* urination and narcotics (8/18/2003)

I recently spent four days in performance at Butler Memorial Hospital.
I played various instruments, including the too-low toilet with
measuring pan, the menacing television positioning arm, and the IV
pump.  The audience, including my wife and two older men I had never
met before, only perceived any of the sound without a lot of conscious
attention.  In this sense, the performance was a success.  I decided
to begin the performance after eighteen hours of stomach pain two days
into my vacation.  The theme was to be "the hero's descent and return
from the underworld."  I and my wife played the part of the hero in
two parallel stories that explore the role of gender at this
mythological level.  I may only comment here upon the part I performed
and experienced, although my wife's heroism throughout the performance
is unquestionable.

When the pain began, I refused to answer its call.  After 18 hours of
the pain, however, I was convinced the time for this performance could
not be more ripe.  An IV was attached to my wrist.  I was moved to the
hospital performance space by an ambulance that never used its siren.
The theme of narcotics use was established early and often, as I was
frequently asked if I regularly used narcotics, and after answering
each time in the negative, was promptly administered a large quantity.
I was also frequently asked for my name.

Once at the hospital's emergency room (or "ER") my wife arrived, and I
began a vocal performance of howling ("AOAOAH!") in pain as the
narcotics administered to me in the ambulance wore off.  This was
ironic, since my wife is traditionally the family vocalist.  My urine
and blood were collected and tested.  Urine and blood would be
non-sonic themes through the rest of the performance.  My abdominal
region was thoroughly scanned by converting sound waves into light
waves.  A doctor passed my case to a surgeon.  The surgeon would be my
guide through the climax of the performance, and laid the course for
the remainder of the adventure in no uncertain terms.  My gall bladder
was filled with "sludge" and was infected.  It had to be removed from
me.  It was not an essential organ, and could not be otherwise
repaired.  My wife and I consented.

I was then returned to regular doses of narcotics and given a room to
sleep in until the next day.  I was to be denied food and water until
my gall bladder had been removed.  My wrist IV was attached to a pump
that moved 200 ml of salty water into my blood stream per hour, in
addition to strong antibiotics for fighting the infection in my doomed
gall bladder.  The sound of this pump was to be absolutely
uninterrupted for the next three days.  My wife left for a short time.
There was another man already in the room.  He had kidney stones.
These are similar but unrelated to gall stones.  His vacation had not
started yet, but was still being ruined by mysterious stones passing
through his smooth body.  It was a vacation celebrating his 50th
wedding anniversary.  He was made to urinate into a jar and have his
urine strained, searching for the stone.  He did so in complete
silence, even finding a way to issue his urine into the jar without
making a sound.  My wife returned and made her camp in a chair next to
my bed.  I slept narcotics.

The next day I woke up in the late morning. My surgery was to begin at
noon.  My wedding ring and glasses were removed and given to my wife.
The bed I was in and my IV pump were wheeled to the operating room (or
"OR").  I was introduced to the anesthesiologist and his assistant.
They tested me in a manner similar to the prior day, asking me my
name, surgical history, if indeed all my jewelry had been removed, if
I was allergic to anything, and so on.  Eventually satisfied, they
gave me some special anti-anxiety drugs (narcotic?) and wheeled me
into the area in which the operation was to take place.  The last
thing I remember was seeing the blurry face of the surgeon -– I had no
glasses -– and feeling like I was being suffocated by a mask forced
over my face.  The IV pump never stopped.

I think the climax of any performance can clearly be identified by the
words "the last thing I remember" or "the next thing I know."

