Major Thomas to Ground Control

Greetings Earthmen.

This is just a quick message from that lofty region of space that can only be reached by a couple of Tylenol-3’s. I have just returned from two weeks spent at John Sealy Hospital where I (finally) received the fix for the original surgery on my arm. I feel…well, I find it fitting that what doctors do is called a “practice”, because I feel quite “practiced” upon. As far as the damage goes, I am now the proud owner of a brand-spanking new 9-inch scar on my left calf, where they took some bone from my fibula (*Don’t worry, you don’t even need a fibula…” apparently, millions of years of biological evolution got that wrong, at least according to UTMB Docs), and a new scar on my left hip which mirrors the one I already had on my right from the last operation. To the massive river shaped behemoth which snakes its way down from my left shoulder to my elbow, I now have a few tributaries and an alluvial plain, to continue this rather codeine-enhanced metaphor. Nevertheless, a few positives must be noted: firstly, my left arm is still my left arm, and not made of wood, which cannot be over-emphasised as a good thing. Secondly, the power of a pesky prisoner carrying a big lawsuit has triumphed over the UTMB bureaucrats, and I have claimed victory. Huzzah! Too bad, really, because I have no intention of keeping quiet about my methods. Too many hurt people around here for that. More on this to come.

It’s hard to say at this point whether the job was done right this time, as the only signals that are coming from that side of my body generally go something like, “Ok, we surrender, go ahead and cut us off, for the love of God,” but the doctors seem pleased. And since I am feeling as docile as a Burmese Tree Sloth on Xanax, I suppose I must admit I feel pleased, too. Yeah, yeah, I know, codeine isn’t exactly hard-core, but it’s been awhile since I had anything good, so lay off.

At some point they are bound to deliver all of the mail which has been accumulating here at the Villa Polunsky in my absence. I shall endeavor to get back with all of you as soon as I can figure a way to sit up comfortably. Until then, I am out of here.

© Copyright 2009 by Thomas Bartlett Whitaker.
All rights reserved.