A Remodeling Project

The thud of hammers, striking nails, was driving me nuts.

If I had a choice, than I would have walked over to that contracted idiot and smacked him straight in his jejunum. I wouldn’t have even cared if he threw up on me as long as that stupid hammering stopped.

But, you don’t get a choice when you’re confined to a bed in a coma, even if it is induced. All you can do is lie there and think about waking up so you can stand up and punch that idiot in the jejunum.

It all began a few weeks earlier when my new routine of being probed by a medical practitioner (i.e. doctor) had finally decided to tell me the truth about the condition of my flesh bag (i.e. body).

I hadn’t been feeling well in quite some time. I just thought I needed a colonic. I love those colonics. It’s like that Outkast song afterwards – “So Fresh, So Clean”, but enough about my guilty pleasures.

There I was, sitting in the doctor’s office, pants off, and waiting for the physician (or a really cute nurse) reading an ages-old People magazine (who would’ve thought that Brad and Jenn wouldn’t make it), and in walks the doctor.

I could see it in his concerned, droopy-dog expression that I was in a bit of trouble. He explained in his monotonicity that the tests he had conducted in last week’s flagellation (i.e. examination), discovered that my heart was only working at sixty percent its actual capacity and that quadruple by-pass surgery was necessary, if I wanted to continue to live.

So, I told him forget it.

But, my wife said yes.

Women always want to be responsible for killing us.

Surgery was a success. Quadruple bypass, stents, and a cherry on top (which they had to go back in and get, because that’s not supposed to be in you).

Unfortunately, I have a slight case of claustrophobia and when I came to, I started to yank out the tubes and needles, hence, the reason for the induced coma.

Now, no one knows what is going on in your head when you’re in a coma. Not even you. All the nurses and doctors can tell is if there is brain function, which would still be a good question had I been awake. But, the one thing that gets to you when your lights out is, noise.

I must have picked the best time to get sick.

The hospital had just started remodeling rooms the day of my surgery. There was hammering and sawing and loud, dirty jokes (which, from what I can remember, weren’t bad).

But, not only do the contracted idiots find no solace in the patient’s mental well-being, but the hospital staff believes that they should be even louder to compensate for the hammering and sawing and loud, dirty jokes (an escort, a stripper and a nun walk into a bar…).

An agonizing and debilitating five days had come to pass. I was weak. I was frightened. But most of all, I was pissed.

I realized why they call it “intensive care”. Because the people that work there, make the patients feel “in tense”.

I didn’t care. After all, I was alive and woke to my beautiful wife, smiling, with tears in her eyes, which made everything in this world right.

I don’t remember much from my “sleepy time”.

But, I did have a sudden urge to speak with the contractor, but I couldn’t remember why. So I asked the nurse to call him over so I could speak with him.

In my mind, I was thinking that I wanted to build an addition to my garage for a little workout area, to keep the old ticker in tip-top.

The contractor strolled in to my room and we made pleasantries. And then…

I punched him in the Jejunum.

He puked on my bed.

I smiled and asked the nurse for some tapioca.