High Fives and Stitch Pimps!

This time last year, I had what may be considered by some to be a "minor" surgery.  Well, I'm here to tell you, that as it was my first time getting stitches for anything other than an accident (aka doing something stupid that most likely started out with me saying "Hey Dudes... Watch this!), this was MAJOR surgery.

The nurse gave me something and told me that they were NOT putting me under!  I said I did not want to remember this.  They looked at me as though I was a pansy.

I was.

They wheeled me on a gurney into the surgery room, asked me to slide onto the table and then asked me to slide off of the table and back onto the gurney.  Then they wheeled me into the recovery room. Apparently, between sliding onto the table and off of the table, someone moved all the clocks ahead 45 minutes and removed a lump from my wrist.

I remembered nothing.

I spent the next few days living on my couch while my mother and daughter tended to me.  When I was finally able to move about and start getting back into some of my normal routine I noticed two significant things, A.) the kids at my daughter's school were more cruel than I had expected and B.) the doctor who had performed my surgery just might be a deviant.

As far as the kids go, well, at least every other week I go to my daughters elementary school to have lunch with her. And at least every other week, as I wait in the hall for her class to go to lunch, every kid in her class slaps me a “High Five.” This amounts to 60+ high fives in a five minute time span (I use very much hand sanitizer after this ritual each and every time).

Most of the kids give a gentle tap, but some really put their all into it! They await that oh so important affirmative “OW NICE SLAP” that I'll yelp so that they know how cool they are and that they can totally overpower an “old man.” One day last year (still recovering) when I joined my child for lunch, there were no high fives as my arm was still wrapped in bandages and in a sling.

Seeing my arm in a sling and not getting their high five fix, most of the kids seemed nervous and uncomfortable; afraid to speak to me. After ten or so minutes passed, when we were all sitting at tables in the cafeteria, a young boy at a neighboring table turned to me and looked.

He was kneeling on his seat and leaning across his table to talk with his classmates who were positioned similarly in their seats. As if breaking from the huddle he walked up to me in a nervous and unsure approach. Addressing me as if he were the spokesperson for all first graders, he asked:

“Excuse me sir? Did... did we break your arm slapping you so hard?”

I imagined the guilt this kid and his peers must've been feeling. I worried that they may be so uncomfortable thinking that they had done this to me. As I considered the best way to explain what a cyst is and how the surgery was performed, I simply decided to myself “Awww screw it!” and I looked at the young man and said “Yup, you guys did this to me!”

As I chuckled softly with a sheepish grin, he turned to run back to his table. Before I could tell him the truth and free him from what would surely be gut wrenching guilt, I heard him say:

“YEAH WE DID IT TO HIM!!!!” followed by a round of high fives and “AWESOME”s.

Touche' kids! How could I have forgotten the joy of maiming adults?

Now, as best as I can tell, the doctor who did my surgery is a good doctor and I have been pleased with what he has done for me. So, by no means is what you are about to read a complaint; it's just a very true and very odd observation and theory. No names are being used here, you know, to protect the innocent.

Two significant points he made in my self care/ healing of the tissue, were that I must massage the incision point to stimulate healing and that I should continue to wear my ace bandage, whenever I am active, to protect my wrist.

However, he added for each point, in his very fine and strong Indian accent, “you can get the ladies to massage your wrist” and “when you wear that bandage, some girl is going to feel sorry for you and want to help you.” He said both with a very cocky grin and a mild chuckle. All that was missing, was an “awwww yeahhhhh bro.”

Then it dawned on me who this doctor may very well be. See, he's all about the ladies, he's Indian, and he obviously made enough money at some point to put himself through medical school. He may very well be that gentleman from the back alley in the 80's classic movie “Bachelor Party.” You know, the guy who supplied all of the “working girls” for the party at the hotel? I'm so proud of him for turning his life around and doing so much good with the money he made.

If only I had been able to find his assistant, “Milt,” then I would've known for sure!!! Okay... one name was used.

"Thees beeing Milt!"

Ahhhh... what a difference a year makes.   The kids at school still high five me, but I fear them just a bit.  And I still have a sexy scar on my wrist for the chicks to dig.

Nobody digs it....