About my operation
Another classic G. George Ostrom column. This one George picked out from 1972...
In the Ostrom library are some phony book covers with titles such as “Raising Mosquitoes for Fun and Profit,” or “Embalming can be Fun,” but the one I’ve thought most about in the last couple of weeks is the cover entitled, “Brain Surgery, Self-Taught.”
I entered St. Patrick’s Hospital, Missoula, March 27 to have a bone cyst removed from the roof of my mouth. There are some people who say there’s no way to stop an Ostrom from talking. They are wrong. Those bone operations in the roof of the mouth will do it every time.
When I checked into the hospital room, the nurse gave me one of those demeaning nightgowns which are nothing more than a starched T-shirt with the back torn out. There are two tie strings at the top, but you have to be a contortionist to tie ‘em. I asked the nurse to help me, but first made her promise not to peek at my body.
After visiting hours were over, I prowled around in a couple of vacant rooms and found a pair of pajama bottoms. I offered to steal a pair for my ward mate too, but he said it wouldn’t do any good because he was in for hemorrhoids, so they’d find out before morning anyway.
At 10 p.m., another nurse came around and offered me a sleeping pill, but I told her to save it for someone who didn’t have health insurance. There’s no way you can sleep there once you find out how much it costs. About the time the pill would have taken effect, they woke me up to take pulse and temperature.
At 6 a.m. I got a pill to dry up my saliva and I wasn’t allowed to drink or eat anything. At 7 a.m., the nurse told me to go take a shower to prepare for the operating room and she warned me not to drink any of the water from my shower. They have mind readers at that hospital.
At 7:45, they wheeled me into the operating room, after taking my stolen britches away from me. There was I guy there who introduced himself as Doctor So and So and he said, “I am your anesthesiologist.” I said “Fine! My name is George Ostrom and I’m your Hog Heaven columnist.” (I got that guy’s bill today, $93.50 for one hour and 15 minutes of administering anesthetic. Now I know why he was wearing a mask.) There are at least two people in my block that would hit me on the head with a rock for 93 cents.
Just before this priceless anesthesiologist put me to sleep, a good-looking nurse came into the operating room with an ice cold cookie pan and smeared some white jelly on it. Then she asked me to raise up so she could put it under my bare behind. This idea seemed so wonderful to me I almost leaped off the operating table.
She explained that the metal would “ground me” during the operation. I said, “I have a better idea. Let’s put that silly riggin on your bare behind and then we’ll hold hands during the operation.”
When I came to, I knew for sure it was soup and juice for the rest of my life, but only 10 days have now passed and it looks like I’ll be able to have a hamburger next week.
On my first day home from the hospital, youngest son Clark said, “Why is daddy so quiet? Is he mad about something?”
My first wife Iris replied, “Just never mind son. Do not question the blessings which come our way.”