon, I found the pain gone, replaced by grogginess that made staring at the computer screen an effort. The living room was sunny, the couch inviting and the television provided another form of narcotic that lasted until dog walking time. It was after that circumnavigation of the house that I lay down watching these guys in green playing this team in white in the pouring rain. How the blue and orange boys took over, I do not know, but I accepted it because it was a better game.

         Needing more than mashed potatoes I dug in the cabinets and found a can of sardines. I recalled buying several cans two years ago only to have Killer Cat climb up me after them. I found smearing mustard on them kept her away, and resorted to the same stratagem again. I thought of lighting a candle to celebrate this romantic dinner, but was in a hurry to get back to the couch, where I dozed and in a haze saw Coach Spurrier losing.

         A few minutes after eight I turned off the television and headed for bed, only to awaken to a call from my mother-in-law at half-past nine. Poor woman, she asked how I was getting along. I launched into a blow by blow of my night. By the time she hung up in exhaustion I was awake and went to the magic lantern where these guys in black and gold were playing other guys in white and red. What I saw through fading eyelids was exciting and it ended a little after eleven.

         Figuring that no one would call now, I went to bed and this time I was right. Today I felt well enough to chat on line. The Internet telegraph was already in operation. Friday evening just before I called my doctor, Pam insisted it was the gall bladder. Yesterday she said the same on the phone. Nurse Lynda gave the same second opinion this morning, but with the one wonderful plus that I should eat peanutbutter. I had not had any in ages, so when I stopped at the market for foods for a light diet, I bought some.

         When I returned, I hooked up with Jackie on line. She had her gall bladder removed twenty-five years ago so she had some expertise and while telling me to get tests, mentally had me under the knife to have it removed. Maralyn provided a different tack: reflux. With all these opinions coming in, and with the doctor not having any idea, I realized it was time to consult Google. On one site there was a list of the type of people with gallstones. I met none of the qualifications. I also read that surgery is elective and it is often a case of size of stones and their location, location, location.

         Feeling better, I ate my lunch. The sun did not come out until mid-afternoon but it mattered little. The television provided a backdrop, but today I did not doze much. At one point I think I saw a football game break out among all the car and beer commercials, but I was not really sure. I did not see Coach Spurrier and his smirk or the guy from Mayberry. I missed them. During one short nap, I had this vision of Andy Griffith in scrubs taking out my gall bladder, with Don Knotts watching. I tried to whistle the Mayberry theme but my mouth was too dry. Must be the morphine.