Thursday, March 10, 2011.
A Familiar Place. Close-Ups Of The Disaster.
We had to drive into town for a meeting at Ochsner with the orthopedic medical staff. I have performed an absurd variety of activities in that familiar building on Jefferson Highway. My mother worked in a clerical position there for sixteen years, most of it on the night shift. When I was a teenager working the late shift at the Time Saver, she and I often came home from work at the same time. When she had the first of many strokes, Ochsner took care of her until she died for not a dime.
Ochsner is also where I went for a really scary flu when I was living alone in my low twenties. And where I was told I had just broken my right arm in 1984, in a bicycling accident. The first stop on my father's short trip to the grave was there. I sang with barbershop quartets to entertain (?) patients on many occasions.
Today I saw the present X-rays, which confirm the need for surgery without a doubt. The star surgeon for such work at Ochsner is Dr. Deryk Jones, who performs this sort of thing on the Saints. I can't imagine a better credential than that for fixing broken bones.
I filled out a lot of forms, one of which detailed the possible side effects of the surgery. The first was Death. Followed by Paralysis Neck Down, and other dire circumstances. All were checked. When I joked around about this later with my buddy Dr. Bob*, he laughed and said it's was just a legal thing and that all of that stuff was always checked, even for the comparatively benign stuff that he does.
That I am not even slightly disturbed by any of this is encouraging. I have come a long way from the night when the Ochsner emergency room doctor told me I had a broken arm--something I already knew--and almost passed out just from hearing the news. I think the laser eye surgery I had here three years ago cured me of this.
The Marys went to La Caretta for dinner, and brought take-out back for me. I am reduced to that. Not bad: grilled chicken with too much melted cheese (pop Mexican places must spend more on cheese than any other ingredient on their menus), rice and beans. A cup of tortilla soup on the side. None of it hot enough. I don't want to complain, lest they abandon me entirely.
I'm joking, of course. But Mary Ann's having to take care of a thousand little things for me is surely stressful for her. This is what I'm hearing in quite a few of the sympathy letters I'm receiving, too.
I continue to get all my work done, which keeps my mood high. My work is my salvation.
*Dr. Bob DeBellevue is my bellwether for knowing when a good new restaurant is ready for review. He is impressed by Rue 127 on Carrollton at Canal, and called to see whether I'd like to join him and friends for dinner there. He's a serious food and wine guy whose taste I find totally trustworthy.