I came back to consciousness with the feeling of my face itching.  I
think I was able to scratch it.  Someone started making light
conversation with me and feeding me ice chips, which I accepted.  My
abdomen was covered with bandages that had blood stains.  Someone drew
a thin green line outlining the blood stains.  This would be checked
from time to time by nurses, to make sure I was not bleeding again.
There were several staples holding together four cuts in my abdomen
under the bandages.  Each of these cuts was half an inch to an inch in
size.  I'm not sure which one the gall bladder left through, but I'm
told it's gone now.  Evidently, at this point, the surgeon was
speaking to my wife about what had happened, telling her that
everything had gone according to plan, and that there were no
complications during the surgery.  The rest of the day is difficult
for me to remember, for all the anesthesia and narcotics I was given.
I think at this point my wife rejoined me and I was wheeled back into
my room.  I think the man with the kidney stone was visited by his
wife and a urologist, and that he was discharged to search for his
kidney stone on his own at home, his 50th wedding anniversary vacation
ruined.  My wife left for a while to recover our van and our
belongings from where we were vacationing.  Two friends from where we
were vacationing joined my wife in visiting me when she returned.  The
visit of these three women was brief but appreciated.  The sound of
the IV pump never stopped.  In the evening after my operation, it was
discovered that I was not urinating.  A 1/4" diameter catheter was
inserted up my urethra to drain my bladder.  One and one half liters
of urine were drained and the catheter was removed.  It was explained
to me that after anesthesia such as I was given, different parts of
the body came back to normal functioning at different rates.  In my
case, I could not operate the muscles that would empty my bladder.

The following day promoted the theme of urination into the central
conflict of the story.  If I urinated properly, I would be discharged
from the hospital.  If I did not, I would have to undergo another
painful catheter, spend another night in the hospital, and risk having
my bladder burst.  Drinking less was out of the question.  My IV pump
was pumping a deciliter of fluid into my blood stream every hour.  I
had to eliminate nearly that amount at that rate, or have it removed.
A urologist was consulted.  He examined my penis and rectum, and asked
me a lot of questions.  He proscribed FLOMAX, another brand name
resulting from modern marketing genius.  He suggested that it would be
easier for me to urinate standing up.  I told him that I usually sit.
This fascinated him.  That fascination was exactly as disturbing as
you probably imagine.  I began to measure the volume of my urinations,
reporting each to the nurse on duty.  It was a grim battle.  My wife
and anyone else in the room could hear me using the toilet and
measuring pan.  My wife would ask for news after each pass.  I would
be given the catheter twice more.  Once at mid-day and once again late
at night.  Each time, a sonographic device was pressed into my stomach
just below my navel, to measure the amount of fluid in me.  The number
to beat was two deciliters.  I never measured less than four.

Also on the morning after my operation, another man moved into my
room.  He was suffering from heart disease of some sort, but I never
overheard enough to know exactly.  He too had an IV pump.  It was in
synchrony with mine.  Enough narcotics had worn of for me to notice
that every eight hours our IV pumps would go off like alarm clocks,
signaling the nurses to replace the bags of fluid they pumped.  This
was the terrible voice of my enemy.  Late in the day, he claimed that
because of his heart failure risk, the doctor had limited the amount
of fluid he could take in every day.  His IV pump was turned off.  I
almost envied him.

I awoke on the third morning to have the nurse measure me with the
sonogram.  I was at four deciliters.  She prepared to call for my
fourth catheterizing, and I refused it.  Slightly later, I eliminated
nearly three deciliters, proving finally that I was ready to leave the
hospital.  A few hours after that, something shifted inside of me, and
I experienced pain unlike anything I have ever experienced.  It was
later explained to me that this was "gas pain."  I yelled and groaned
a lot, calling for the nurse and for pain medication.  The pain passed
after five or ten minutes.  I was given oral narcotics and went back
to sleep.  Later in the morning another urologist visited me and
confirmed that I was eliminating urine well enough to leave the
hospital, but that I should not stop taking the FLOMAX and that I
should contact my own urologist when I got home.  My surgeon was over
busy in the intensive care (or "IC") room, and so was late in
proscribing my pain medication and discharging me from the hospital.
The trip home took seven or eight hours.  For the trip, I took a
generic form of VICODIN, which worked excellently.

I will never repeat this performance.